《The Godtrail (The Dark Tower meets The Last of Us)》


 Chapter One: The Goldeneye

    The Godtrail


    By Robin G. Sparrow


    Chapter 1: The Goldeneye


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Why does history have the ugly habit of repeating itself? If anything, it¡¯s the single biggest clue that whether it be human or elf, everyone¡¯s a damned idiot. And I was no different.


    God, I hated the sun. I hated the desert. I hated the ugly, ever-present kaleidoscopic crack in the sky¡ªthe constant reminder of the Shattering. Most of all, I hated that it felt like I was doing precisely what I left behind in Valenheim.


    I took off my wide-brimmed hat and wiped the sweat off my forehead with my kerchief. Then, I tied it around my neck again and tucked it under my cloak. The enchantments on my cloak worked extra hard, struggling to keep me cool. I wouldn¡¯t last much longer on foot in the desert if I didn¡¯t find fresh water, but searching for it meant letting my target create more distance.


    I adjusted the shoulder strap on my rifle and got down on one knee, scanning the cracked hardpan for tracks. I cursed the squall that swept through last night, making my job that much harder.


    It had been over an hour since I found the last tracks of my Sand Strider. Damn the elf for stealing it.


    Three days straight. That¡¯s how long I put one foot after the other, ignoring my screaming muscles as I devoured the kilometers one step at a time. Pain and lack of sleep, those I know how to deal with. The first is a product of training I¡¯ve never forgotten. The second: well, skipping sleep means skipping nightmares. No great loss.


    Finally, I spotted some tracks. Lizard-like Strider claws, identifiable by the slight ridge from the scales.


    I followed the path the Sand Strider took around a crest of large rocks. Except something was wrong. The tracks were deep, wild.


    A bit further and I found another set of tracks coming in from the west. They were jackaloth tracks. A whole pack was after my quarry. That didn¡¯t bode well.


    It took another hour before the hardpan turned to purple sand. Why purple? I didn¡¯t know. The world had been wonky for two decades. Maybe something big died here and this was all that was left.


    Three more hours and I was back on hardpan, climbing through and around half-buried pillars and blocks jutting out of the ground like pale bones. The tombstones of a ruined city. There was script carved on some of the remaining structures, though most had been sandblasted by the frequent storms. The words were written in Dominion, the eponymous common language of the once ¡°great¡± empire.


    At some point, I came across what was left of a frieze of a building. So far, it was the only inscription I¡¯d seen that remained legible. I recognized the phrase. It was once a favored rallying cry for the empire. Now, it was but an ironic epitaph written on a headstone:


    ¡°In Unity, We Thrive Forever Unbroken.¡±


    I placed my hand on the stone, waxing nostalgic as I traced a calloused finger along the letters. The pockmarked stone was brittle. It could crumble at any moment. I found a fault where the stone was most likely to break soon.


    I unslung my rifle and struck the fault with the butt, splitting the stone. I smiled with wolfish satisfaction as I watched the frieze cave into itself, the stone spider-webbing with cracks until it crumbled. When the remains settled, only one word remained untouched. ¡°Broken.¡±


    How fitting. I left it there.


    As if in agreement, the howling wind picked up, carrying with it the ghosts of a million souls.


    Then I heard literal howling.


    Recognizing the sound, I sprinted up the side of a fallen wall following the sound until I reached the crest of the ridge. Just as I suspected, I spotted the pack of jackaloths barking and howling at their prey. They encircled the base of what might have once been the plinth for an enormous monument.


    Perched atop the structure were a sun-tanned elf and my Sand Strider.


    My eyes took in details in an instant, and I reconstructed the scene. The jackaloths had likely been chasing my Sand Strider since the previous afternoon. The Strider kept ahead for as long as it could before taking refuge on the plinth.


    Sand Striders are a feline lizard chimera, but they are more reptile than anything else. They have tremendous endurance, can regulate their own body temperatures, and hold water better than any camel. When allowed to move at their own pace, they can go on forever. But forced to flee from a much more agile enemy, it was only a matter of time before the Strider was overcome.


    The elf must have run it nearly to death before finding these ruins. And by the looks of the black, drying blood painted along the side of their perch, it hadn¡¯t done so unscathed.


    Jackaloths are mutated chimera. An intelligent cross between jackal and sloth with an average of a two-and-a-half meter wingspan. They are just as formidable in forest environs as they are in a desert. And despite the stereotype you might have about sloths, jackaloths are wicked fast.


    Also, their long, sloth-like claws and vicious grip can easily claw through wood or stone. They should have been able to dig into the side of that plinth and climb. The only reason they hadn¡¯t was thanks to the blue barrier the elf had cast, which extended just past the edge of the stone.


    There were seven jackaloths circling the plinth. Intelligent eyes kept watch over the barrier, biding their time until their prey exhausted itself.


    Damn, she must have been holding that barrier up since the previous afternoon. Concentrating for that long should feel like hammering a nail between her eyes. For what it was worth, such effort was formidable.


    Sniffing the air, I breathed in the sweet scent of mana¡ªso absent in the desert that even from this distance I could almost taste it. If the elf had been foolish enough to cast anything with even a fraction of this power over her journey, it might have been the very thing that drew the jackaloths to her. Everything that lived was hungry for mana these days.


    Mana¡ªthat mysterious resource, once so abundant. A force that fuels magic spells, enchantments, and all manner of technology across the known lands. Mana, the energy that once could be drawn so easily from the very air and ground, now only exists in any meaningful quantities within the life force of living things¡ªbut less so every year.


    Where had the elf gotten the mana for such a working? Elves are inherently magical. They have more naturally occurring mana than most life forms, but when she¡¯d been my prisoner the night she stole my Strider, I hadn¡¯t sensed anything to indicate she possessed anywhere near what she would need for such a working¡­


    Then it hit me. She found it.


    The Sand Strider wasn¡¯t the only reason I bothered to track her for three days without rest. You see, I¡¯d been foolish. I left something precious to me in one of my saddlebags: the broken dagger.


    The elf must have used several of the ruby crystals on the dagger. It was the only thing that made sense. I clutched my chest as a pang of shame, guilt, and anger flashed through me like a bullet through the skull.


    There wasn¡¯t time to regret. The elf¡¯s barrier was already starting to flicker. Something that had not escaped the jackaloths¡¯ notice. I briefly considered doing nothing. I had no obligation to this thief. An elf who loathed me enough to kill me even when I rescued her.


    I sighed. That wasn¡¯t my way. Besides, if I could save the Strider, then I wouldn¡¯t need to walk in the sun anymore. Surely that was a more compelling reason to intervene.


    I checked the sidearm in the oiled holster at my hip, testing the smoothness of the draw. Six 8.2 Parabellum Frag rounds in the heavy black revolver, check. I confirmed the three quick reloaders on my belt were easy to access. On the other side, I unbuttoned the pouch with five stripper clips, tucking the flap backward. I unslung my rifle. Five 7mm rune tipped bullets already loaded in the rifle. I pulled gently on the bolt to confirm a round was chambered. I put on my ear pro and I was set.


    I didn¡¯t expect to need more than a single round per jackaloth, but it pays to put in the extra effort to be prepared. The alternative cost is much higher.


    Confident I was good to go, I made a quick study of my enemy to identify my first target. The trick to dealing with most pack hunters¡ªand often it applies to humans as well¡ªis to identify and eliminate their leader, commonly referred to as the Alpha.


    Taking position on the ridge, I settled on the largest jackaloth, the one with an orange patch of fur along its ear. Then I lined up my sights.


    Orange Ear and his fellows were getting antsy. The flickering of the elf¡¯s barrier was getting more pronounced. Any second and¡­


    I heard the elf scream with effort and despair. Then the barrier went out with a sound like the crack of a whip. In that same moment, I squeezed the trigger.


    Here¡¯s the thing about the ammo I was using. When it hits, it detonates.


    Boom. It was a clean hit just behind the monster¡¯s right eye. Its head exploded, showering gore on the hardpan along with fragments of bone.


    I was lucky the barrier had gone out just then. The thundering boom of my rifle mixed well with the breaking of the spell. It confused the jackaloth and gave me another free shot.


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    I pulled the bolt, ejecting the casing, then chambered another round with a push, and locked it. It was a practiced motion. Having done it countless times, my breathing was steady, my movements disciplined and precise.


    Smooth is fast, fast is smooth.


    The death of the first jackaloth froze the rest in their tracks and had them looking around for the source of danger. The death of the second zeroed them in on me. It would have been nice to get a third shot off before that happened, but I had been wrong in picking Orange Ear out as my first target. The largest hadn¡¯t been the leader.


    Surprisingly, it was the smallest of the jackaloths. He was quick to bark an order to his four remaining mates, and the five of them instantly began zig zagging to reduce my chances of getting an easy shot.


    They must have come across a gunslinger before.


    I took aim at the leader, a lithe beast with graying orange hair like a mohawk. Boom. Mohawk dodged left, moving preternaturally fast. My round only grazed its flank as it zagged to its left.


    The bullet detonated when it hit the ground, the force causing it to tumble, but it recovered almost instantly. Mohawk remained in the middle of the pack and the others were almost on me. Shit, they were fast.


    The lead jackaloth would reach me in five more seconds. I had time enough for one more shot. I couldn¡¯t afford to miss.


    Was I foolish for not using my Goldeneye? Perhaps. But I loathe that magic branded on my soul. It is only a reminder of bloody days of murder.


    Besides, I was confident my skills were up to the task of killing beasts.


    The monster in the lead was impatient. It made the mistake of sprinting the last dozen meters at me head on. Too easy. I squeezed the trigger. Boom. The round traveled 900 meters per second right through the soft tissue in its snarling, open mouth, all the way through its esophagus and into its guts. When it exploded, the creature was nearly blown in half.


    Only four left.


    I pushed myself to my feet. Slower than my normal speed. My muscles were knotted and dehydrated from three days of continuous movement with not enough water.


    I should have eschewed that last shot to get into a better position. The next jackaloth, a black thing of nightmares with hooked claws as long as my forearm, leapt at me. I was too slow in stepping aside. Its claws found my chest, and the sharp talons raked across my flesh, drawing blood and tearing my cloak (which I considered the bigger blunder).


    The pain was instant, but I didn¡¯t slow. I spun my rifle to use as a club and held it with my left hand. With my right, I found the sandalwood handle of my hand cannon and in a blur, I drew and brought the barrel to bear. All of this happened in an instant. Before the monster completed its leap, I¡¯d squeezed the trigger and shot the beast just between the ribs.


    My Parabellum bullets don¡¯t explode. They expand. The mushrooming of the metal is enchanted to blossom like a flower before spreading in a shape resembling a sea anemone. The lead hooks onto flesh and bone as it tears through both. Its stopping power is such that it nearly halted the jackaloth¡¯s forward momentum and pushed it back several meters. It fell dead of an obliterated heart.


    Three left.


    Mohawk barked another order and the remaining jackaloths spread out around me. Smart. Even if I caught one, the other two could pounce on me simultaneously from positions that could make aiming at the others awkward for me.


    ¡°You¡¯re a smart sonofabitch, ain¡¯t ya?¡±


    Mohawk¡¯s bright red eyes narrowed. I could feel its hate and hunger. It opened its mouth, salivating in thick globs that dripped onto the hardpan. It growled, and I swear it was daring me to make the first move.


    That was a mistake. Mohawk was smart, but slow to realize that if they made the first move, they had the advantage. A split second head¡¯s start might be the end of me.


    But they didn¡¯t and it wasn¡¯t.


    Keeping my eyes fixed on Mohawk, I shot left and under my arm, startling the Alpha, who had expected me to target it instead of its subordinate, and so jumped sideways¡ªwith such speed that I realized hitting him without my Goldeneye might not be possible.


    Meanwhile, the one I shot had a new breathing hole in its chest it would never use.


    Mohawk wasted no time barking the order to attack and the remaining jackaloth pounced simultaneously, as I had expected. Damn were they fast.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± If I wanted to live, I had no choice but to use it.


    It¡¯s hard for me to describe how magic works. I¡¯ve never been much of a caster. Complex spells involve math and esoteric concepts that are far beyond my ken.


    Since the Shattering, however, complicated workings as well as simple ones have been out of most people¡¯s reach. Not so for a branded soul like mine.


    My ¡°Goldeneye¡± as I¡¯ve named it, draws on the natural mana that my body creates. All it costs is my stamina. As for how it works, it¡¯s a matter of drawing attention to that golden part of my soul that has the brand, and focusing it through my eyes.


    As for what it does¡­


    My eyes burned, and though I couldn¡¯t see them myself, I knew how they shone like molten gold. Time slowed ever so slightly, continuing to slow to a crawl as I pulled more of that searing energy into my eyes. I pushed my screaming muscles to their limit, twisting my head to look right, leaning back to dodge claws that, despite slowed time, still cut a path to my neck with frightening quickness.


    I can slow my perception of time, and make my reaction times appear to the casual observer as near instantaneous. But I am still beholden to my human limitations. Pushing my muscles to move at such speed hurts.


    The jackaloth¡¯s pinky claw nicked my chin as I leaned back like I was playing the limbo at a birthday feast. Pinky¡ªshut up, my naming convention is simply whatever comes to mind first¡ªsoared over and past me.


    I used the butt of my rifle to keep myself from slamming into the ground, then pushed to right myself. I pulled even more mana into my eyes, causing a sensation akin to driving spikes into my brain through my eyes. Now I was not only fast, but could see forward in time.


    It¡¯s not as crazy as it sounds. And it isn''t very far into the future. But a second is an eternity in slowed time.


    It looks like so many golden shadows of probability layered over themselves and superimposed on reality. The darker the shadow, the more likely the outcome.


    Mohawk¡¯s quick reaction time was no match for my ability to hit where it would be rather than where it was. I clubbed the creature in the jaw, snapping bone. I continued to turn, my balance wrecked, but with slowed time, I barely felt it. I just kept spinning, and before I hit the ground, my hand cannon pointed right at Pinky¡¯s asshole. Squeeze. Boom.


    Shit and gore exploded out of the creature¡¯s mouth in nauseating slow motion.


    I released the magic and time sped up to normal. My mind reeled from the shock of so much information suddenly smashing into my brain in an instant.


    I said I¡¯m familiar with pain. By itself, it won¡¯t usually slow me down. The backlash¡ªthe term I use for that moment when I have to pay the cost of using my ability too aggressively¡ªis a whole different magnitude of pain.


    My body hit the ground hard. Then I rolled to the side. My vision blurred, then refocused.


    Mohawk made a loud gargle that sounded part shriek of pain, and part surprise that it had been struck. Its jaw hung loosely, dripping blood. Wide eyed, it stared at me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t feel bad.¡± I grunted, breathing hard. ¡°We all meet our reaper someday, and today I¡¯m yours.¡±


    Mohawk stood on its hind legs, swung its arms like a high jumper trying to clear the bar and leapt. It was a suicidal move, but not necessarily a foolish one if it intended to take me with it when it died. Its weight alone might crush me, but with claws extended and pointed at me, it could rip through me even if it died before landing.


    I was too winded to move quickly. My handcannon has good stopping power. Not enough to defy gravity when a two-hundred kilogram monster is falling right on you.


    That wasn¡¯t the case for my rifle¡¯s rune tip explosive rounds.


    I activated my Goldeneye once more. My movements would need to be precise and perfectly timed.


    I twisted my grip, rotating the rifle. In one fluid motion, I brought the barrel up, the fingers of my left hand instinctively finding their positions along the stock and trigger. A good soldier learns to fire right and left handed.


    Following the golden shadow, I aimed at its midsection, then I squeezed the trigger and rolled to the side.


    My accelerated time sense shattered along with the explosion that ripped through Mohawk¡¯s guts. The kinetic force nearly stopped it in the air for a millisecond, before twisting what remained of its bulk sideways. Bone shrapnel and hot guts splashed over me, along with the back of a single arm that hit my back and winded me.


    When I got my breath, slowly, I crawled from under Mohawk¡¯s arm.


    The battle was over. Today wasn¡¯t my day to die.


    I picked up my gore soaked hat that got knocked off my head at some point and put the hot, wet, stinking thing on my head. All of me was soaked. All of me stunk.


    Goddam elf. All of this was her fault.


    A gurgle drew my attention to dying Mohawk. It was a testament to his resilience and stubborn pride that it refused to die.


    Maybe his last stand wasn¡¯t as suicidal as I¡¯d thought. He might have lived, even taking one in the chest from my handcannon.


    I knelt over its head and looked into its nearly lifeless eye. ¡°Sleep, warrior. Well fought.¡±


    It was foolish to waste a bullet that way. But sometimes I¡¯m a foolish man.


    I pressed the barrel of my weapon behind its ear, pointed at its brain. Death came instantly when I squeezed the trigger.


    Before I got up, I sensed a strong pulse of mana within the gore that was left of Mohawk¡¯s obliterated chest. Sifting through it barehanded was gross, but I found what I was looking for.


    A charged beast core. It was a sphere of concentrated essence, about the size of a large marble. Though slimy with blood, I could see the shifting hues within the clear orb, feel the thrum of raw mana resonate in my bones.


    ¡°So that¡¯s why you were so tough, eh?¡±


    Once upon a time, when mana was plentiful on the Paxrathan continent, it was common for creatures to slowly accumulate mana inside them. If they lived long enough, and if they consumed enough mana from the flesh of their prey, they developed beast cores. This one was charged enough that it was nearly ready to trigger an evolution.


    It meant this creature was a rare remnant from before the Shattering. God damn, but that¡¯s depressing. Mohawk had survived the Shattering and twenty years since, only to die at my hand. I¡¯d just killed a relic.


    I wiped the core on my pants, which did absolutely nothing to clean it. Then I pocketed it. I¡¯d try to make good use of what Mohawk left behind. It was the least, and only thing I could do.


    I checked the rest of the dead jackaloths, but none of them had developed a core.


    I took the time to collect my spent brass. With the right materials, I could always make my own bullets.


    Then I limped toward the plinth, where I climbed the stone using the grooves the jackaloths left behind when they tried to reach the top.


    There I found my Strider dead. Fuck.


    There I found the elf girl, alive but unconscious. Fuck.


    I sighed. The Strider had been disemboweled. It was nothing short of a miracle the beast managed to leap up to the top of this plinth in that condition. I petted its head, then I ran a hand over its eyes, closing its lids for good. ¡°You were a good Boy, weren¡¯t you? Yeah, you were.¡±


    The elf girl¡¯s hair was red, albeit currently more dusty red and tangled. Her skin was tanned by the sun. Her once-green robes were awful for traveling through the desert even before they turned to tatters.


    I took the broken dagger that was clutched in her hand. It had two less shining mana crystals embedded on the hilt than the last time I¡¯d held it, confirming my suspicion about where she¡¯d gotten the magic for her barrier spell.


    Fuck.


    I didn¡¯t care that my cloak stank and was coated in gore. I took it off and threw it over the elf. Then proceeded to strip my dead Strider of the saddlebags.

 Chapter Two: A Split Second Decision

    Chapter 2: A Split Second Decision


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Several weeks before¡­


    The gnome who ran the mounts trading shop was one of the last of his kind. He had burn scars all along the left side of his face which were covered in tribal tattoos that did less to hide them, and more to draw attention, which I think was the point. I could respect a man who bore his scars with pride.


    ¡°Of all my stock, I recommend this one for a long journey through the Waste.¡± The gnome waved for his assistant to lead the Sand Strider for a lap around the exercise ring. She was a child elf, only slightly taller than the gnome, wearing the iron collar and identification tag that designated her his slave.


    While I find slavery a despicable trade, I recognized that this child was well fed and tended to. She was one of three slave children I¡¯d seen in his employ, likely sisters. Each was well dressed, polite, and bearing none of the tell tale signs signifying abuse.


    I suspected that despite the gnome¡¯s haggard appearance and demeanor, he had chosen to save these three from the hands of those who would not be so kind. Despite the fact that young elves like them would have cost a small fortune.


    The Sand Strider was indeed a beautiful specimen. He was a bearded lizard with strong legs and bright, intelligent eyes. The gnome was no fool. He¡¯d saved the best for last.


    ¡°How much?¡±


    He told me, and I groaned internally. He was almost twice as expensive as the previous Strider. I didn¡¯t care. I haggled with the shrewd gnome for ten minutes before we agreed on a price.


    When we shook hands, the gnome¡¯s one good eye gleamed. ¡°Tell me true, you would have agreed to twice as much, wouldn¡¯t you?¡±


    I gave him a wry smile. ¡°Aye. And you would have taken fifteen percent less if I¡¯d pushed.¡±


    His sharp toothed grin split his face ear to ear. ¡°Aye.¡±


    The world was poorer for its lack of the gnome people. They were honest traders, if shrewd. Their people would die before going back on an agreement made. They had remained neutral during the war, but that hadn¡¯t stopped neither the Dominion nor the Kingdom of De¡¯danaan from targeting them relentlessly by the end.


    I walked my new mount out through the stables and back to the market square. On my way out, one of the elf sisters asked if she could pet the Strider and say goodbye. That she felt bold enough to ask such a thing without fear of reproach was more evidence that the gnome treated his slaves well. Perhaps he didn¡¯t even consider them slaves. It wouldn¡¯t surprise me if the collar was more for their protection than anything else. ¡°Of course, kid. Knock yourself out.¡±


    Her two sisters joined her once they realized I wasn¡¯t a threat. When they finished saying their goodbyes, one of the girls asked me what I planned to name him.


    I didn¡¯t think about it long. ¡°Boy.¡± I said. The girls seemed disappointed but soon I was on my way and tried to put them out of my mind. Boy wasn¡¯t really a name, it was my way of keeping emotional distance.


    As I crossed the market square, I stocked up on equipment and supplies. I haggled much more fiercely than I had with the gnome. Something about him had made me go soft.


    Hope¡¯s End. That was my destination and a hell of a name for a frontier town. I found it a fitting place for me.


    After I finished at the market, I found a Sending Office and paid to place a call to the mayor of Hope¡¯s End. I told him I was on my way and was leaving Sandport. He thanked me for the update and said he¡¯d let the Sheriff know.


    I¡¯d be a gunsmith for the local law enforcement there, whose current one was close to kicking the bucket from old age. No more violence. No more hunting people. Just a job where I could work with my hands under a roof and in a remote place far from Valheim¡¯s politics. If I was lucky, their budding imperialist ideology wouldn¡¯t reach me before the reaper.


    On my way out of Sandport, I stopped by to look at the Station at the End of the World, and the broken rails that stretched a short way into the sands beyond. That wasn¡¯t its official name. Just what I decided to call it. Once upon a time, the rails made a network all across the empire, and even deep into elvish lands. Now they were just metal to be stripped and recycled.


    As I led Boy away from the train station and toward the city gates, I grimaced as I passed a caravan entering town. Within a large iron-barred cage on wheels, a fresh batch of beaten and dirty elves was being carted toward the market to be sold. Their eyes were hopeless, vacant as they stared at nothing.


    The ones leading the caravan were hairless, and sported ugly red skin with pus-filled black sores, along with their worn armor and weapons. They were Reavers.


    They eyed me with hard stares as we crossed paths. I spit on the floor, staring just as hard. Fucking Reavers.


    I tried to put the image of those elves behind me. There was nothing I could do about them anyway. Instead, memories of fire, blood, and screams took its place. Nothing new. Just what typically occupied my mind in the idle hours.


    The first week of travel was uneventful, if full of plenty of depressing things to see, with the odd awe inspiring depressing thing to see thrown in as well.


    All along the desert were reminders of the Shattering and the time before. There were countless ruins, strange landscapes, and lifeless mountains, some of which I knew were a result of high workings, the gravesite of entire cities crushed under their colossal weight.


    There were chasms with mutated flora growing along the walls leading into darkness. There were nomadic poison gas fields that spread along a kilometers-wide basin that supported no life. The gas fields had no discernible place of origin, and would kill in seconds anything that was foolish enough to cross its path.


    Then there was the rift in the sky. A glaring tear in reality, like the eye of judgment, always open, always judging. At least in Valenheim, the towering buildings and cloud cover provided reprieve from its unsettling stare.


    I followed the map I¡¯d bought, following the best route from oasis to oasis. I didn¡¯t speak to the people I met along the way. They didn¡¯t speak to me. There were no friends to be made in the Waste. Only passersby and enemies out to steal your supplies.


    On the eve of my third week crossing the desert, I began to see signs of more Reavers. There were signs of a disorderly camp of dozens. But what really gave it away was the smell, along with the chewed bones of the dead: human, elf, and monster alike.


    Not long after, I began to see their fires at night. In the desert, darkness is as complete as it is dangerous. Open fires like theirs could be seen for kilometers around. I liked to avoid fires when I could, unless I found a suitable cave or the ruins of a building that could hide my fire. Meanwhile, the Reavers were bound to attract all manner of beasts. In retrospect, maybe that was their intention. They are perpetually hungry.


    Reavers are dangerous. They¡¯re not quite people, not quite monsters. They¡¯re something in between. They are the remnants of evil necromantic experiments held by treacherous elves who played both sides of the war. Those who survived the Shattering were destroyed when magic went wild before it stopped working altogether.


    The Reavers however, remained. They are partially hive minded creatures, beholden to a chieftain and their lieutenants. How Reavers propagate is a closely held secret among their kind, but I can¡¯t imagine it¡¯s anything good.


    That night, I decided to adjust my route. It might add a day or two to my travels, but it was worth it if I could avoid any roving scouts, or the attention of any monsters coming across my path on their way to their fire.


    It was midafternoon when I stumbled across a Reaver scouting party returning from a hunt.


    ¡°That¡¯s just my luck.¡± I muttered.


    There were five of them¡ªand a red-haired elf with her wrists bound.


    They had noticed me before I noticed them, and waited behind a cluster of boulders for me to get close. I should have smelled them, but the sun was so hot, the air burned my nostrils and dulled my senses.


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    Their leader stepped out first and three others followed, one of them holding a bound red-haired elf. She was tall for a female, about a half hand shorter than me. Pretty, if dirty and disheveled. But


    I tried to put her out of my mind.


    It was a good sign for me that the Reavers showed themselves rather than immediately attacking. It meant they wanted to talk. This wasn¡¯t the ideal ambush position, though not the worst either and they knew that as well. It was likely they chose to reveal themselves as soon as they realized I was a gunslinger.


    They were getting the measure of me.


    The leader of their unit stepped forward wearing a black, gap-toothed smile, his arms spread out with his palms face up to show a lack of aggression.


    ¡°Well met, friend.¡± Gaptooth said. ¡°I see you armed and ready, but we mean you no danger.¡±


    My hand already rested on the sandalwood handle of my hand cannon. I scanned the area. In addition to the three who showed themselves, there were two more. One on each side. Not entirely concealed, but behind decent cover.


    I also noted they didn¡¯t have mounts, which was unusual but not unheard of. Reavers don¡¯t tire. They don¡¯t need mounts. They aren¡¯t averse to taking them from their prey after a raid. But they¡¯re just as likely to eat a mount as they are to ride it.


    ¡°Am I speaking to your face or chieftain?¡± I asked. It was the proper etiquette, if it could be called that.


    Gaptooth chuckled. It was a wet, sticky sound that reminded me of tar pits and a death rattle. ¡°I am myself now.¡±


    ¡°Let me pass, or blood.¡± I rested my hand on the sandalwood handle of my cannon, but did not draw. The message I was sending was clear. I was not intimidated. I was ready to fight if they did not comply.


    Gaptooth¡¯s face did not appear concerned. Though he did not reach for the pistol I knew was tucked behind his belt, even though his fellows¡¯ hands twitched toward theirs. The two behind cover already had their guns drawn, though they had yet to point them at me.


    ¡°Let us not be hasty. We do not wish for bloodshed.¡± Gaptooth let his arms fall to his sides.


    He waited for me to ask what his intentions were. I prefer silence to do my talking for me in these situations. I find stillness more effective than words at unsettling my prey.


    When enough time passed, I saw the signs I was looking for. A shifting of weight, shared glances between them, looking to each other for guidance. Gaptooth¡¯s smile began to falter. He was the first to break the silence.


    Clearing his throat¡ªwhich did nothing to help his phlegmy throat¡ªhe said: ¡°We are but humble traders.¡± He gestured toward the elf girl. ¡°But, you see. We¡¯ve run into some trouble during our recent collection.¡±


    Collection¡ªhe meant the raid they¡¯d just completed where they¡¯d taken the elf. Though it was hard to tell because of the red flesh pitted with black sores, and because Reaver armor wasn¡¯t known for being well maintained, there was fresh blood on their armor and clothes. It explained why I¡¯d seen so many different groups of Reavers congregating recently. They were likely scouring the land for escapees after a raid.


    Gaptooth continued. ¡°We lost our mounts, and suffered casualties. We were hoping that you could aid us. Perhaps even loan us your mount so that we may more easily find our way home.¡±


    How bold of him, I thought.


    My hand still on my weapon, I didn¡¯t move. Instead, I let a trickle of mana flow into my eyes for a moment, lighting them in molten gold.


    Gaptooth¡¯s smarmy grin disappeared instantly and his eyes widened. He raised his hands and ordered his men. ¡°Stand down, men. Let him pass.¡± He bowed his head ever so slightly. ¡°Apologies, Branded Soul. We will step aside.¡±


    I hated that term. Branded Soul. It was the name the Dominion Army used for those who they unmade, then remade. But I have to admit there¡¯s no better term. Those who survived the branding process, emerged with precisely a brand on their soul, and possession of special abilities. Each ability, and each color was different, but one thing we all have in common is that our eyes glow when channeling. Someone once told me that our powers corresponded to the nature of our soul. I don''t know if that is true.


    At any rate, even twenty years after the Shattering, it was still known that glowing eyes meant someone not easily trifled with.


    I gestured with my chin toward the snipers. ¡°Call ¡®em down and make a line over there.¡±


    Gaptooth was quick to comply.


    This level of acquiescence was greater than I expected. It was something born of personal experience rather than hearsay. If he¡¯d faced off against a Branded and lived, then he was lucky.


    When all the Reavers were lined up, I pressed my heels into Boy and he stepped forward.


    As I passed the line of Reavers, my eyes met the elf¡¯s. Her dark blue eyes were fathomless as the night sky, and rimming with hate and fury. Despite her situation, she was not yet cowed. Something about that gaze stirred a memory, but my conscious mind avoided it like one might avoid touching a wound that never healed but always hurt.


    In the back of my mind, the ever present screams howled louder. They were so loud, I barely heard when Gaptooth spoke.


    ¡°Is something the matter, Branded Soul?¡± Gaptooth asked. Only then did I realize Boy had stopped walking and I¡¯d just been staring into those blue eyes long enough for the Reavers to become uncomfortable.


    I let my eyes pass over the line of Reavers. Two in their party looked more confused than cowed. They looked young. Likely still green.


    Out of the five of them, only three were experienced. Gaptooth, and the two who¡¯d held the high ground.


    I looked back at the elf. Again she met my eyes without fear. Just hate. Then I made a split second decision.


    ¡°Release the girl.¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯ll be taking her with me.¡±


    Gaptooth snarled, forgetting his fear for a moment. ¡°I will not! She is freshly caught. She is ours.¡±


    I stared Gaptooth down, and once again let my eyes burn gold.


    Gaptooth growled with impotent rage. I could see it in his eyes that he really didn¡¯t want to die today. Could he see in mine that I wouldn¡¯t care if I did? Maybe in his hindbrain he knew how lethal that kind of apathy could be.


    My hand still hadn¡¯t left the handle of my revolver. Gaptooth looked at it, then spat on the floor in a strange parallel of what I¡¯d done when I¡¯d seen the Reavers back at Sandport.


    He ordered the one holding the elf to remove her iron chains and help her up on my Strider. No sooner had the elf girl climbed on¡ªher loathing still unwavering¡ªthan Gaptooth coughed sickly and his head was thrown back before suddenly fighting himself.


    The expression he wore was no longer the cowed Reaver, and his posture was one of confidence.


    I¡¯d already pulled Boy back and created some distance, backpedaling but not giving my back to the Reavers.


    ¡°Fucking thief!¡± Gaptooth snarled, his voice not his own, but deeper, smoother. It was their chieftain making use of their pseudo Hivemind and taking hold of his Reaver¡¯s consciousness. The other Reavers recognized their boss¡¯s voice and each reached for their weapon in anticipation of the order that immediately followed. ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there, shoot hi¡­¡±


    Gaptooth never finished his sentence. I¡¯d already drawn, fired, and blown off his jaw and severed his spine. He dropped like a sack of stones.


    ¡°Kya!¡± I roared, digging my knees into Boy¡¯s sides and urging him into a dead sprint¡ªtoward the Reavers.


    There wasn¡¯t much room in the valley behind me to run for cover. Breaking their rank was the only other option, and the only one I would have considered anyway. I pushed the elf¡¯s head down to hug my Strider¡¯s broad neck which would have to do for cover.


    The Reavers¡¯ reaction time was so slow I didn¡¯t even need to slow time. They were undisciplined and easily broken by my charge. Also, their chieftain was an arrogant fool. He kept jumping from body to body, trying to gain the upper hand on me instead of letting his men work. All he did was disable his host for crucial moments so I could get off an extra shot unchallenged.


    Five booms. Quick reload. Six booms. Quick reload.


    They didn¡¯t stand a chance. After my second charge, only one Reaver remained alive¡ªas alive as a Reaver can be in the first place¡ªand that was intentional.


    The bloodied disgusting creature crawled armless and legless, wormlike. He uselessly tried to reach a broken rifle. Though for what reason, I couldn¡¯t imagine.


    Then he too convulsed and the chieftain possessed his body, which was what I¡¯d been waiting for. He laughed. ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯ve done, silly gunslinger. You¡¯ve earned my ire. I¡¯ll find you. I¡¯ll find the elf. I¡¯ll kill you both. Then violate your corpses repeatedly.¡±


    The easy certainty with which he said those words was chilling. I leveled my gun at the puppet¡¯s head. ¡°Forget me. Things won¡¯t end well for you if you try.¡±


    The puppet purred with delight. It was a disgusting sound. I let my eyes flash gold, then squeezed the trigger, putting a round in the last Reaver¡¯s skull.


    There was no real reason other than spite that I waited for the chieftain to show up. Now I almost regretted it. The bastard said he would come after me.


    As for the Reaver corpses, I wouldn¡¯t loot them. I didn¡¯t want to touch their vile bodies.


    So I rode off, the elf-girl in front of me, quiet the entire ride even after nightfall.


    I asked her name, and tried making conversation. She just stared forward and said nothing. I wondered if maybe she didn¡¯t speak, or perhaps she was one of those rare elves that never learned Dominion.


    The silence was fine by me. I was used to being alone, even in the company of others.


    It was a couple hours after nightfall when I found a suitably concealed alcove, and hitched Boy to make ready for camp. Once again I tried making conversation, but the girl just stared at me with loathing in her eyes. I couldn¡¯t help but notice how she held her tattered green robes close to her body.


    My cloak controls temperature fairly well despite the aging enchantments, so I¡¯d failed to realize how cold it had gotten.


    I judged we were too close to danger if the chieftain sent Reavers to hunt us through the night. Instead of a fire, I had Boy lay down and through hand signs and talking slowly¡ªwhich made me feel like an idiot, I finally got her to lay down against the Sand Strider for warmth. She wouldn¡¯t do it until I kept my distance.


    It was obvious she hated me despite having rescued her. It made sense. I was human. She was an elf.


    I shouldn¡¯t have been so naive. I didn¡¯t think she posed a danger to me, nor did I expect to fall asleep so deeply. If it was her magic, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised.


    Maybe if I¡¯d tied her down, I wouldn¡¯t have woken in the morning to find she¡¯d stolen my ride.

 Chapter Three: In the Company of the Enemy

    Chapter 3: In the Company of the Enemy


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    When I dream, I am a caribou playing in the Tyrna. The great enclave that was my ancestral land has not been razed to the ground. I have not yet had to move from enclave to enclave in search of a place to call home. The Fey King Torin has not yet lost his mind with war fever, nor has he turned to the Fell for power. The world has not ended, and every breath is fresh and full of magic.


    I can feel the wet, spongy earth beneath my feet as every leap takes me deeper into the forest. Past the vibrant green marshes of the Muskeg Meadow. Through the pale white sanctuary that is the Birchwood Hollows. Finally, I reach Willowgrove, where on quiet nights, the drooping branches whisper the sweet songs of our ancestors. Willowgrove, home to the ancient willow, the place where I was born, and where I lived for almost one hundred years.


    When I wake, I remember that, not only Tyrna, but all the great enclaves are gone. Now the Aos De¡¯danaan who remain can only hide, tucked into the secret nooks of a parched and dying land.


    So I do not wake. As long as I can, I hold on to the dream, for it is there that there are no briars to squeeze my heart.


    Why? That is what I wish to know, and why I joined the others on our pilgrimage to reach the God Tree of Danu. So that I could ask her myself, and petition her for aid.


    Why must we heal the earth as we can, growing life with the little magic that is left to us¡ªonly for it to be taken away? Just when we start to see the crops and trees bear fruit where none but elves would have tried to settle, the humans raid our homes, steal what we¡¯ve grown, and burn the land barren.


    My older sister used to say that the world may have ended, but we must always pray, knowing that when it is Her will, Danu will give life to all that has died, and restore the kingdom of De¡¯danaan. Then there would be true peace.


    My brothers and sisters are all dead. So I am the only one left who can pray.


    I open my eyes, my thoughts clouded by pain. Memories of peace vanish under the assault of a hundred needles in my head.


    I sit up carefully and find that I am in a shallow cave, the sun setting outside.


    The last thing I remember is my shield breaking from the strain. I cannot even remember how long I held it. I had thought I was only prolonging the inevitable. Yet, how am I alive? Those despicable creatures should have devoured me and¡­


    The L¨®ke!


    It saved my life. My head turns on a swivel, searching for any sign of it. Was it he who dragged me here somehow?


    Then I see the saddlebags hanging over a rock on the other side of the shallow cave and my heart sinks.


    ¡°Boy didn¡¯t make it.¡± The human¡¯s voice is low and gravely. It comes from a dark corner of the small cave, and I realize he had been sitting so still that I did not see him.


    Hate boils in me like blood in a hag¡¯s cauldron. Then I realize that he must have been the one to save me. How? I left him behind three days ago on the L¨®ke.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been unconscious for a couple days now. You must be thirsty.¡± The human stands and crosses the cave to the saddlebags. Next to them are three full waterskins. Even the ones that I drank during my ill fated flight have been refilled. Where did he get the water? The human drinks deeply, then tosses me the skin.


    It is true that I thirst. At first I consider refusing to drink it, but the human drank from the skin first, so I know it isn¡¯t poisoned. I unstopper the skin and tilt my head back. The cool water is sweet going down my throat. I know this flavor. It is water drawn from a cacti. When I am satisfied, I do not return the waterskin. Neither does the human ask for it in return.


    It occurs to me that he said I was unconscious for two days. My body tenses and I immediately turn my senses inward in search for any sign that he has taken me while I slept.


    I feel the bruises I earned in my flight from the monsters, as well as those in my inner thighs. For a second my breath catches, and I think that he really has taken me, before I realize they are those born from riding, not rape. So far as I can tell, my body is intact.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I open my eyes to see that the human is watching me with a quizzical expression. If he is angry that I stole his mount and led the poor creature to its death, he shows no sign. He looks¡­tired, and thoughtful. Perhaps he is planning how best to sell me for the most coin. Perhaps he wishes me awake when he takes me. That is just the kind of cruel thing a human would enjoy.


    ¡°My name is Jace.¡± The human touches his hand to his chest. Then he repeats his name slowly, stretching the ¡°a¡± until it becomes a ¡°y¡±. ¡°I¡¯m Jaaaaaayce.¡±


    He has already tried this before. Has he forgotten?


    I glare at him. I still refuse to speak. Let him think I don¡¯t understand Common. It doesn¡¯ matter. I¡¯ll kill him at the first opportunity. I should have done it when I escaped, but then¡­I guess I would be dead.


    I turn away, disgusted by the indignity of being rescued twice by this human. He should have left me to be eaten in my sleep. I refuse to feel gratitude for someone who rescues only for their own lust and gain.


    ¡°Shit.¡± The human Jayce says. ¡°Alright, try this.¡±


    He pulls a heavy, inwardly curved knife from behind his back. I jump to my feet, snarling, ready to fight despite the ache in my head and my depleted mana that won¡¯t come back for days yet.


    ¡°Whoa, whoa. Calm down, I¡¯m not going to hurt you.¡± The human Jace moves slowly now. Does he take me for a fool? Just because he makes noises at me like a spooked animal does not mean I will let him¡­


    The human Jace begins to carve something on the ground with his knife. He is using it as a writing utensil, not a weapon. I watch him like a mantis ready to punch. If he means to trick me, he is sorely mistaken.


    On the floor of the cave, the human has drawn doodles worse than a child would make. ¡°This is you, an elf.¡± He points to a circle with two smaller circles and a half moon inside the circle. The bigger circle has long ears.


    Ah, I see. The human Jace is an idiot. I force myself to sit and see where this goes.


    ¡°And this is me. Over here are a lot of other elves like you. See this right here? These lines are me taking you to this big group of elves over here. Do you understand? I can¡¯t take you back if I don¡¯t know where the hell I¡¯m supposed to go.¡±


    I scowl at him.


    I see now why he hasn¡¯t taken my body. He means to earn my trust then use me to lead him to an enclave. He thinks I''m a fool. No, I will kill him or die before I betray my people.


    The human Jace sighs and lets his chin fall to his chest. Then he sheaths his knife and turns away.


    I notice that, tucked in his belt beside his knife, is the broken dagger. If I can get my hands on that again, now that I know potent mana gems are set on the hilt, I could use them to obliterate him.


    Those gems are wasted on him.


    I remember the sweet euphoria of breaking the gems and drinking in the mana. Each blood red jewel holds enough mana for one powerful working. Perhaps not a high working unless one broke all its gems at once, and perhaps not even then. But it had been enough for me to create a self sustaining barrier, albeit one dependent on my concentration to hold.


    I chide myself. It will do me no good to become intoxicated with the idea of all that mana. He wears the dagger now because he knows that I know what it is. He will be wary of my trying to take it from him.


    No, I will take one of the small knives he keeps in his saddlebag. That will be enough to slit his throat.


    The human Jace does not try to communicate with me again for some time. He lights a fire, muttering about the need to cook the meat before it spoils. He looks sad as he cooks, and I realize with horror that it¡¯s the L¨®ke. Bile rises in my throat. How could he eat his companion?


    If he offers me the meat, I will throw it in his face and spit on him.


    He does not offer me the meat. Instead, he cuts up pale green strips of a fruit I do not immediately recognize, puts them on a plate, then offers them to me. I take the plate and sniff the strips carefully. Ah, it is Cacti meat.


    ¡°I figure you¡¯re a vegetarian. Most elves are as far as I know. At least, that was the case before the world went to shit. A lot of your people don¡¯t have a choice nowadays, do they?¡±


    He looks genuinely sad. It distresses me. What trickery is this? Is it his magic? He is clearly trying to connect with me. I will not allow this.


    I eat the cacti. It has the texture of dry bread until I bite into it. Then it drips down my chin, sweet and juicy. It is much better than the dry fruit I had to pick out from the L¨®ke¡¯s feed bag.


    Without preamble, the human Jace rolls to his side and goes to sleep.


    I am left alone and unguarded. Has he no fear that I will attack him in the night? He should have bound my hands and feet, but he did not.


    When I lay down, I notice that my tattered robes have been tampered with. They¡¯ve been repaired by an unskilled hand. The thread pattern is crude, but functional. It keeps my clothes from falling apart and leaving me exposed. Also, a filthy cloak covers my feet like a blanket. Now that I¡¯ve noticed it, I become aware of the pungent odor that I have thus far ignored. I throw it aside, disgusted.


    That is until the cold desert night begins to creep in and the fire begins to die down. Then I don¡¯t care how it smells. I pull it over me and its temperature regulation enchantment kicks in. I instantly warm, and shortly after, the exhaustion I feel hits me. I am not yet fully recovered. If I am to kill this human, tonight is not the night. I will do it tomorrow.


    With that happy thought in mind, I drift to sleep.

 Chapter Four: A Reason to Laugh

    Chapter 4: A Reason to Laugh


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    As we traverse the desert under blistering sun, the human stares at the horizon like a man who sees things no one else can.


    In point of fact, I believe he does.


    It is impossible for me to determine how he finds his way sometimes. I know we are moving east because of the position of the sun. Even that is unreliable at times, when the wind and the dust clouds block both the sun and visibility for kilometers around. I know that I could not find the way on my own. And still, the human leads us unerringly to the next point on the map. I know this, because he takes his map out only when he reaches the next dot along the red line he¡¯s traced on it, and only once do I see him make a correction. He confirms the landmarks, which often look very similar to me, then reorients us to the next point on the map.


    The human is methodical and careful. Also, he is considerate of me. It is infuriating.


    Early in the day when the sun starts to wear on me and become unbearable, he offers his wide-brimmed hat. I refuse. Instead of returning it to its rightful place on his head, he ties it on the side of the saddlebag, where it bounces around for hours, mocking me for my pride. I decided that if he won¡¯t wear it, then why should I suffer in vain?


    It does not take the human Jace long to learn my limits. Once he does, he does not exceed the pace I can handle. When he notices me beginning to show signs of weariness¡ªwhich despite my best efforts, I fail to hide¡ªhe pauses to take a drink of water and hands me a skin. Every time we come upon shade, he breaks for us to cool off.


    I know he must be suffering under the sun because of me. I wear his enchanted cloak, which not only warms in the cold of night, but works to keep my body temperature cool. If despite this enchantment I still find the heat unbearable, how much worse is it for the human? Not once does he complain. If he feels any animosity for my having stolen his L¨®ke and caused its demise, or any frustration at having to endure this endless walk at my expense, he never shows it.


    On our breaks, when he takes his eyes off the horizon, I catch him staring at the rift in the sky. His expression is an enigma. He is at once stoic, sad, angry, and in awe. I did not see the rift often in my last enclave, where we lived in a network of caves illuminated by sun stones. Now it is impossible to ignore. For me it is a symbol of death, and yet, though unsettling, it is disturbingly beautiful.


    When night falls, we stop only when the veil of darkness makes it hard to see past a few strides. From the way he looks at the stars, I suspect the human could find his way by reading them. I wonder if, again, he stops on my account. I almost open my mouth to ask him. But close it before he notices.


    I must not forget that he only wishes me to lead him to an enclave. This is all a ploy. He is not worth speaking to. Doing so could only lead to folly.


    The human attempts to explain to me why he does not light a fire: without proper concealment, a fire can be seen from a far distance and draw enemies to our location. I pretend not to understand and brace myself for a cold night.


    Our camp¡ªif you can even call it that without a fire¡ªconsists of our leaning against the slope of a shallow hollow of cracked hardpan. The idea is that in some small part, the slope will shelter us against the frigid wind.


    We eat, drink water and the human spreads the bedroll and blanket he¡¯s carried all day along with his saddlebags. It occurs to me that he has moved well despite the extra burden he must carry without his mount. The human scrubs his face with his hands and sighs. ¡°I know you¡¯ll hate it. But the best way to do this is back to back. A bit of body heat goes a long way when it gets cold. The Bedroll should help keep some of the warmth from the baked hardpan, but not all night.¡±


    He scrubs his hair. ¡°Damn it. I still can¡¯t tell if you¡¯re being stubborn or if you really can¡¯t understand me.¡±


    The human tries a few elvish sounding words that are nothing but gibberish before giving up and resorting to gestures once more.


    He puts his hands together, first pointing at one hand, then himself. Then switching hands to point at the other and then at me. Then he awkwardly puts the backs of his hands together and looks at me expectantly. The face he makes is stupid.


    Perhaps tonight is the night he will finally be overcome with his lust. I have already stolen a small knife from the saddlebag when he wasn¡¯t paying attention. When he mounts me, I will drive it through his eyeball and into his brain.


    I nod at him, pretending to have comprehended his ridiculous pantomime. Can he see the hate in my eyes? Or has he just become accustomed to it? It does not seem to phase him.


    I begin to lay down, contemplating thoughts of murder, when suddenly from everywhere at once, I hear the sounds of a thousand keening wails. I sit up wide-eyed and search the darkness, nearly raising my knife in defense and revealing my only weapon.


    ¡°They won¡¯t harm us.¡± The human points upward, where from the rift, surrounded by its aurora of greens and purple, a serpentine cloud of undulating wisps emerges, beginning its languid dance across the night sky.


    I look at him. Not feeling at all convinced of the veracity of his words. If the rift is unsettling to look at, this eerie stream of ghostly shrieks and howls are a nightmare. They are countless banshee announcing a reaping of souls.


    How do their voices even reach us from all the way up there?


    ¡°They¡¯re wraiths.¡± The human says, his eyes trained on the looping river of wraiths. ¡°In Valenheim, the Sky Watchers think they have something to do with why magic doesn¡¯t work right anymore.¡±


    The human shakes his head. ¡°That isn¡¯t what they are.¡±


    I wait for him to finish. I¡¯ve never seen or heard of these wraiths and the longer I listen to their wailing, the more anxious I become.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The human¡¯s sigh is heavy with weariness.


    ¡°They are the souls of the restless dead. The spirits of those killed in an endless war that has no sense and yields no victor. Their cry is one of despair. God is dead and there is no heaven where we may sleep.¡±


    Though I do not believe his words are true¡ªGod is not dead, merely biding her time¡ªwhen he speaks, it is with a sadness so bottomless that something in the chasm of my being echoes his grief. My anxiety abates, and so does my heart stir for the ghosts in the night sky, whose cries I hear differently now. They are the voices of a dirge, a requiem.


    I shiver, and it isn¡¯t from the cold.


    I turn my back to Jace, lying still, waiting for him to join me. My muscles tense, anticipating the moment he''ll move, drape an arm over me, or reveal his true self. But that moment never comes. For sometime, sleep eludes me as I dwell on the warmth of his back against mine, and the lingering ghosts of his words.


    The next day went the way of the first. The night had been long and restless. The wind, cold and brutal. Despite my reservations, Jace¡¯s heat had been welcome. He made no attempts to take me.


    During our ceaseless march, the human deviates from his mapped course after watching a group of birds in the distance. Then he follows signs and tracks only he can see. He even uses his nose to scent the air. When we are close, even I can see the prolific animal tracks, as well as how the ground turns from dry hardpan to moist dirt.


    The human Jace leads us right to a watering hole. It is a hole about twenty meters across. The water is still, reflecting the sun and the cloudless azure skies. Lush greenery thrives all along the water¡¯s edge, defying all odds and reason in this lifeless desert. There are even small animals and large insects around the edge, though the human shouts at them to scatter. He does not hesitate to jump headfirst into the hole, clothes and all. Neither do I. The water is wonderful, and the chance to wash so much grime from my body overrides any thoughts I might have of dignity or pride.


    As night falls, I decide I cannot wait any longer. Humans are monsters, and their ways are devious and evil. If I should wait any longer, the human will sink his barbed claws of empathy too deep under my skin for me to dig out. His acting thus far has been too perfect. For the fallen bastion of De¡¯danaan, I must murder him even before he makes his first move.


    I devise a plan to both catch him unawares, and reveal his true nature just before I ventilate his windpipe. The fact that I had the chance to bathe today is serendipitous.


    We make camp in a well-ventilated cave and the human builds a proper fire this time. I bask in its warmth and stare into its flames, steeling myself for the bloody task ahead. After a scant meal and water, I know the time is approaching, and I can¡¯t help but look out in the direction of the mouth of the cave.


    Though I can¡¯t see the sky from here, I would rather not try my plan while listening to the dirge of wraiths again.


    As if he reads my mind, the human says: ¡°The wraiths won¡¯t come tonight. They¡¯ve gone west.¡± Then he smiles wrily. ¡°Maybe to haunt Valenheim for a while.¡±


    A shred of doubt skirts the outskirts of my consciousness, only for me to squash it ruthlessly. It is imperative that I retain absolute focus.


    Finally, the time comes, and the human lays down to rest. I take a deep breath and relax my facial muscles. I make a tiny whimpering noise, which draws his attention. Then I crawl on all fours, making my movements languid and sensuous, drawing attention to my breasts and the swaying of my hips.


    I let my robes, which I¡¯d already loosened, spill over one shoulder, exposing the pale, smooth skin of my breast, and the shadow of a nipple. I sway with every movement I draw close to him, until I am close enough to touch.


    My hands touch his arm, my face draws close to his. I swing a leg to straddle over him. I let the rest of my robe fall to my waist and my chest is fully exposed. I rest one hand on his shoulder, as I reach back with my other hand into the folds of my robe for the knife.


    I lean forward for a kiss, and brace myself to strike the killing blow. Only then do I meet his thoughtful, narrowed eyes.


    I realize that the human has not stirred, nor moved a centimeter since I began my approach.


    His pupils are dilated, heart rate elevated. He is aroused, yet his lips are pressed into a thin line. He looks more like someone with a question rather than one eager to answer.


    When he lifts me by the shoulders and moves me aside, I am too startled to react. His hands are strong and firm, his movement decisive. His eyes are still fixed on mine when he says gently: ¡°I think you¡¯re a beautiful woman. But this is not something you need to do. You don¡¯t owe me anything.¡±


    The human stands, and I watch him visibly shake off the effect I¡¯ve had on him. He¡­turned me down?


    It is such an absurd thing that I forget that I have vowed not to speak to him. ¡°Why!¡±


    The bastard¡¯s eyes widen at hearing me speak, but he quickly adjusts. He nods, smiling faintly. ¡°Because you hate me. There¡¯s no reason for you to defile yourself to pay¡­a debt.¡±


    His voice trails off as his eyes catch the glint of firelight off my knife blade. I follow his line of sight and curse my twice damned hubris.


    I reflexively crouch on my heels and point the knife at him, ready to jump at any sudden movement. My eyes flicker to his rifle, leaning several strides away next to the saddlebags. His revolver hangs at his hip, but he makes no move toward it. On the contrary, he folds his arms over his belly and laughs.


    He laughs!


    Though we have not traveled together long, this is the first time I see him express genuine mirth. Not once has a single smile she¡¯d seen on his face touched his eyes. Yet here he is laughing with a guileless candor that makes him age in reverse. The abhorrent stray thought graces my mind that his face is appealing; this thought reminds me I need to be angry. ¡°Are you mocking me? Am I such a small threat to you that your first response at seeing that I mean to kill you¡ªis to laugh?¡±


    The exasperating man wipes a tear from his eye and shakes his head. It appears to be a monumental effort for him to settle his laughter down. ¡°No. I am not mocking you, lady. I am glad to see that I was wrong. The fight hasn¡¯t left you at all. It burns just as bright as ever.¡±


    I stand there, knife in hand and bare chested, watching as the human Jace finds a spot by the fire to lay down. He turns his back to me as he has every night I¡¯ve shared camp with him.


    What just happened? What kind of human refuses a willing elf? For a while, I cannot fathom it. Neither did he take advantage of me, nor did he respond to my assassination attempt with violence.


    By all logic, he should kill me. Or, at the very least, disable me, tie me up, beat me. That is what humans do to elves. Why doesn¡¯t he? Instead he laughs and turns his back to me, daring me to kill him. I could walk up to him right now and stab him in the neck, take his rifle and shoot him in the heart.


    But I don¡¯t. Instead I cover myself and tie my robes. I tuck the knife into the folds and sit across him on the opposite side of the fire. I watch Jace take a deep breath that somehow sounds more relaxed than any other I¡¯ve seen him take. Still with his back to me, he says: ¡°Now you¡¯re talking, maybe you can tell me your name.¡±


    I sigh, resting my chin on my knees. ¡°It¡¯s Ayla. My name is Ayla.¡±


    ¡°Well met, Ayla. Call me Jace.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still going to kill you, Jace.¡±


    Jace waves the thought away over his shoulder. His voice still holds a tinge of humor when he says: ¡°If you don¡¯t do it tonight, then I guess I¡¯ll see you in the morning.¡±

 Chapter Five: What Lies Beneath

    Chapter 5: What Lies Beneath


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Days passed since the night Ayla tried to end my life. I could have been irritated, but it was so damned funny that I couldn¡¯t bring myself to ire.


    When I was a boy, I tried to rescue a bee from a pool where my friends and I were swimming near the Eld. It stung me. I was angry at the bee then. Why couldn¡¯t it just let me save it? In another second I would have set it on a branch to dry, and it could have gone on its merry way, returning to life in the hive. Instead, I had a barbed lancet sticking out of my finger, pumping venom, and the bee was disemboweled. And for what?


    I wasn¡¯t angry at Ayla for trying to murder me. There was something poetic about dying at the hands of someone I tried to save, rather than someone I tried to kill. I deserved nothing less. Death by her hand would be my just deserts.


    Each night after the one she tried to murder me, I¡¯d catch her staring at me, eyes reflecting the flickering flames of our campfire. I could see her thoughts plainly in those flames, taking my measure. If she did try again, I wouldn¡¯t stop her. But every night, the moment passed. She¡¯d turn away, her expression unreadable, and I¡¯d find myself drifting to sleep more peacefully than I¡¯d slept in years.


    The sun beat down mercilessly as we trudged through the endless expanse of the Wastes. We were nearing the last leg of the desert, but it was the driest stretch by far. We were running low on water. We needed to reach the next outpost today, or we¡¯d be in trouble. If we still had the Strider, we could have gone around, but without it...


    ¡°We have to cross that dry riverbed.¡± I pointed at the wide stretch that cut across the landscape like a colossal claw carved a snaking scar through the hardpan. The sand along the bottom was softer, and I knew what lurked beneath. I crouched and picked up several fist sized rocks and tucked them into a pouch I secured onto my saddlebags. Days and days of carrying them hadn¡¯t made them any lighter, but an extra pound wouldn¡¯t kill me.


    Ayla watched me curiously, but didn¡¯t ask me about the rocks. Instead, she pointed out the fact I seemed reluctant. ¡°What is it? Why are you afraid?¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°I don¡¯t like what we¡¯re likely to find in those sands.¡±


    Ayla shifted her weight uncomfortably. It must have been the first time she¡¯d seen me show any uncertainty. ¡°What will we find?¡±


    ¡°Sandsharks.¡± I said, keeping my voice steady. ¡°They hibernate beneath the sand until they sense movement. Then they swim through the sand like fish in water, zeroing in on anything that moves.¡±


    Her eyes widened, and she glanced at the riverbed. ¡°How do we get across? Can¡¯t we go around?¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°We need to cross. We move very, very slowly, and stay alert. If we¡¯re lucky, they¡¯ll stay asleep. If not...¡± I let the sentence trail off, not needing to finish it.


    I drew my knife and handed it to her. It was a long, heavy thing. Black steel, convex, and inwardly curved. In her slender hands, it almost looked like a short sword. She looked at me, surprised that I would trust her with a weapon.


    I shrugged. "It''s good for stabbing and chopping. It could make a difference in a crucial moment." Inwardly, I cringed. A well-placed shot from my rifle might take out a single Sandshark, but if we were swarmed, my quickdraw was our best chance of survival. It was unlikely the weapon would make much difference at all, but I understood better than most the comfort of not facing danger empty-handed.


    She nodded, her eyes scanning the ground. We climbed down the bank and onto the sand. We took a tentative step forward, and I paused, listening. Then I turned to Ayla. ¡°When they come, it sounds almost like crunching snow. It¡¯ll be loud, impossible to miss. Keep your steps light and follow my pace.¡±


    She nodded again. All the animosity she usually showed me was replaced with focus. That was good.


    We tread the sand in silence for some time. The other side was only two or three hundred meters away, but inching forward to avoid disturbing the sand too much meant the crossing would take a while.


    Ayla¡¯s tension was palpable, her breathing somewhat erratic.


    ¡°So where are you from?¡± I asked. I kept my voice low, enough that I could still hear if something was approaching. She looked at me wide-eyed. I tried to smile reassuringly. ¡°It¡¯s alright. They¡¯re deaf. It¡¯s just the vibrations we need to worry about. But you need to calm down. I¡¯m not carrying you across if you pass out.¡±


    Ayla swallowed. Her lips were so cracked. I knew mine were just as bad. I wished I could offer her some water to wet her lips, but the little we had was being carefully rationed.


    ¡°Why do you care?¡± Ayla answered. She tried to make herself sound bitter and tough, but failed. The hand she had clutched to my saddlebags for comfort had a lot to do with that.


    ¡°I¡¯m just trying to keep your mind busy. But maybe it¡¯s better just to stay focused.¡±


    A few minutes of silence passed before she spoke. ¡°I was born in Tyrna.¡±


    I grimaced. I knew how horribly things had gone in that region. My home hadn¡¯t fared any better. ¡°I wasn¡¯t there when everything along the Eld burned. But I¡¯m from the Sisters.¡±


    The Sisters were named after the three majestic mountains near the town that resembled three women huddled together whispering. Mountains that no longer existed.


    The river Eld once flowed by our small city and cut through the mountains and into Tyrna territory. Before the war, there was frequent trade between elves and humans in the region, and we had good relations. She must have known that.


    We were both silent as memories of home haunted us. I remembered the bottomless chasm that replaced the Eld, that caused the mountains to crumble in on themselves. The endless stream of fire that spewed from there when I last laid eyes on it. I¡¯d heard the magma settled and the region is quiet now. But I never returned.


    ¡°Before the Sisters were built, there was a field of silverbell flowers,¡± Ayla said, her voice part bitter, part nostalgic. ¡°They drew the caribou every spring. It was a sight to behold.¡±


    The implied slight that the humans had destroyed this beautiful landmark was not lost on me. It wasn¡¯t as cutting as I would have expected, though. Maybe she knew how pointless holding on to that anger was, given that nothing remained now. Not even those humans, not even the Sisters.


    Something else caught my attention. ¡°The Sisters must have been eighty years old by the time I was born. You sound almost as if you¡¯d seen the silverbell fields with your own eyes.¡± Ayla arched an eyebrow. Maybe even elves didn¡¯t like their age getting pointed out. Regardless, I persevered. ¡°How old are you, exactly? You don¡¯t look a day over twenty.¡±


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    ¡°I¡¯m one hundred and thirty-five,¡± Ayla said, her eyebrow still arched. Yep, even elven women didn¡¯t like to flaunt their age.


    I knew elves were long-lived, but I¡¯d never had the opportunity to question one myself. That Ayla could be so much older than me but look so young made me feel odd. ¡°You look good for a great, great-grandmother.¡±


    Ayla didn¡¯t hear the joke. Instead, she took me literally and said, ¡°I never had children. Why bring a creature into this world just for it to suffer?¡±


    I knew how she felt. I¡¯d long ago made a similar vow myself. It wasn¡¯t the kind of thing to joke about. Nor was there anything to say.


    I heard a rumbling groan, like crunching snow. And I felt my sphincter tighten. I raised a clenched fist, signaling Ayla to stop. The sound was getting louder and closing in on us at an alarming rate.


    Suddenly a striped, serrated fin poked up from the sand a dozen meters ahead of us. Its movements were smooth and serpentine, mirroring the sinuous undulations of the creature beneath.


    It headed straight for us.


    ¡°Jace?¡± Ayla¡¯s voice was tense. It was the first time I¡¯d heard her say my name without even the barest hint of animosity. She was afraid.


    ¡°Don¡¯t move.¡± I said, keeping my voice steady.


    I untied the pouch of rocks I¡¯d secured onto the saddlebags earlier, then gripped the end of the drawstring tightly. With a flick of my wrist, I twirled the pouch, waiting until the creature was only a few meters away. Despite the heat and dehydration, I felt a bead of sweat on my brow.


    Then, at the last moment, I released the drawstring mid-spin. aiming for several strides away from us. The pouch opened mid-air, scattering rocks in a wide arc, then hitting the sand with soft thuds.


    In a blink, the Sandshark adjusted trajectory and exploded from the sand, mouth agape filled with rows of shark-like teeth. It kept its four stubby legs tight against its core as its snakelike body curved inward and down upon the rocks.


    While it was still midair, I shrugged off my saddlebag and snapped my rifle into position. It was so close there wasn¡¯t much need to aim down its gullet.


    Boom. The resulting explosion was deafening, sending a shockwave rippling through the sand.


    The Sandshark¡¯s head was obliterated in an instant, chunks of flesh and bone scattering in all directions. The shockwave from the blast rippled through its body, causing it to convulse violently even as what was left of its body hit the sand. The force of its fall sent up another plume of fine sand and grit, the scent of gunpowder mixing with the metallic tang of blood.


    I cycled the bolt, caught the casing and pocketed it out of habit.


    Ayla shrieked, almost a delayed reaction, as the attack had started and ended so quickly. I felt her clutch at my arm involuntarily.


    I exchanged glances with her, finding my eyebrow was arching this time. I¡¯d have laughed if the situation wasn¡¯t so urgent.


    ¡°Now we run.¡± I said, not giving either of us a chance to dally. ¡°The vibrations no doubt alerted all the Sandsharks in the area.¡±


    No time to lament the loss of saddlebags and bedroll. There wasn¡¯t much use for them if we were dead.


    Ayla¡¯s eyes were trained on the still writhing Sandshark. Was she stunned? This couldn¡¯t be the first time she¡¯d seen blood. I threw decorum and caution aside and grabbed her arm, then pulled her behind me as I sprinted through the sands. ¡°We gotta move!¡±


    The fine, loose sand made every step treacherous, our feet constantly slipping or sinking almost to our knees. Now we were running, the other side was only a minute away at most.


    Sometimes a minute can feel like an eternity.


    The tell-tale groaning of Sandsharks weaving through sand came at us from left, right, and behind. The creatures weren¡¯t known for their craftiness, so I knew they would be making a straight line for us. If we could just stay ahead of them we might just¡­


    The first Sandshark leaped out of the sand early, opting to come at us overground. Its short stubby legs worked in tandem with its long snakelike tail to rush at us in quick, darting motions.


    There wasn¡¯t time to aim while in full sprint; instead I shot from the hip, aligning my barrel roughly with the target and fired. The round blew away the creature¡¯s front left leg, causing it to emit a loud clicking growl as it writhed its way under the sand, leaving a trail of blood and its severed limb behind.


    In this way, Sandsharks are similar to their ocean namesakes. Several creatures that hadn¡¯t yet let their fins peek above the sand surface suddenly writhed forth and began devouring the injured monster, a bloody battle of limbs ensued.


    If only that drew all of them, but it didn¡¯t.


    Two more sharks leapt toward us. I fired, but my bullet missed. They nearly crushed us as they slithered under the sand. Thirty more seconds. That¡¯s all we needed. But the swarm was upon us. I counted a half dozen sharks writhing to the surface on each side, ready to leap. We weren¡¯t going to make it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± I growled at Ayla. ¡°Stay as still as possible if you want to live.¡±


    Then I slung my rifle and stomped forward. Eight sharks leapt at me simultaneously from multiple directions. I grinned wolfishly.


    I¡¯d faced worse odds.


    I blinked. Time slowed. The familiar burning sting flooded my eyes. And as they filled with molten magic, my awareness expanded.


    I drew my revolver and spun right, anticipating the trajectory of the beasts and finding a gap. My jaw clenched with the strain of pushing my muscles to move faster and with more precision than the ordinary limits of humanity.


    The first shot struck the roof of the first shark¡¯ mouth. The second, between another¡¯s sand crystalline eyes. I put two into a third¡¯s midsection. The fourth, the fifth¡­


    Dancing between the bodies of monsters twice my size when a single mistake meant being mauled and killed¡ªwas thrilling. As thrilling as any battle with stakes like these.


    I ducked under a shark and let time slide forward to relieve some of the strain on my senses. In one fluid motion, I released the spent casings and reached for my speedloader. The new rounds clicked into place with a quick twist. I pocketed the loader, snapped the cylinder shut, and was firing again.


    With each pull of the trigger, the revolver barked loudly, a bloom of fire flared, then a thin wisp of smoke curled from the barrel. As I fired shot after shot, the smoke thickened, forming a ghostly haze that hugged me like a death veil.


    I leapt and stepped twice on the back of a shark before jumping forward. Then I fired again and again.


    Not all the creatures died when I hit them, but with many, no sooner had I inflicted wounds, than others of the sharks were driven mad with bloodlust and turned on their bloodied fellows.


    Hot blood that smelled vaguely sweet along with its pungent stink, mingled with acrid gunpowder scent. I reloaded. I fired. I danced between the piling corpses.


    The sharp, acrid smell of burnt powder stung my nostrils, mixing with the dry desert dust. The wind picked up, carrying the wisps away in swirling patterns.


    Then there was enough mayhem in the writhing corpses that I knew it was time to move on.


    Ayla had obeyed. She stood petrified, clutching the black knife tightly in front of her, then looking between the piles of corpses and writhing monsters, and at me¡ªwith a new respect that wasn¡¯t at all unwelcome.


    ¡°Come around this way. Careful to keep a distance from those ones feeding over there. We need to move before our luck turns sour.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take long to reach the other side of the dry riverbed. Then, I realized I¡¯d made the biggest blunder a soldier can make on the field. I don¡¯t believe in God or gods, but I do believe in the world¡¯s unfaltering habit of spiting those who so boldly dare fate and irony to bring exactly what they don¡¯t want to happen. My comment regarding our luck turning sour was a mistake.


    As I helped Ayla reach the lip of the embankment, I heard the groan of sand behind me as it erupted, a smallish shark¡ªcompared to its fellows; this one was maybe twice as big as the average human, not including its tail¡ªtaking its chances with the fleeing prey rather than competing with the others in the maelstrom.


    I pushed Ayla the rest of the way, and tried to scramble up myself, but I miscalculated. I turned. Even activating my Goldeneye, I wasn¡¯t fast enough to turn and shoot in time.


    The shark¡¯s nose pushed me upward and onto higher ground, past Ayla. Its maw closed around my arm. Pain cut through me like an electric buzzsaw as one of its many teeth dug into a nerve ending somewhere.


    I pressed the hot barrel of the gun flush against the side of the shark and emptied my cylinder, doing my best to wreck its jaw joint. One of them must have found its mark because I felt the pressure of its teeth slacken, though the beast was still writhing and had its teeth in me. Until suddenly it wasn¡¯t, and I realized through my haze of pain that Ayla was mounted on the monster stabbing repeatedly in and around its eye, and randomly along its head. It was hard to tell whether her stabbing or one of my bullets contributed most to making the shark go limp, but I was grateful when it finally did.

 Chapter Six: Bargains

    Chapter 6: Bargains


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    I gritted my teeth against the pain that pulsed in my arm like a living, breathing thing. Ayla¡¯s hands moved deftly, tearing strips from her robe, the fabric parting with a harsh, ripping sound. Her eyes were focused, determined, and despite the agony, I couldn¡¯t help but be impressed by her composure.


    I¡¯d say that I¡¯ve suffered worse injuries¡ªI have¡ªbut pretending that made having my arm mauled any less painful would be a lie.


    ¡°Looks like you saved me this time,¡± I said through clenched teeth. It was worth giving credit where it was due. The memory of Ayla in that moment, stabbing furiously at the creature¡¯s head, flashed vividly in my mind. Her eyes had burned with a warrior''s fire.


    ¡°You saved me first,¡± Ayla replied, her voice steady as she worked to clean the wound with our meager water supply and bandage it.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I¡¯d say three times by my count,¡± I added with a faint, teasing smile.


    That was the wrong thing to say. Her hands, which had been gentle, suddenly pressed harder, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from me. Then she looked up at me, eyes sharp. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Why what?¡± I muttered, though I knew exactly what she meant.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be daft. Why did you save me? If you¡¯d left me for the Reavers, your L¨®ke would still be alive. If you hadn¡¯t pushed me out of the way, your arm wouldn¡¯t be in this shape. You could die.¡±


    ¡°Meh. Probably not, though.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean to sell me? Am I that valuable to you that it¡¯s worth dying for?¡±


    ¡°Not going to sell you. I already told you I mean to take you to your people¡­or, at least as close as you¡¯ll let me.¡± I winced as she tightened another bandage. ¡°As for why, I guess it¡¯s because I don¡¯t hate elves.¡±


    Ayla froze, her hands pausing in their work. I could see the suspicion in her eyes. I continued, forgetting my pain for a moment, realizing that I meant exactly what I said. ¡°I figure I did enough killing in the war to last lifetimes. ¡®Bout time I did some saving.¡±


    Ayla resumed her work, a thoughtful silence settling between us. The wound was bandaged as best as our limited supplies allowed and tied in a makeshift sling against my chest. She had offered to cast a higher working of healing if only I¡¯d let her use one of the crystals on my broken dagger, but did not bring it up again at my vehement refusal.


    I noticed how much of her robe she¡¯d cut up and torn to treat my wounds. Her robe now reached only a short way down her hips, maybe six inches above her knees. She¡¯d sacrificed modesty and sunburned legs for my sake, had she? At least she still had my cloak.


    Ayla slung my rifle over her own shoulder and helped me to my feet. We were ready to trudge the last few kilometers to the outpost I hoped was still there.


    The sun dipped lower, casting long, menacing shadows over the desert landscape. The land seemed to slope forever downward, leading us to what felt like the edge of the world. We stumbled, half-carrying each other, exhausted and out of water by the time the outpost finally came into view.


    It was a ragtag collection of what might have once been colorful but were now worn-out tents and dilapidated buildings, the fabric of the tents flapping weakly in the wind, and the wooden structures creaking with age. A watchtower that looked like it had fallen apart and been patched up dozens of times leaned precariously into the wind.


    At first glance, one might have thought it was deserted, but the closer we got, my keen eyes spotted red eyes and shuffling cloaked figures that blended into the washed-out environs.


    ¡°Guard up,¡± I whispered.


    Ayla noticed them as well and kept one hand on the black knife she¡¯d tucked into her belt.


    When we crossed through the outpost¡¯s boundary, where the desert seemed to stop suddenly and become solid, gray ground that almost looked paved, I sensed the slightest hint of magic that had something to do with it. The air was noticeably cooler inside. Though I couldn¡¯t, I imagined I could smell the water at the center of the settlement, where the well would have been dug.


    As we made our way to the center, I noticed several of the cloaked figures closing the distance and surrounding us. They weren¡¯t sporting weapons that I could see¡ªbut that didn¡¯t mean anything if their steel was hiding under their cloaks¡ªand I counted a shit ton, which was more than I had bullets. Anyway, with one hand I¡¯d be slow to reload in the first place. Which meant if they attacked, we¡¯d be in trouble.


    These kinds of situations called for unwarranted bravado. I leaned in and whispered in Ayla¡¯s ear, ¡°They know we¡¯re aware of their presence. So walk like you¡¯re such a crack shot with that rifle that you could take ¡®em all out on your own.¡±


    Ayla gave me her signature raised eyebrow. Yeah, who were we kidding? We looked half in the grave already with my bloodied arm, our sunburned bodies, and filthy clothes. At least there was enough black blood on us that it was clear not all of it was human. Actually, on second thought, we made quite the grizzly pair.


    When we finally arrived at the center and I saw the well, it was all I could do not to jump into it headfirst. Then I noticed the bright red and white canopy-covered wagon and the Striders hitched to it. It wasn¡¯t as ratty as the town, long and wide, with modified wheels designed for both sandy and rocky terrain. It was clearly well maintained. The wagon was clearly a recent arrival.


    ¡°Traveler.¡± The voice behind me was a low, grating rasp, like rocks scraping together at the bottom of a dry riverbed.


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    I turned to regard the cloaked figure who¡¯d stepped forward from the rest, who were all encircling us. Now they were close, I realized that not one of them was very tall. All of them shorter than Ayla by a hand.


    The lead cloaked figure lowered his hood, revealing dusty green skin and a hooked, knobbed nose. His irises were red and sclera black. He was a goblin. And so were all the others.


    Reflexively, my hand went to my gun, fingers curling around the grip. Goblins had been vicious skirmishers during the war, their reputation for ruthless ambushes well-earned.


    ¡°Peace, traveler.¡± The goblin raised both hands in a sign of peace. There was no weapon in them, but I had no doubt now all the goblins behind him were armed and ready. I was reminded of the very similar situation I¡¯d been in with the Reavers. ¡°This is the first time you have set foot in our domain, so your rudeness will be excused. Once.¡±


    The goblin eyed my hand on my weapon. This situation was different than the one with the Reavers. Fighting or intimidating my way out was unlikely.


    I removed my hand from the sandalwood grip. The goblin nodded as if he expected nothing less. There was none of the mocking smile I¡¯d grown familiar with goblins.


    ¡°We are the keepers of this trading waystation. So long as you agree to fair trade and to abstain from violence, I Bey Grak¡¯nar, swear no violence nor harm from me and mine, so may it be said and bound.¡±


    For a moment I was speechless. That was a fairy deal. Before I could react, however, Ayla spoke quickly. She knew the significance of such an oath better than anyone, being Fair Folk herself. ¡°Agreed, and so it has been said and bound.¡±


    Then she shot me a scathing glare that said I better agree or else. For good reason. The goblin had lumped us together and so the contract could not be sealed without my agreement as well. But he¡¯d also promised no harm, which in our present circumstances was needed reassurance.


    I nodded. ¡°Aye, and so may it be said and bound, so long as it is said without guile nor deceit.¡± Mine was a little known additional guarantee to the seal that the goblin was required to agree to close the deal. It could be considered an insult among the fey, who believed if you wished not to be deceived then it ought be done with more ¡®accurate phrasing¡¯, but it would ensure the goblin kept to the spirit of the agreement, and if he was indeed their bey¡ªtheir leader¡ªthen the magic that followed such an agreement, that was many of the higher fey creatures¡¯ way, would be ironclad.


    ¡°Without guile nor intent to deceive.¡± The goblin said, which was not the precise phrasing I wanted, but acceptable, as it meant that he would not intentionally seek to deceive me himself, but made no guarantees of his goblin kin. And not all forms of deceit caused immediate harm.


    ¡°Then we are agreed.¡± I said. A subtle magic, ancient and binding, settled over me like a slight chill, the air around us seeming to hum with an unspoken pact.


    The cloaked goblins who had surrounded the area removed their hoods and dispersed, and began entering the random buildings. The dilapidated outpost suddenly felt much livelier¡ªthough not by much¡ªand I felt that a subtle pressure I¡¯d felt since entering the area was suddenly lifted.


    The building seemed less dilapidated and the tents sturdier. There must be powerful illusion magic at work here. Likely powered by some relic in possession of the goblins.


    ¡°Bey Grak¡¯nar, you and yours are traders here? What are your wares?¡± I asked. It wasn¡¯t unheard of for goblins to trade, but it was strange to see them in human territory. Then I realized suddenly that these weren¡¯t human lands at all; they were the Wastes. The Wastes belonged to no one.


    The goblin nodded. ¡°We trade in water, foodstuff, relics and other miscellany.¡±


    I figured. The water was the most valuable resource in the desert. They wouldn¡¯t just let us use it for free.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be needing all those things.¡±


    ¡°What do you have to trade?¡± the bey asked. I could feel his eyes scan me and linger on my revolver, the rifle, and briefly on the black knife tucked into Ayla¡¯s waist.


    I only had one thing that could interest the goblins beside the weapons. It should interest them quite a bit. Especially if the goblins used relics to power the enchantments around their camp. They probably used them for other things as well.


    I reached into a pocket and unbuttoned it. Then withdrew the charged beast core I¡¯d retrieved from the jackaloth alpha when I rescued Ayla. I¡¯d hoped to save it for something special. Like upgrading and recharging the enchantment on my cloak. A small token to keep with me in honor of that fine beast. But if it could buy our lives, I supposed that was perhaps even more special.


    A life for a life. The poetic cycle of death and life continues.


    I held up the beast core. It shimmered green, then red, then rainbow. There was no doubt it was a beast core, and while not the highest quality¡ªhad it been the core of an evolved jackaloth, it would be worth much more¡ªit was still much more than enough to buy everything we needed.


    The goblin¡¯s eyes widened and I sensed the greed in his eyes. He began dry washing his hands. ¡°May I see it?¡±


    I hadn¡¯t shown the beast core to Ayla yet, and she narrowed her eyes when she saw it. I didn¡¯t know how much of the Old Ways she followed. Once it had been a great strain on the relations between humans and elves. They believed hunting for cores was evil and disrupted the natural order. According to their beliefs, the mana that died with a creature ought to be buried with them and returned to the planet.


    I don¡¯t know how many elves kept to those principles during the height of the war. Though they never adopted human technology¡ªtheir pride would never fall so low¡ªquite a few enemies we¡¯d faced had adopted their own ways of refining cores and adapting them to power spells.


    The process was something our technomancers adopted and enhanced to create the very jewels encrusted on my broken dagger.


    If it bothered her I had a core, Ayla said nothing.


    The goblin ran it between his fingers and sniffed it. Then his eyes flickered to my gun and rifle once more. Then slowly, he assessed us as a whole. And by his words, I knew he had been taking in our measure of desperation. ¡°This will be suitable for unlimited access to water. Food and other supplies will require additional trade.¡±


    It would appear that the goblins'' concept of ¡®fair trade¡¯ was different than I expected. In a twisted way, it made perfect sense. Water for one who needs it little, costs little. For one whose life depends on it, well, it costs all they have. That¡¯s only fair.


    The goblin was out for all he could take from us.


    ¡°Oy! Don¡¯t let that gobbo rip you off. That beast core¡¯s worth more than a bucket of drink.¡± A tall, muscular man with a winning smile and bright blue eyes stepped out of a nearby building with a sack of feed over each shoulder. Behind him, four other men followed, all weather-worn, but hale. All of them were armed.


    I recognized the tall man, though it¡¯d been close to twenty years since I last saw him. Marcus Turner. ¡°Marcus?¡±


    Marcus¡¯s smile widened and he dropped both feed sacks right at his feet, one of them bursting. He didn¡¯t care one bit. ¡°Fuck a pixie¡¯s tits. Jace!¡± Marcus jogged up to me and gripped me by the shoulders, not much caring for my grunt of pain when he touched my wounds. ¡°You¡¯re alive, mate. Or barely, it looks like! Ha!¡±


    Of course, when he realized that his hand was getting covered in blood, he released me, pulled a kerchief from his back pocket, and started wiping it off.


    ¡°Good to see you too, friend.¡± I gritted my teeth, but I couldn¡¯t keep a smile from my face.

 Chapter Seven: The Scent of Flowers

    Chapter 7: The Scent of Flowers


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Marcus gave me a once over. ¡°Jace, you look just like yourself. All beat up and bloody. Just like you walked through time, right out of one of our campaigns. Except your face got old, so there¡¯s that.¡± He eyed Ayla, his gaze lingering first on her ears, then her neck¡ªconspicuously absent an iron collar¡ªand then her bare legs. He whistled. ¡°Interesting company you keep.¡±


    Ayla¡¯s glare could have melted glass, but Marcus didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    Marcus turned to the goblin leader, who was looking surly at the interruption. ¡°Grak-man. I know how you work, so I¡¯m just letting you know, I¡¯ll be trading on my friend¡¯s behalf, and you¡¯ll be giving me my usual rate. No tricks.¡±


    The bey grimaced and threw his hands up in frustration. Apparently, Marcus had negotiated a much more favorable bargain than I had. I never was any good with fairy deals.


    Ayla eyed Marcus warily, and I tried to give her a look that said all was well to little effect. Her wariness for humans was a stark contrast with what she¡¯d shown the goblins, despite the difference in the displays of aggression. She wasn¡¯t looking at me that way anymore. Not that same intensity of hate, anyway.


    Things went much more smoothly after Marcus got involved. He went aside to negotiate in private while Ayla and I were allowed to drink some much-needed water from a pail that one of Marcus¡¯s companions¡ªwho introduced himself as Lars¡ªbrought to us. Lars was shorter than Marcus, taller than me, and wide. He had a bald head that he covered with a bandana after soaking it in his own pail of water.


    ¡°Ye know the Cap¡¯n then?¡± Lars asked. His voice was high-pitched, a stark contrast with his tough exterior.


    ¡°Aeayhap,¡± I said, a combination of an affirmation and an exhale of relief at being able to taste something wet and cool.


    ¡°Soldiers?¡±


    ¡°Aye. Fourth Infantry, SB Spec Ops.¡± I hadn''t said my designation for so long that I tasted the dust of ashes and blood on my tongue. SB¡ªSoul Branded¡­ anyone who¡¯d served would know that.


    ¡°Then you and Marcus woulda¡¯ worked a shit ton together, right?¡±


    I wasn¡¯t particularly eager to tell war stories at the moment. Especially in front of Ayla. So I just asked: ¡°How about you?¡±


    Lars didn¡¯t seem bothered that I avoided the question. He nodded and pointed to himself. ¡°I was a gunner with 10th Mountain: Front Line Support Core.¡± Then he grinned a gap-toothed grin that reminded me for a moment of Gaptooth, that Reaver I¡¯d killed not long ago. ¡°But that¡¯s all behind us. We¡¯re respectable Adventurers now.¡±


    Basically, Marcus and his company were soldiers of fortune. They traveled the desert settlements doing odd jobs, running security, ruin diving for relics, and sometimes carting goods for merchants¡ªwhich was the job they were on right now.


    Ayla was eyeing my bandages. Was that concern in her eyes, or distaste for the stink of sunburnt blood?


    Not long after, Marcus returned from talking with Grak¡¯nar and clapped hands, wearing a smug grin. ¡°Got y¡¯all a bunch of great deals. You¡¯ll get ammo, food, water¡­ Anything you need. I¡¯m footing the bill. You just give me the beast core in exchange.¡±


    I gave him the core, noticing Ayla¡¯s narrowed eyes once more. It was likely she didn¡¯t like it, but was reluctant to say anything¡ªbesides, we were in a tough spot. It wasn¡¯t like we had a choice.


    Marcus turned back to me, still wiping his hands. "What the hell are you doing out here all alone?" His eyes flickered to Ayla for an instant, the unasked question¡ªand who is she¡ªhanging in the air.


    I shrugged, wincing at the pain in my arm. "On my way to Hope¡¯s End for a job. Gunsmith." I didn¡¯t explain Ayla¡¯s presence. I didn¡¯t know what to say. He would draw his own conclusions, but I wouldn¡¯t say that I meant to take her to an elf enclave. That ran the risk of bringing precisely the kind of trouble Ayla was concerned about. Besides, given that she hadn¡¯t agreed to anything, I wasn¡¯t exactly sure what I was going to do with her.


    Marcus laughed, the sound booming and carefree. "Pfft. You ain¡¯t made to be a gunsmith. Okay, okay, don¡¯t tell me. I bet it has something to do with that pretty elf girl, doesn¡¯t it?" His grin widened. He was pushing the subject, but I shook my head, ending the conversation.


    Marcus always did know how to read the room. "Fine, have it your way. What happened to your mounts? You don¡¯t intend to walk the Waste do you?¡±


    ¡°Mounts croaked about a week back. Been hoofing since.¡±


    ¡°Shit. Sucks for you, man. We¡¯re heading to Tempestt. You know...you and your elf ought to come with us. Safety in numbers and all that."


    Tempest¡ªthe first city east of the Waste. It was a fortuitous offer. It would be a long hike on our own and we needed to make it to the city anyway if we wanted to resupply.


    Traveling with Marcus was the obvious choice given our situation. Without mounts, crossing the Wastes alone was a death sentence.


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    I looked at Ayla, whose face was inscrutable. She hadn¡¯t agreed to anything specific yet, but I felt a growing responsibility to see her to an enclave, or as close to one as she¡¯d let me. There wasn¡¯t really a choice. Running into Marcus was fortuitous.


    I gave Marcus a slight nod.


    ¡°That¡¯s great news! Roadtrip! Heh. I haven¡¯t seen any of the old crew in years. Last one was Riley, but she¡¯s dead now.¡±


    I stiffened, the news hitting me like a fist to the gut. Not that I¡¯d made any efforts to reach out to anyone from then, but Riley had been one of my more outstanding mates. Not someone who took any pleasure in what they made us do. I braced myself for another blow. ¡°How did she go?¡±


    Marcus looked down and kicked dirt, the first time so far he¡¯d broken his smile. ¡°Put a blunderbuss to her chest and pulled the trigger. It¡­wasn¡¯t pretty. But that was something like eight years ago? Don¡¯t let it get you down.¡±


    I grimaced. There were more questions I wanted to ask, but I pushed them back¡ªto that black chest in the back of my mind where all the dark things waited.


    ¡°Hey!¡± Marcus said, bouncing back to his affable self. ¡°We got a lot of catching up to do on the road. So you better get yourself washed up and wounds tended. I already made arrangements.¡± He raised a hand and gestured to a little girl goblin in a white tunic and headwrap. She had pink foxglove embroidered along the sleeves and chest. It was the brightest color I¡¯d seen among the goblins so far.


    The goblin raised bowed politely. Her voice was higher pitched and smoother than other goblins I¡¯d heard before. ¡°Please, this way.¡±


    Foxglove¡ªas I decided to call her once I learned that she had yet to be given a proper name¡ªled Ayla and me to a bathhouse. It was a single-story structure with adobe walls and sloping wooden beams for a roof.


    She took us past the changing rooms and straight to a room with several wooden tubs, positioned with enough space around them and separated by linen curtains.


    There was, however, only one wooden tub that was full, whether the water was pumped or hauled with buckets was hard to say. In my estimation, there hadn''t been a lot of time to set this up since Marcus came to terms with the goblin leader, and I suspected magic was involved.


    ¡°This is your bath.¡± Foxglove said, gesturing to both Ayla and I, and then to the tub. ¡°Place your soiled clothes and boots on the table there outside the curtain. There are tunics available for you to wear until they have been washed.¡±


    Then the goblin just stood there. Watching.


    Ayla¡¯s neck and cheeks grew so red it overwhelmed her sunburned skin. ¡°Unthinkable.¡± Ayla growled. ¡°Do you think I am his slave?¡±


    The goblin shrugged. ¡°I just did as was agreed.¡± She continued to stand. There was an unmistakable crook in the corner of her mouth that advertised she was thoroughly enjoying the situation.


    Ayla gaped.


    I was about to suggest that we go outside and correct this misconception, when Ayla began arguing with the little goblin. It was a fast paced back and forth that was spoken in the goblin¡¯s native tongue.


    Never learned gobbo.


    I caught the occasional word I sort of recognized that I thought were a string of curse words from Ayla. The little goblin¡¯s grin kept widening, until at the end her smile faltered and she pouted.


    ¡°Agreed?¡± Ayla asked.


    ¡°Ya ya ya! You win Jeen¡ª¡± using the goblin word for elf¡ª ¡°By word and bond, it shall be so.¡±


    Then Foxglove stomped off.


    Ayla sighed and smoothed her filthy robes.


    ¡°What was that?¡± I asked.


    Instead of an answer, Ayla pulled me by my good arm toward the water. Then she began undoing the buttons of my vest. ¡°Hey, what are you¡ª ¡±


    ¡°Quiet.¡± Her words held almost as much animosity in them as the day when we first met. But I got the feeling it wasn¡¯t wholly directed at me.


    When she began working on my shirt, I opened my mouth to protest, she snapped at me. ¡°Jace!¡± I shut my mouth. She growled: ¡°Do not get the wrong idea. I will help you because otherwise you will struggle and reopen your wounds. So be quiet and allow me to navigate my distaste for what I am doing without adding your disgusting, annoying, hideous voice to the mix.¡±


    It¡¯s a funny thing. It¡¯s not easy to describe how Ayla seemed to me then. Vulnerable, angry, frustrated. But there were shadows that kept passing over her eyes as she helped me out of my clothes and out of the dirty bandages. I knew those shadows. So many times had I seen them in the mirror back in Valenheim. Ghosts of the past.


    How long had she cultivated her hate for humans? An entire race which I represented¡ªand now here she was, touching one, undressing them, tending to them.


    There was nothing I could do but grant her wish for silence. She bathed me. It was far from what could be considered gentle. But nothing she did injured me further.


    Of course, I took care of what I could with my right hand. And when I was done, she applied the healing grease and rebandaged my arm¡ªboth things the goblins had left for me. Then she put on my tunic. Then she met my eyes for the first time since she¡¯d started tending to me.


    Her sclera were red-veined, and I could see the tears starting to form.


    I never learned much about elven culture beyond what was necessary or taught to me by my superiors. But there was one thing I had seen enough times to understand. Something I first witnessed in the Sisters when I was a child, and I knew to be one of the oldest customs shared by all elves.


    I didn¡¯t say anything. Instead, I placed a hand to my heart, and bowed.


    When I raised my head, Ayla¡¯s back was to me.


    ¡°You may leave now, Jace. I have already bargained for fresh water for my turn. Make¡­no mistake. I only helped you because I felt filthy and could not wait until you finished floundering one-handed.¡±


    I smiled at that. Then I felt the faint chill of magic and the water from the wooden tub cleared in an instant, and steamed slightly. Fairy magic was something truly impossible for me to comprehend. The fresh scent of a field of flowers reached my nose¡ªthat hadn¡¯t been a part of my bath¡ªand I wondered if that was something Foxglove added of her own accord, or something Ayla insisted on.


    It was a bittersweet smell that made me oddly nostalgic. It conjured imagery in stark contrast with the desert. I had a suspicion it was a rogue idea of the mischievous goblin to send a message beyond my ken.


    ¡°Aye.¡± I said to Ayla. Then I put on the sandals that had been left near the doorframe, and exited the bathhouse, glad to leave that scent behind.

 Chapter Eight: A Promise of Death

    Chapter 8: A Promise of Death


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    I hold the rifle steady, my hands adjusting to the weight, the stock braced against my shoulder and cool against my cheek, where it rests firmly¡ªalways touching the same place, like drawing a bowstring to the corner of my lip. I smell the faint scent of gunpowder.


    I line up my sights¡ªfront and rear, and the target. I take a deep breath then release it, then halfway through the breath I squeeze the trigger.


    Click. I cycle the bolt, keeping my sight picture steady, but the dummy round jams. ¡°Damn it!¡±


    It¡¯s the third day of our journey traveling in the wagon with Marcus and his company.  We are camped inside the hollow of a mountain. Around us loom the ruins of the Inverted Spires, once the glorious city Altatorri, now mined dry of relics and abandoned.


    The sunset light casts dancing shadows on the upside-down buildings that hang from the ceiling like stalagmites and columns.


    It was a surprise to me when Jace offered to teach me to fire his rifle. His left arm would need at least a couple of weeks to recover, even with the healing grease he¡¯d received and the accelerated healing he boasted. Initially I refused, hating the idea of soiling my hands with a human weapon that had likely killed so many of my people.


    As if he¡¯d read my mind, Jace had said: ¡°I had this rifle custom made a few years back. Neither my gun nor my rifle has ever taken an elven life.¡±


    I stared at Jace for a long time. His eyes never wavered. Ultimately, what made up my mind was thinking about how my people¡¯s stubborn pride had been their folly. If we¡¯d learned to advance our technology, would things have ended up differently?


    ¡°Don¡¯t be hard on yourself. You¡¯re doing better.¡± Jace snaps me out of my thoughts. ¡°You have a good lean, your stance is solid, and your breathing¡­¡± He gives me a thumbs up. ¡°You rushed the cycle. Practice that and reloading for a bit. You remember how to use the stripper clip?¡±


    I nod, adjusting a loose fold in the head wrap Jace gave me to hide my ears. The others already know I am an elf, of course, but he does not think they need constant reminding. Also, when we reach Tempest, it will make things less complicated.


    Overall, Jace isn¡¯t a bad teacher. He reminds me of my bow instructor. Patient, and precise in his instruction, without being overly critical, and providing ample opportunities to make my own mistakes. Tharon. I have not thought of him in ages. I wonder if he''s even alive now. Probably not.


    ¡°Good.¡± He says. ¡°Practice the three positions: kneeling, standing, prone. Tomorrow we¡¯ll start you on live rounds.¡±


    He leaves me to practice on my own, then joins the others around the campfire. I take the prone position, then aim at one of the three empty amber bottles laid out for me on a rock. When it gets too dark to see clearly, I also take my place by the fire.


    Marcus is in the middle of telling a story. That¡¯s how it¡¯s been every night since we left the goblin trading outpost. Our days are slow going in the back of the wagon, along trails and paths that were never on Jace¡¯s map, but which Marcus ensures us are safer and easier going. It proves to be true. We don¡¯t run into any monsters on our way.


    ¡°¡­so smitten that he couldn¡¯t get his head on straight. I bet he thought of her at night when he was alone in his cot.¡± Marcus made a lewd gesture with his fist stroking up and down.


    Jace throws a rock at Marcus that the man deftly dodges. ¡°You know it¡¯s true, man. I don¡¯t even blame you. Sergeant Mira Stormweaver. Baddest bitch in the whole army, if you ask me¡ªand a fine piece of ass to boot.¡±


    ¡°So what happened?¡± Callum, the youngest member of the Adventuring team, is leaning forward on the edge of his rock.


    Callum is the one most eager for these stories and bugs Marcus every evening. Jace is always apprehensive, but he seems to relax around Marcus, so long as the stories stay light. Most of the stories so far have been about bar fights or recalling anecdotes of notable people whose names the others recognized but I¡¯d never heard of.


    ¡°What happened next?¡± Marcus dons a devilish grin. ¡°I decided to help Jace along in his romantic pursuits.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you.¡± Jace says, the corner of his mouth twisting into a crooked smile. ¡°This bastard wrote a love letter to her and signed it on my behalf. I got thrown into the brig for two weeks for attempting to fraternize with a superior officer.¡±


    The party breaks out laughing. Lars points at Jace and slaps his knee, laughing in his strange high pitch, harder than anyone.


    Marcus takes a swig of his wine bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then wags a finger at Jace. ¡°I did you a favor. That letter put you on her radar. Don¡¯t tell me she didn¡¯t wind up falling for you.¡±


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    It is meant to be a joke, but a grim shadow passes over Jace¡¯s face and the atmosphere suddenly changes. I know that face. I¡¯ve seen it in the mirror many times. It is the face of someone who lost something irreplaceable.


    No. I can¡¯t believe it. I am empathizing with a human. Memories of the indignancy of having to wash that same human, to soil my hands and betray the ghosts of all the fallen by helping a person who certainly killed many of mine.


    I try to hold on to that anger, to stoke its fires inside me. It¡¯s no use. The image comes to me unbidden, of Jace bowing to me in the Old Way to express his gratitude. My anger has no bite, and I don¡¯t know what to do.


    By all appearances, Jace acts like he trusts Marcus, and by extension the others, but I¡¯m sure that to some degree he is wary. Of what, I don¡¯t know. I am beginning to trust Jace, but I have no intention of extending that trust to the others.


    I¡¯ve felt their eyes on me when they think I am not paying attention. I know those eyes. Even among my kind, whose female population is so scarce, I have felt those eyes many times.


    Have I felt those eyes from Jace? My eyebrows scrunch up as I scour my memory. I have caught him looking at me, of course. I believe he wasn¡¯t lying when he said that night that he thinks I am beautiful. He only looks at me that way¡ªwhich makes me uncomfortable, but in a different way and for different reasons.


    He has never once looked at me with that kind of lust¨Cthe kind that cares for nothing and no one but self-gratification.


    ¡°You remember that ruby hilted dagger that she had?¡± Marcus says, and my ears perk up at the mention of a dagger. Now I¡¯m definitely interested in the conversation. ¡°You know, the sergeant was some kind of heiress or something. She had this relic. A dagger coated with a bunch of these refined mana crystals. Shiiit, I once saw her stave off a kill squad of darklings alone to cover our retreat. Baddest bitch in the army. Actually, come to think of it, I think that was the last time I saw you or her before we all got split up. Everything went to shit right after.¡±


    Marcus¡¯s words are slurring now as the wine takes effect; he¡¯s had more than a few swigs of that bottle. For once he isn¡¯t paying attention to Jace¡¯s darkening mood. There¡¯s an intensity about Jace that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The others are too involved in the war story to notice.


    Jace reminds me of a feral animal going deathly still the moment before clawing out its enemy¡¯s throat. He stands so suddenly that for a moment I think he means to do just that. Now everyone else notices him, and I think they feel it too. No one says a word when he turns his back to the fire and stalks off into the darkness.


    That night my dreams take me back to Verdanveil before we are driven out by the Reavers. It¡¯s as green as I remember, a literal oasis hidden in a dormant volcano. Fruit trees and crops intertwine seamlessly with towering trees, appearing ancient despite the fact they haven¡¯t been there ten years.


    The elven architecture, grown rather than built, blends with the landscape, each home nestled among the flora as if it had always been there.


    I pick a fig from a nearby tree and bite into it, the juices spilling down my chin. The sweetness turns bitter and metallic, and the taste of blood floods my mouth.


    Suddenly we are all in Danu¡¯s Glade. There, the priestess gathers us to announce that the Reavers are coming. That, once again, the remnants of so many fallen enclaves who have toiled and sweated to heal the soil and grow a new home, must choose between dying to defend what we can¡¯t, or flee with our broken pride.


    From the hole in the ceiling where we get our sunlight, I spot a figure.


    It is Jace at the tip of the spear, leading the band of Reavers falling from the sky like chotgor¡ªthose winged abominations created by fell elves.


    Jace lifts his ruby-encrusted dagger, and frothing at the mouth with hate, he screams: ¡°It is all your fault!¡± and casts a terrible high working.


    It is just as it was at the Shattering. The sky splits open and fire, hail, and lightning fall in a relentless storm that rends the land. The ground erupts. Magma flows through once beautiful rivers. And the enclave is no more.


    I awake before dawn, sweating.


    Jace is seated on a rock at the opening where miners caved in the side of the mountain to access the Inverted Spires. I climb up there and join him and find him studying his broken dagger, lost in thought. When he becomes aware of my presence, he wraps it in a cloth and tucks it behind his belt, then gives me a wry smile.


    The sight of the dagger reminds me of my dream and I find my anger and despair flare, and I know that Jace can see it. ¡°Ayla, are you alright?¡± Whatever was on his mind a moment before disappears and it is replaced with obvious concern for me, which only makes me angrier.


    ¡°I am perfectly fine, human.¡±


    He looks hurt. I haven¡¯t called him ¡°human¡± for some time. I don¡¯t care. I walk down the slope of the mountain, no direction in mind. I just need to move.


    When I get back to the wagon, the others have finished packing. Sapp¡ªthe black haired human missing one ear and several fingers¡ªis the first to see me. ¡°Oy! Marcus, Jace¡¯s elf is back!¡±


    Jace turns the corner from where he¡¯s been loading gear in the back of the wagon and looks relieved to see me.


    Marcus shoots me an irritated glare. ¡°Okay folks. We¡¯re out. We¡¯ll be splitting in two teams and taking turns legging it alongside the wagon to lighten the load. We need to cover a lot more ground if we¡¯re gonna stay ahead of the Reavers.¡±


    I feel a shock of vertigo. Reavers? My dream? No. My nightmare. Is it coming true? I instinctively back away from Jace as the image of his frothing face accusing me flashes in my mind.


    Jace approaches me, noticing my reaction, but not commenting on it. His voice is reassuring and calm, but has the flavor of a soldier issuing an order. ¡°You¡¯re taking the first shift in the wagon. It¡¯ll take the Reavers a few days before they catch up to us. Marcus spotted them on his spyglass after you left.¡±


    ¡°Are they¡­¡± I don¡¯t know how to ask the question. But Jace¡¯s ability to read my thoughts is uncanny.


    He leans in and whispers so the others don¡¯t hear. ¡°Aye. They¡¯re from the batch we faced before, likely the same ones who raided your enclave.¡±


    He speaks gently, and I¡¯m sure he says something else, but I¡¯m no longer listening. Fear, despair¡­then an unquenchable anger that no longer has no doubt as to where it needs to be directed.


    ¡°Jace. Promise me we¡¯ll kill them all.¡±


    He hands me his rifle. ¡°Aye.¡±

 Chapter Nine: The Death Waltz

    Chapter 9: The Death Waltz


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    It takes us three days before we finally stop to make our stand. The breakneck pace to keep ahead of the Reavers¡¯ tireless pursuit left us little time for rest.


    We reach the Valley of the Damned, the location Jace and the other humans determined is our best chance to lay an ambush. The valley is much narrower than I expected. A sandy gust of hot wind echoes through the valley, sounding almost like wind chimes. The remnants of an elevated train system lay scattered across the valley floor, with train cars and tracks jutting out at odd angles, and broken pillars half-buried in the rubble.


    I hoist my rifle and prepare to climb to the position Jace points out for me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry yourself, or your pretty red head,¡± Sapp says, revealing all the missing teeth on his right side. His job is something the others called essential, but which I¡¯m not sure I understand. For hours, he did nothing but walk up and down the sides of the valley, stare at pillars, and take notes on a small pad. Whatever he was looking for, it was he who picked the exact point of ambush. ¡°That there rifle is gon¡¯ be useless thanks to me. I¡¯ll kill all them sons a bitches single-handedly.¡±


    The human has an odd greasy smell I don¡¯t recognize. His melted right ear and missing fingers don¡¯t give me much confidence that he¡¯ll be doing anything useful, much less wiping out a legion of Reavers single handedly. But I hold my tongue.


    Jace also tries to calm my nerves. ¡°You¡¯ve gotten pretty good with that,¡± he says, pointing at the rifle. ¡°Remember to breathe, and hold your fire until the signal.¡±


    I climb the steep valley wall¡ªavoiding the sharp rusted metal that were once the rails of the train¡ªuntil I reach the ledge where a fallen pillar rests, the one I¡¯ll be using for cover.


    Jace says I¡¯ve gotten good with the rifle. I feel that emptying the box of bullets he gave me to practice was a waste. I only hit one out of every three bottles at two hundred meters. What dent can I make against the horde against us?


    Yesterday, when our vantage was higher than the enemy, Jace asked Bolton¡ªthe blonde human who wielded a rifle with a barrel nearly twice as long as mine¡ªto lend me his spyglass so I could see what we were up against. To prepare myself mentally, he said.


    The horde was between fifty and seventy members strong, with about half of them mounted on Striders. Though it was hard to believe, these numbers caused the humans to become relieved rather than more concerned. Even now, I am not sure what to make of that.


    I do not care. So long as I can kill their chieftain. He is the one who ordered the raid on my Verdanveil. He is the one who must die even if it kills me.


    Below, I watch Callum help Bolton remove a wagon wheel and lower the wagon gently on its side. Then Callum unhitches the Striders and leads them away, where he will secure them further up the valley along with the essential supplies to keep them safely away from the coming battle. Sapp, Marcus, and Lars play cards in the back of the wagon, carefree despite the impending danger.


    For a moment, my heart skips a beat when I cannot see Jace. Then I spot him practicing reloading one-handed while leaning against an upturned train car some six hundred meters away. He is so far from the rest of the ambush team, my worry does not wane.


    My need for vengeance against the Reaver chieftain burns like a brand, but so does my growing reliance on these humans. Can I trust them? Do I have a choice? The questions haunt the back of my mind like ghosts.


    I rest my head on the pillar beside me. Why did my heart do that just now? Am I worried on his behalf, or for my own? I shake the uncertainty away. No, the simple truth is that I need him. No matter how reliant I have become, it is for no other reason than because ours is a partnership of convenience, nothing more. And right now, he and the other humans are helping me accomplish my goal.


    Memories of Verdanveil are still fresh¡ªmy younger sister¡¯s smile, the serenity of our enclave¡­ all torn apart by the Reavers. I tell myself this isn¡¯t just about revenge. It¡¯s about justice for my people and for myself.


    Callum returns from securing the Striders and moves to the opposite side of the valley from Jace, blending into the twisted wreckage and jagged rocks


    Then there is waiting.


    Once upon a time, many, many years ago, I might have considered myself patient. My experiences over the last three decades have worn that part of me down to grit. I have never felt so impatient to spill blood.


    The first sign of the approaching Reaver horde is the noise. Voices, raw and guttural, bark orders or break into unsettling laughter. Ragged breathing and scraping howls fill the air. Armor clinks and scrapes. Feet drag and crunch.


    The second is the stench.


    Marcus and the others put away the cards. Sapp retreats in the direction of the Striders¡ªso much for killing the horde single-handedly. Lars retrieves a big gun with multiple barrels in a cylinder, which they call a ¡°repeater,¡± and takes his position inside one of the only intact train cars¡ªalbeit turned on its side¡ªbehind the wagon. Marcus stays seated on the back of the wagon, legs swinging and looking carefree as ever as he prepares to make contact with the enemy.


    It isn¡¯t long before the head of the horde rounds a jagged wall that juts out from the valley, narrowing the path ahead. As they move past this natural barrier, Marcus and the wagon come into sight, and the raucous, stinking horde falls eerily silent. For an instant, they all move in exactly the same jerking manner, as if controlled by a single mind. Then they become still.


    A squad of five Reavers, all of them on haggard-looking Striders, ride forward from the rest of the group. In the lead, a towering, muscular Reaver, less dead-looking than the others and wearing a burnished breastplate, stops several meters in front of Marcus and the staged broken wagon.


    The quiet of the valley allows the sound of their voices to carry.


    ¡°Well met!¡± Marcus jumps off the back of the wagon and takes a few easy steps toward the mounted men. He sounds as glib as ever, completely unconcerned. ¡°You¡¯ve gone and come timely.¡± He points behind him at the ¡°broken¡± wagon. As you can see, I¡¯ve wrecked my wagon. Any chance y¡¯all can spare a wheel? Maybe a Strider or two?¡±


    The words tickle Ayla¡¯s memory. The Reavers said something similar the day Jace rescued me.


    The leader grins wide, seemingly unswayed by Marcus¡¯s charm. ¡°Where is the gunslinger with the golden eyes; and the property which he stole from me?¡±


    I recognize his deep, smooth lilt, and my bile rises. Anger. Hate. This is the chieftain of the Reavers. I line my sights, aiming for the monster¡¯s center mass. It is all I can do not to squeeze the trigger. ¡°Wait for the signal¡±¡ªthat is what I have been asked to do. That is what will guarantee his death, along with the rest.


    Marcus feigns indignance, but there¡¯s an edge to his tone. Jace never told him the reason the Reavers targeted us, and now there is no doubt. ¡°No shit! That sonofabich and his elf bitch were yours? Pixie¡¯s tits. If I¡¯d only known. It¡¯s too bad they stole my Striders and took off as soon as our wagon went lame.¡±


    I don¡¯t know what the rest of the plan is. I don¡¯t know what is supposed to happen, or when the signal is meant to come. When the Reaver chieftain lays a hand on his belt, I notice that hanging from it¡ªwhat I thought were some kind of ugly pouches¡ªare a set of severed elven trophy heads. Among them, my sister¡¯s.


    I squeeze the trigger, and the Reaver¡¯s torso bursts into a spray of blood and metal shrapnel, knocking over two Reavers beside him.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± Marcus shouts, and does not hesitate to sprint backward toward cover.


    A moment after, I realize my mistake. A voice from within the horde of Reavers calls out ¡°Sniper! Top left! Find them and kill them!¡± It is the same deep, smooth lilt of the chieftain.


    I have only succeeded in killing a puppet, and ruined whatever Marcus plan had been.


    ¡°Sapp, now!¡± Marcus shouts as he dives for cover behind the wagon and a cacophony of gunfire erupts through the valley behind him.


    A cacophony which is suddenly drowned by the deafening and earth shattering explosion that follows Marcus¡¯s signal.


    I am thrown back by the force of the blast and hit the ground hard¡ªwhich continues to rumble like an earthquake. Dust and debris rain down on me as I stumble to my feet, my ears still ringing. When I look over the cover of my fallen pillar, I am greeted by a disorienting sight. The cliff wall that had served to create the choke point is gone. Rock and pieces of metal still roll down a newly created mound, under which¡­over a quarter of the horde has been crushed.


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    My mouth falls agape. I am reminded of Sapp¡¯s words bragging he¡¯d take them all out single handedly. It was less of a boast than I¡¯d thought.


    The scene below is pure chaos. The mounted units have been neutralized. Those that haven¡¯t bucked their riders and fled in every direction, stand frozen¡ªparalyzed with fear¡ªtheir riders kicking at their Strider to no avail.


    As my hearing begins to return, my mind becomes less addled. I realize that the battle is far from over. Bolton is taking out Reaver¡¯s left and right who have failed to find cover in time.


    I watch as Callum descends the fresh mountain of rubble now that it finished settling and weaves in and out between pillars, rails and train cars, eliminating Reavers¡ªhe wields a short barreled repeater that fires in short bursts. The Reavers die with a terrifying speed.


    I see Jace¡ªslower than Callum but no less deadly, alternate between firing his black revolver, and taking a killed enemy¡¯s weapon then emptying it on their fellows.


    Lars and Marcus lay down a hail of bullets with their big ¡®repeaters¡¯ from behind their positions.


    Then the initial surprise wears off, and the remaining enemies gain composure.


    Many of the red and black forms twitch in unison and begin to take cover and coordinate their counter attack.


    I can¡¯t remain paralyzed. It is embarrassing how long I have so far. Setting my sights on an exposed target, I squeeze the trigger and miss. The explosive round strikes close enough. Part of an arm and half the Reaver¡¯s neck become bloody ribbons.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Marcus¡¯s voice cuts through the mayhem and I reposition on the other side of the pillar to get a better view.


    I hesitate. Five Reavers surround Marcus¡¯s position. In another instant, they will swarm him and there is little that I can do in time. I need him alive!


    So I take aim, hoping my explosive rounds won¡¯t accidentally hit Marcus as well. Then I find myself hesitating again. The Reavers aren¡¯t moving, rather they¡¯re twitching in place. Marcus roars in a way that¡¯s half elation and half effort. Despite the distance, I can see his eyes shine bright purple.


    ¡°Dammit.¡± Marcus raises both hands like he¡¯s clawing at an invisible veil. The Reavers twitch wildly in response. ¡°If you won¡¯t surrender control fucker¡­ shoot yourselves in the face!¡± The five Reavers turn their weapons as one, and do precisely that.


    Lars resumes covering fire while Marcus climbs up the valley, weaving between broken rails jutting along the valley floor to find cover behind a large boulder.


    These humans are¡­terrifying. As I watch them fight, I realize they embody a resilience and adaptability that we elves never had. Suddenly, I understand better why my people failed to halt the Dominion¡¯s relentless advance. We are a straightforward people, bound to our traditions, ideologies, and sense of honor. Slow to evolve and change.


    And here are six humans before me. Against a vastly superior force, they aren¡¯t throwing away their lives in some ill-fated valiant last stand. Rather, they are winning.


    It is astounding.


    Crossing back to my position, I try to put aside all stray thoughts and resume my grisly work. I take out four more enemies, reloading three times when I¡¯ve exhausted my clips. Rather than improving, my accuracy seems to worsen as the battle wears on, and soon, I have exhausted the explosive rounds and must use the vastly inferior bullets procured at the goblin waystation.


    Part of the reason my aim is suffering has to do with the fact that bullets are being aimed in my direction more often now.


    Another reason is my growing frustration at having no idea which of the Reavers could be the chieftain.


    The leader of the horde must be found. Briefly, I consider the possibility that the chieftain isn¡¯t among this horde; but the humans were certain he was. The telling sign was a prevalence of the extremely coordinated and identical movements of the Reavers. It meant the chief had line of sight to control his pawns; chieftains¡¯ abilities to control their thralls improved dramatically the closer they were in proximity.


    From the look of it, the Reavers are steadily increasing their pressure on Jace and Callum, who aren¡¯t so swift in their hit and run tactics anymore, and rather spend more and more time repositioning rather than fighting.


    Lars and Marcus have moved up to box-in the remaining Reavers in the maze of debris and broken train cars. But even their rain of bullets are steadily decreasing in volume.


    Another thing that makes the fight increasingly difficult is that several Reavers have taken to attacking without regard to their own lives¡ªto my eyes, they are all possessed at the time.


    I try to take those out first if I can. Still, more Reavers seem to come into the battlefield from behind the mound created by the landslide. I am afraid their numbers are endless. How many have we killed? How many remain alive?


    Then something occurs to me and I curse myself for being a fool. From my vantage point, I have a spectacular overhead view of the entire battlefield, the exception being when friend or foe take cover on the western side of an obstacle.


    From the moment the Reavers started becoming more coordinated, they have been getting possessed more and more, and launching their attacks from my side.


    They keep exposing themselves to me for easy shooting. If only I had better aim from this distance, I may have killed twice as many.


    But what matters is why. I should have asked why. Because the chieftain and I are progressively sharing a more similar vantage.


    I turn to look behind me just in time to dodge a sword slash that draws sparks across the stone pillar where my head had been.


    The wielder darts backward and makes a tsking sound, flourishing a folded steel blade with a slight curve. Instantly, even before he speaks, I know he is the chieftain.


    The man before me wears a black cloak, and, despite the impracticality of doing so in the desert, he is otherwise bare chested. His skin is ivory pale and pristine; his platinum blonde hair is tied in a neat braid that hangs over one shoulder¡ªaccentuating his gorgeous facial features¡­and pointy long ears. The only indication that he is anything other than among the most beautiful elves ever to walk the earth, are his black eyes and sclera, which stare at me lifelessly.


    He is a darkling. And suddenly many of the things I¡¯d learned about Reavers over the years make sense. Darkling¡¯s powers are as varied as they are corrupt, but so many involve some form of necromancy.


    They are elves who turned to dark magic through bargaining with creatures beyond the veil known as the Fell. Even among my kind, little is widely known about the process, and even less about the Fell¡ªbesides their great power and great evil. I remember a time before the war when ¡°darkling¡± was just a word mothers used to scare the little ones. They were legends. Fables. Myths.


    Until they weren¡¯t.


    Desperation drives some to seek power anywhere they can find it. Except that, whatever the bargain a darkling made with the monsters beyond the veil, they inevitably became worse than the evil they meant to destroy.


    ¡°Nimble shee. Well done.¡± The darkling paced languidly. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d sensed my presence.¡± He pointed his sword at me. ¡°I see you¡¯ve a blade of your own. Care for a bit of dancing before you die?¡±


    ¡°Vile abomination.¡± I growl. My eyes don¡¯t leave the darkling¡¯s. My rifle is on the ground where I dropped it. I¡¯m not confident I can reach for it before he can strike me down, but it doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯m not interested in fighting him with a rifle.


    I unsheath the heavy black knife I got from Jace and twirl it once, reacquainting myself with its weight and balance.


    The darkling smiles. It is as beautiful as it is hideous. ¡°Don¡¯t fret, little acolyte of Danu. We¡¯ll have plenty of fun together, even as I play with your corpse to cleanse the stench of that false god from your flesh.¡±


    All elves learn to dance. It is a staple of our culture, one of the first things we are taught after learning to walk. Chief among these is the dance of blades. The relatively even terrain of the shelf we find ourselves in makes for the perfect stage.


    We move almost in tandem like partners at a ball: He steps forward. I step back. He pivots left. I cross right. Dodge, stab, slash. Block, parry, riposte. Duck, fleche, volte.


    It is a waltz of death¡ªa minuet punctuated by percussive gunfire and chiming blades.


    As sword dancers, perhaps we are evenly matched¡ªyet he has a much longer blade¡ªgiving him a significant advantage. When he goes on the offensive, he keeps me on the back foot until I can time a quickstep to create distance.


    Even now, the strain from the shield spell I cast for an entire night weeks ago still makes casting magic difficult. I have just enough to strengthen my bones, to push myself to move faster than I would otherwise, and perhaps, for one explosive burst of speed.


    ¡°Are you having fun yet, shee?¡± The darkling taunts. ¡°Should I wait for that irritating gunslinger hero of yours, or end your life post haste? What do you say?¡±


    I will not let him win. This I know, for this I have vowed. What I need to do is get under his guard and disarm him. Even if he goes for the gun tucked in his belt¡ªI caught a glimpse of it during one of his fanciful flourishes, of which there are many¡ªhe won¡¯t have time to use it before I kill him.


    ¡°You are a traitor to all elf kind. Even more vile than the filthy humans who brought war to our doorstep and burned down our lands.¡± My words come out in a snarl. ¡°Your kind corrupted the High King. Your kind caused the Shattering!¡±


    The darkling chuckles. ¡°I like you, shee. I¡¯ll bargain with you. If you renounce your false god, I shall make you kin.¡±


    I refuse to speak. Though I do not know if it is true, it is said that darklings use trickery to bind you to an agreement you never meant to make, and can take your soul just for speaking to them. Whether that is just another story to frighten children, I do not wish to find out.


    The darkling realizes I do not intend to indulge him in any more talk and smiles like he finds it amusing. Despite his smile, he feigns boredom. ¡°Fine. Be that way.¡± Then he lifts his blade high.


    I decide it is my moment. So far, I have been underselling the force of my strikes and my speed, occasionally telegraphing my attacks to undersell my skill. Without warning, I sprint forward exhausting what little mana I have in me to move with an explosive burst of speed.


    His eyes widen as I sacrifice a graze on my shoulder to move to get under his guard. He backs away trying to raise his blade between us, and I shout and bat away his sword with all my strength.


    His eyes widen at my sudden burst of speed, and for the first time since he appeared, he is not smiling. He bares pearly white teeth and sharpened canines and opens his mouth to speak. I feel the electric tang of magic gathering within him. Whatever he means to say, however he means to cast, I do not give him the chance.


    My strikes are quick, hard, and brutal. First, I target the wrist to disarm him. Then, I strike the throat to prevent any surprise incantations. Even as he falls backward, hand reaching for his savaged neck, I slide the blade between his ribs, aiming for his heart. It is easy to do, given that the darkling was generous enough to attack me shirtless.


    I lose count of how many times I stab and chop at the darkling. I don¡¯t know at what point he stops moving, nor do I notice the black blood that soaks me while I work.


    When the others finally find me, I am howling at the skies and under me is the darkling¡¯s corpse in so many pieces it is difficult to count them. Only his lightless eyes remain intact, still wide with disbelief.

 Chapter Ten: The Requiem

    Chapter 10: The Requiem


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    The abject silence after the battle was unnatural. Missing were the moans, the calls for medics, distant gunfire, and the rustling of people crawling along the ground, refusing to believe they¡¯re already dead.


    ¡°Shiiit. Jace, your elf is some kind of demon.¡± Marcus had said when he reached the ledge where Ayla slew the darkling. ¡°It¡¯s kinda hot.¡±


    I didn¡¯t feel like letting the mood lighten. Instead, I glared at him and made my way with Ayla down the slope.


    The moment their true leader died, the black magic keeping the band of Reavers unnaturally alive disappeared, and the remaining enemies collapsed like puppets with cut strings.


    The revelation that the Reaver chief was a darkling had been a surprise. I wondered if it was the same with all Reaver tribes. As far as anyone knew, Reaver chieftains were merely a more powerful Reaver. Except, now that I¡¯d seen it with my own eyes, there was no doubt in my mind that any dealings westerners had with chiefs were done using stand-ins. Why, then, had this darkling fixated on us? A petty sense of revenge? Was it only coincidence that he¡¯d targeted Ayla and challenged her to a duel? Unlikely.


    Ayla¡­


    The sight of her howling, bloody form played in my mind. I knew that rage, the height of adrenaline that immediately follows after a difficult kill. And I also knew the frustration that even after vengeance has been wrought, it means nothing to the dead.


    Afterward, she was deathly silent. If she heard the praise that rained upon her from the others, she didn¡¯t show any sign. Down the valley she went, and one by one she checked every corpse for any remains of her people, starting with the severed head I later learned belonged to her sister.


    So I joined her in the somber task, picking ears and bones from corpses like plucking morbid flowers.


    The others also looted, but didn¡¯t touch the trophies.


    We put the remains in a sack¡ªnot the ideal choice, but the only one we had. Ayla sat quietly in the back of the wagon clutching it, and waited for us to put the stinking valley behind us.


    There was no reason to stop before nightfall.


    Only then did we let ourselves celebrate victory. A good soldier knows not to declare victory and lower their guard immediately after a fight is done. Doing so too soon is as good as inviting fate to prove you wrong.


    Where we camped, there was ample dry, dead wood¡ªas well as many petrified trees. We were entering scrubland, the transition area between the end of the Waste and the beginning of forested lands. Tempest was only two sleeps and a wake-up away.


    We piled the wood high for our campfire, while Ayla made her own around two hundred meters away from us. She would need it to cremate the remains she carried, and I guessed she would rather do that without humans breathing down her neck.


    Even counting the accelerated pace we kept over the past few days, two barrels of water remained in reserve, which we were unlikely to need over the next three days.


    The men would each take several liters of extra water rations from one barrel to wash off the grime of battle. Ayla got the second barrel whole. Something Marcus said she¡¯d earned for taking care of the darkling for us. I was glad to see there were no objections.


    In an impressive show of strength, Lars bear-hugged the barrel and lifted it on his own. Then walked it behind a nearby thicket of petrified trees so she could get some privacy.


    Ayla still hadn¡¯t said much since we left the valley. Wordlessly, she took her tunic and towel, then went behind the thicket to wash.


    Around our towering campfire, we each took a bottle of mead or wine from the crate Marcus passed around¡ªhow Marcus had managed to keep so many glass bottles from breaking during our harsh travel, was still a mystery to me.


    Then someone set a pot to boil water, and we all started to clean our weapons while we drank¡ªsomething I could only accomplish awkwardly by gingerly using my still-healing left arm. It was oddly nostalgic and horrifying at the same time. I felt as if I¡¯d fallen back in time.


    ¡°I wish I coulda seen that fight with the darkling.¡± Callum shook his head then sighed. ¡°I bet it was epic. Aren¡¯t elves all like blade masters or something?¡±


    ¡°Some are.¡± Marcus said, snacking on a bag of trail mix¡ªthe same food that Ayla had been living off since the waystation. ¡°It depends on how old they are and whether they were raised in an enclave with a sword master to teach them. During the war, every goddam long-ear was.¡±


    Marcus got into his story the more questions Callum asked. ¡°Pixie¡¯s tits¡­ You couldn¡¯t let one get anywhere close to five meters. You were fucked if they did. Suddenly it¡¯s swords drawn and it feels like you can¡¯t hit ¡®em no matter how many bullets you pop off. Then it¡¯s off with your head or getting elf steel in your gut. I swear I watched one cut a bullet straight out of the air before I caught him in my thrall.¡±


    ¡°Hell of a story.¡± Bolton said, sounding more sarcastic than sincere. Marcus ignored him.


    ¡°How about you, Jace?¡± Callum asked, all eager-eyed and guileless. ¡°You ever fight against a sword master?¡±


    ¡°Callum.¡± Sapp stepped in, his gravelly voice carrying weight. Haven¡¯t you realized by now Jace don¡¯t like talking about his time in the military?¡±


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    I gave Sapp a grateful nod. He tipped his hat in reply.


    ¡°What¡ªreally?¡± Callum asked.


    Sapp rolled his eyes. ¡°Haven¡¯t you noticed how tense he gets even when you start all the war talk with Marcus. Even when you get into it with the boring shit Lars says since he¡¯s so fucking awful at telling stories and shit.¡±


    Lars looks up from inspecting his freshly oiled and reassembled repeater. ¡°Hey! That¡¯s not nice.¡± He put the weapon down and stomped to the nearby water barrel with a pail so he could start washing himself. ¡°You¡¯re a jerk, Sapp.¡±


    ¡°And proud.¡± He said, taking the compliment.


    Bolton snorted in amusement.


    ¡°Shut up, all of you.¡± Marcus waves his hands dramatically. He took a swig, finishing the bottle, then grabbed a fresh one from the crate. ¡°Kid, I can answer on Jace¡¯s behalf.¡±


    Marcus looked in my direction, less checking for permission, more assessing the risk of resistance. Given the context, I wouldn¡¯t interfere, but that didn¡¯t mean I had any intention of contributing to the conversation.


    When Marcus was satisfied it was safe to go on, he grinned at Callum, raising two fingers. ¡°Twice. You know how I know? Because both times I was the one there to save his ass from getting skewered.¡±


    It was true. I remembered them clearly. Marcus¡¯s power to enthrall and control people with just his voice was terrifying.


    It was also incredibly useful, though it had three harsh restrictions. First, there was a limit to how many people he could enthrall at once. Second, if the target was already enthralled, he needed to win a mental tug of war¡ªas had happened during the fight with the darkling chieftain. But the third was the harshest of them all. He could only enthrall someone once. Ever.


    Once he surrendered or lost control over his target, he could never take over their mind again.


    I sat there watching Marcus as he became increasingly sauced and wild with his mix of truths and fabrications that made him out to be the hero who single handedly won every battle. Left to it, he might even claim to have won the war on his own.


    Except that no one won the war.


    Suddenly the stories bothered me less than Callum¡¯s giddiness.


    ¡°The problem¡­¡± My voice came out more like an animal¡¯s growl than words. Despite making no effort to raise my voice, it cut through Marcus''s grand gesture mid-sentence, freezing him in place. Callum looked at me with an expression half excited at the prospect of my having anything to say about war, and half apprehensive under the intensity of my glare. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. Then started again.


    ¡°The problem with romanticizing war is that you ignore the fundamental truth of it. War only happens when someone with power or money¡ªusually both¡ªdetermines there¡¯s something to profit from it. No matter what you¡¯ve been told, there are no victors in war. Only survivors and profiteers.¡±


    I wanted to tell him how the Dominion lied to us. Gave us fake news and altered facts to sway our national pride as we marched into lush elven lands and claimed them for our country only to raze the forest and their homes to build factories, hot springs, condominiums. The Dominion then taught¡ªa euphemism for indoctrination¡ªchildren that they were pacifying and civilizing the savage elves for their own good; that their resistance was ungrateful and evil.


    I wanted to tell him how the pressure that the Dominion put on the elves made their leader snap and bring increasingly dangerous magics to bear against human lands. Which only made Emperor Macht push the technomancers to create more powerful means to counter them. Then the elves responded in kind. The threat of mutually assured destruction mattered little in the end. Who pushed the button first that blew up the world didn¡¯t matter. The world was Shattered.


    The fire crackled and popped. Then the logs rearranged themselves as the ones beneath crumbled.


    In the end, I didn¡¯t say anything. What good would it do to make humans out to be evil? There were plenty of people who tried to push back against the government, to make them see the path we were on was folly. Just like there were elves who¡¯d done horrible things to innocent people in the pursuit of vengeance. What happened happened. Maybe everyone tells their own story in the end and the truth is just the kind of thing that rots in a grave.


    ¡°Fuck, man.¡± Marcus chucked a bottle into the fire where it shattered, and the dregs of alcohol flared briefly. ¡°Way to kill the mood.¡± Then he picked up his third bottle and chugged quietly.


    I sighed and let my head fall back. The stars were brilliant and beautiful, the colorful, glaring eye of the rift just as judgmental as ever.


    Bolton added dried meat, vegetables, and barley to the boiling water to make soup while we all sat in relative silence for a while¡ªI really had ruined the mood. But then we all had something else to rally our attention behind.


    From the darkness, a flower of light bloomed then rose like a miniature blazing whirlwind. I smelled the faint scent of magic, but I wasn¡¯t alarmed. Ayla had lit the funeral pyre. Silhouetted by the light of its fire, she began a dance for the dead.


    Her movements were slow and deliberate, her arms moving through the fluid motions like a martial artist performing their kata.


    The flames seemed to bend and twist along with her, bowing to her sinewy form. Then Ayla began to sing.


    I couldn¡¯t make out the words clearly, except to know they were in elvish. But the meaning was clear. It was a song of lament. Sorrowful, mournful. At once the most beautiful and terrible sound I¡¯d ever heard in all my life.


    It was a dirge as much for herself as the dead she burned in that pyre. She seemed to have known one of them personally, and, by the severed head¡¯s hair color, I guessed it had been a close relative. My heart went out to her, inexorably drawn in by the requiem.


    Ayla¡¯s song felt like regret. Like longing for another, better time. It was the sorrow of an entire nation. It was the loneliness of a single woman.


    The fire continued to sway with the melody and dance, growing taller and taller until it was like a coiling serpent, ready to spring into the sky.


    Then the light and the song faded into smoke as the melody came to a close. In afterimages, I thought I saw wispy spirits rising upward, and I wondered if they too would join the wraiths haunting the night sky.


    ¡°That elf of yours is hot as hell man.¡± Marcus wrapped an arm around my shoulder. His breath was heavy with the stink of alcohol. ¡°How¡¯d you get her anyways? There¡¯s got to be a wicked story there. How is she in the sack? That kinda tale won¡¯t piss you off in the telling will it?¡±


    I grimaced. There were some mutters of encouragement and approval from the others, then I realized that not just Marcus, but all the men had got up and stood in a line next to me to watch Ayla¡¯s mournful ritual. I didn¡¯t even remember getting up, so enchanted had I been by the song.


    ¡°I¡¯d rather not, Marcus.¡± I shrugged off his arm. ¡°You should rinse your mouth. Your breath reeks.¡±


    ¡°Bro, when did you get so boring?¡±


    I clutched my hand to my chest. My heart was so heavy. I wished I could sear the sight and sound of Ayla singing that song into my memory. It had pulled from the black place in my mind all the dark things I didn¡¯t want to remember and gave them a voice. A sweet, melancholy voice that stirred my soul in a way I hadn¡¯t felt since¡­


    ¡°I¡¯ve got to walk.¡± Without listening to whatever Marcus or the others said, I sauntered off into the darkness beyond the firelight. Maybe there, away from distractions, I could parse my feelings. In the darkness, maybe I could hold on to the memory of her song just a little longer.

 Chapter Eleven: The Brutality of Man

    Chapter 11: The Brutality of Man


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    When I finish the Amhr¨¢n an Bh¨¢is, my eyes have run out of tears. I release my meager magic that keeps the fire blazing unnaturally high and hot, then watch it go out. Then there is only the comforting blanket of darkness, the stars, and the rift, judging me from above.


    I walk a while through the darkness¡ªmy eyes drinking just enough light to keep my footing¡ªand my mind begins to wander. When the thoughts brush against memories of family and home, I wince, and turn to prayer. I ask Danu, as I have so many times, ¡°Why must we suffer? Why must the world be so broken and full of death and pain?¡±


    God does not answer. For years, I have relied on my sister, and the others of the faithful to provide answers, and that was enough. But now there is only me, and I am alone. My sister would probably say something like: ¡°You are never alone, Ayla.¡± But that isn¡¯t true. I am.


    Even so, I will not abandon the quest for the God Tree. If she will not answer when I pray, she will do so when we stand face to face.


    The temperature is already starting to drop enough that I crave the warmth of the fire. So I head toward the campfire, where I find the humans gathered around it drinking. Yet Jace is not with them.


    My eyes scan the camp, then turn to the humans when one calls out to me. ¡°Oy! Elf girl.¡± It¡¯s Sapp. He¡¯s drunk. They¡¯re all drunk. ¡°Why don¡¯t you come and sit by us.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a splendid idea!¡± Marcus agrees. ¡°It¡¯ll give us something pretty to look at. Mmm¡­ I really like that tunic. Really shows off the legs.¡±


    My lip curls up with disgust. I watch the humans, their eyes glazed and movements sloppy as they drain their bottles. Each slurred word and crude gesture makes my skin crawl. They think their drunkenness excuses their behavior, but to me, it only reveals their true, repulsive nature.


    ¡°Where is Jace, humans?¡± I say, trying to keep both my distaste and concern from coming through. ¡°I do not see him.¡±


    Marcus waves ambiguously in the direction of the dark. ¡°He went for a walk. I think your song put him in a mood. C¡¯mon. Join us.¡±


    So they had all heard my mourning song. It is no surprise, I suppose. It was impractical to build the pyre anywhere further from camp, and they were always bound to see.


    But, what could Jace be doing alone? His eyes are not as sharp as mine in darkness. What kind of mood had my song put him in that he felt the need to wander by himself?


    I try putting it out of my mind. I try putting everything out of my mind.


    ¡°Hey, hey. Where are you going?¡± Bolton called out as I gave my back to them. ¡°We¡¯re talking ain¡¯t we?¡± A couple of the humans laugh.


    One of the drawbacks of camping out in the open like this is that, as opposed to a more enclosed space, heat disperses more easily. Consequently, everything is set up close to the fire. There is nowhere really that I can go to get away, unless I choose to sleep in the dark. After that one night with Jace, freezing and without a fire, I know it is impractical.


    I feel their eyes on me as I pet one of the new L¨®ke¡ªthe humans had rounded up three of the unharmed Reaver mounts after the battle¡ªand try to ignore the men¡¯s whistling cat calls. There are three new L¨®ke in all. They are still in bad shape and skittish, scales pale, and old wounds half-healed. The Reavers rode them too hard. We gave them feed and water. I think they will survive. ¡°There, there. Shhh¡­¡±


    ¡°Hey, elf girl!¡± Marcus¡¯s voice cuts through my consciousness like a hot knife, and suddenly my body is no longer mine to control. ¡°I said you should sit with us. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s rude to ignore us like that?¡±


    It takes me a second to comprehend why my body turns on its own and begins to walk toward the spot Marcus is tapping next to him on the petrified log where he sits. Then I see his shining purple eyes and I recall the way they shone when he commanded the Reavers to shoot themselves in the head.


    No. This can¡¯t be happening! My heart races in my chest as I try to resist. But my body won¡¯t obey me. To my horror. I sit next to Marcus. So close that I can smell his rancid breath. He puts a hand on my bare leg, then sniffs my hair.


    ¡°Tha¡¯s a good girl. Much better.¡± Marcus says. Bolton and Sapp chuckle.


    ¡°You¡¯re an ass, Marcus.¡± Lars says, though his tone is one of amusement without any real reproach.


    ¡°You sure Jace won¡¯t get mad, boss?¡± Callum sounds more timid, but about Jace¡¯s reaction¡ªnothing to do with the wrongness of Marcus¡¯s action.


    My hate for humans, that I hadn¡¯t realized had started to abate ever so slightly since traveling with this company, flares with a renewed intensity.


    None of them see anything wrong in this.


    It hasn¡¯t been lost on me that the humans never once called me by my name. That they all refer to me as ¡°Jace¡¯s elf.¡± It is clear that I am not even a person to them. I am property. My name, my identity¡ªthese mean nothing to them.


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    Where is Jace? Will he stand by this? I hope not. I pray not. I beg Danu that he will be the man he has been for as long as I have known him. But I can¡¯t help but fear that this is all planned. Perhaps I have been right about him all along. He has merely been waiting for his opportunity to use me and sell me; and like these humans, he was always merely biding his time. This fear is exacerbated by Marcus¡¯s next words.


    ¡°Nah, Jace is my boy. He can take a turn when he gets back. It ain¡¯t fair for him to keep her all to himself, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    Somehow, that relaxes Callum.


    Marcus slides a hand under my tunic and up my thigh, then brushes hair away from my neck and licks my skin. ¡°Tastes good.¡±


    ¡°You think the rest of her tastes good, boss?¡± Lars asks, his high pitch full of eager anticipation.


    Inside my mind, I am squirming, screaming, calling out for help, or cursing the vile humans and promising bloody murder. But not a muscle twitches. I feel tears roll down my cheeks.


    ¡°Woah.¡± Callum says. ¡°She¡¯s crying. I thought you said you had her charmed. Is she aware of all this?¡±


    From the darkness, Jace steps in from beyond the darkness, and into the firelight. My heart leaps. Even through my mistrust, I can¡¯t help the way I hope.


    But the hope is dashed, and I feel something in me snap and fall into despair.


    Jace walks without any urgency, and sounding as if what he is witnessing is both normal and something not worthy of concern. Even so, everyone tenses when they hear his voice. ¡°Didn¡¯t you know, Cal, Marcus can¡¯t control the awareness of his thrall. He can wipe their memory after.¡±


    Marcus gets up from the log and jogs over to greet Jace. I notice the pistol tucked behind his pants, and the slightly more sobered way he sounds when headdresses him. Maybe he isn¡¯t as certain Jace will approve as he thinks? The disgusting human wraps an arm over his shoulders and walks him to the fire.


    ¡°We almost got started without you, fucker.¡±


    ¡°What makes you think you have the right to just take what¡¯s mine?¡±


    I don¡¯t like the way Jace phrases that, but once again my hopes rise only to fall. My heart might burst from my swinging emotions.


    Marcus laughs like Jace¡¯s words are nothing but a joke. ¡°Don¡¯t be a spoilsport, Jace. Fun¡¯s meant to be shared. Besides, you owe me. Those Reavers were after you for snatching their elf, and it¡¯s only fair you share the spoils.¡± He lets go of Jace and points both thumbs at himself. ¡°And I¡¯m taking the first go. You can have sloppy seconds tonight.¡±


    ¡°And if I say no?¡±


    I notice the others deflate slightly, disappointed they might not be getting their fun tonight.


    Marcus isn¡¯t dissuaded. ¡°Bruh, that ain¡¯t an option. My boys and I gotta get paid. We transported you a quarter of the way through the Waste¡ªand we saved y¡¯all¡¯s lives in the valley.¡±


    Jace stands there, eyes narrowing as he studies Marcus.


    Marcus lets his hands fall to his sides, and I know he is a viper, ready to lash out at the first sign of aggression. ¡°You can join us, or not. But I shouldn¡¯t have to remind you that I¡¯ve never used my Charm on you. I could make you sit over there and miss out, then wipe your memory until morning. Or¡­you can join us in running this train and we can have the time of our lives just like the old days. What do you say?¡± His eyes flash purple for an instant to punctuate his point.


    Jace¡¯s movements are deliberately slow when he moves his shooting hand to adjust his hat. ¡°Alright, Marcus.¡± He gives a reassuring chuckle. ¡°You win. Fuck. You think I¡¯ll let you have all the fun?¡±


    Marcus punches Jace affably in the arm. ¡°That¡¯s my boy. Pixie¡¯s tits. That¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about.¡± He dry-washes his hands and asks Jace to tell him what¡¯s the best way to take me. I¡¯m starting to become numb and try holding my breath to pass out. My last hope has been dashed, and I am helpless.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never had an elf before.¡± I hear Callum whispering, he adjusts his crotch as it becomes uncomfortable for him just sitting still.


    Sapp leans forward on his log, and just as eager as the others, he tells Callum just how many times he¡¯s raped elves before. ¡°The thing about elves is they¡¯re sweet and supple, but still firm. They also have really appealing voices during.¡±


    More tears flow unbidden down my eyes. I can¡¯t even control their flow to deny the humans the sick pleasure of my despair.


    Then I get a chill up my spine and my hairs stand on end. I can see Marcus, back turned to Jace as he starts to walk around the fire my way. He suddenly stands deathly still, his eyes wide.


    And then I see Jace¡¯s eyes.


    They are burnished molten gold. The air around him ripples with an ominous aura of thick, condensed magic that spreads out of him. When it reaches me, I know with certainty that I will die, an incidental victim of an indiscriminate wrath that hungers to end all life.


    Marcus begins to turn, hand reaching behind for his weapon, eyes flashing purple as he opens his mouth to shout. But the barrel of Jace¡¯s black gun is already flush under his chin, his body having moved with such speed, my eyes could not follow. Boom.


    There was no hesitation. The moment the barrel made contact, the gun went off, and so did the top of Marcus¡¯s skull, brain matter popping off like a party streamer.


    The other humans around me jump with surprise. Bolton growls and reaches for the rifle by his side. ¡°What the f¡ª¡± He never finishes his sentence as the side of his head explodes in a shower of gore.


    Callum hesitates, then reaches for the sling behind him where his guns are sheathed, but takes a round in the belly and gets knocked on his back.


    Lars went next. Another shot to the head. Then Sapp, after witnessing his fellows drop one after the other so quickly, doesn¡¯t bother reaching for a weapon, and instead opts for begging. ¡°Mercy. I surrend¡ª¡± Then the back of his head explodes following another thunderous boom.


    It all happens so fast, I don¡¯t even have time to realize that the paralysis my body felt is gone. Even so, I am standing, my faculties addled as I try backing away involuntarily from Jace¡¯s terrifying visage. Somehow, I trip over one of the petrified logs and manage to trip and fall next to Callum.


    He is gurgling weakly, clutching at his stomach as dark blood pools under him. He turns his head to me, tears streaming down his face. ¡°Please. I¡¯m¡­sorry.¡± He sputters blood, then says: ¡°I don¡¯t want to die.¡±


    I crawl away when Jace approaches, until I reach the edge of the darkness, watching in a combination of insensible horror and vindication.


    Jace towers over Callum¡¯s dying body as the young human continues to beg for his life. Jace¡¯s face twists with rage and frustration, showing the first emotions I¡¯ve seen since the shooting began.


    ¡°Fuck!¡± he shouts.


    Then Jace shoots Callum in the head.

 Chapter Twelve: A Knightly Oath

    Chapter 12: A Knightly Oath


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Ayla backed away when I walked toward her, and I could see the fear in her eyes as she retreated into the dark.


    I tried to breathe, to calm myself. My adrenaline still surged from what I¡¯d just done. All the emotions I always put aside until the job was finished, came at me all at once.


    I realized I was scowling at Ayla, angry that because of her, I had to kill my friend, and people who had offered me hospitality and aid. They were my comrades, people who I¡¯d fought alongside and trusted to have my back. And they had trusted I had theirs.


    Ayla must have sensed that rage. As soon as I became aware of it, I let it go. It wasn¡¯t her fault. It was theirs.


    ¡°Ayla. I¡¯m sorry.¡± I holstered my weapon, eager to get my hand away from the grip, slick with blood. Then I wiped it on my pant leg. ¡°You have nothing to fear from me.¡±


    ¡°You killed them.¡± Ayla¡¯s voice trembled. I could see her dark blue eyes reflected by the campfire. They were wet. Her voice was frail, soft, vulnerable in a way I¡¯d never heard before. ¡°You killed them without a second thought. Your own people.¡±


    ¡°They were going to hurt you. Whatever our history, I couldn¡¯t let that happen. Marcus would have enthralled me if I hesitated.¡± I tried to make my voice gentle, despite my feelings.


    I had many memories of fighting alongside Marcus. He was older, always making sure to take care of me like an older brother. We¡¯d saved each other¡¯s lives many times. But I don¡¯t remember him being the kind of man who would use his power to take advantage of others. Had he always been that way, and had I just been blind to it? Or had he changed drastically since the time after the war?


    I let out a weary sigh. It didn¡¯t matter anymore.


    ¡°Come out of the dark. We need to get cleaned up and deal with the bodies before something comes looking for an easy meal and decides we look good too.¡± It was a weak attempt at levity.


    Ayla didn¡¯t stir right away, but she eventually did after I struggled to move the bodies with just one hand. Together, we made a makeshift sled with a piece of tarp and dragged the corpses one by one, two hundred meters downwind, guided by Ayla¡¯s superior night vision.


    To say we were exhausted when it was done would be a gross understatement. The exertion made it so I couldn¡¯t even feel the cold, but I knew that wouldn¡¯t last. After adding more wood to the fire, I collapsed on my bedroll and pulled a blanket over me. I wanted to be done with this night, and find the oblivion of sleep.


    I was surprised when Ayla dragged her bedroll beside mine and, grabbing my shirt, pressed herself against me, burying her head into my chest. Then she wept. ¡°You killed them because of me. They were your friends.¡±


    Not knowing what else to do, I hesitantly wrapped my arm around her. ¡°Not my friends. Not anymore.¡± I could hear my choked voice, and I knew she could hear it too. It hurt more than I wanted it to. And now that the adrenaline was gone, and the business of moving bodies was done, it all came flooding into me. With great difficulty, I pushed it all back into the black box in my mind.


    Why was the world the way it was? Why did I keep getting dragged into situations where I had to kill? Would violence follow me for the rest of my life? Why were so many people quick to evil when they thought there wouldn¡¯t be consequences¡ªor when the consequences might be skirted through trickery or violence?


    In Valenheim, there was a writer, I think his name was Fyodor. He said, ¡°If there is no God, then everything is permitted.¡± I do not believe in God. Why, then, am I the way I am? How is it that I could believe in dignity and common decency while so many acted as if those things didn¡¯t even exist at all?


    With those thoughts ringing in my head like somber funeral bells, I employed an old breathing technique Mira once taught me to summon sleep. It wasn¡¯t until Ayla¡¯s breathing slowed and I knew she had fallen asleep that finally, oblivion took me.


    I awoke at dawn to the smell of cooking meat. Ayla squatted by two pots set by the rebuilt fire, stirring them with a wooden spoon.


    My muscles were stiff from last night¡¯s grim workout. I got up and stretched. My arm was starting to feel much better. I could already stretch it out and flex it so long as I did so slowly, and my fingers were more nimble. My accelerated healing, thanks to the Soul Brand, was doing its job.


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    I squatted down next to Ayla. ¡°You alright?¡±


    Ayla looked at me evenly, nodding slightly. Gone was the vulnerable woman from last night. She was all rough edges again, but without the hate that had once accompanied everything she said and did. ¡°That one¡¯s yours.¡± She pointed at the right pot. ¡°I¡¯d like to move on as soon as we can. I¡­don¡¯t want to stay here any longer than needed.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s fine. Neither do I.¡±


    She ate hot gruel seasoned with cinnamon, not much different from what she¡¯d eaten every day. While mine was reheated stew from last night. I hadn¡¯t eaten last night. My hunger made it easier to forget the man who made the stew.


    We packed everything worth taking into the back of the wagon. The weapons would be particularly valuable. They¡¯d fetch a pretty penny once we got to Tempest.


    We tied two of the three extra Striders¡ªall of which Ayla had already fed and watered¡ªon either side of the wagon, and secured the last one behind.


    Then we both climbed on to the buckboard. I took the reins, and we were off. The site of the bloody massacre I¡¯d wrought left behind.


    Ayla was different around me. If we hadn¡¯t been traveling for weeks, I might not have noticed the difference, but I had. The constant tension in her shoulders was gone, her eyes when she looked at me no longer contained the ever present shadow of mistrust.


    It wasn¡¯t long before she opened up and asked me something that weighed heavy on her mind.


    ¡°Jace, what are you planning to do with me?¡±


    I smiled. She had asked me this question many times, but this was the first time she was ready to hear my answer and believe me. ¡°Nothing. I¡¯ll take you to an enclave, or find a party of elves as soon as we get out of the Waste.¡±


    I could feel Ayla¡¯s gathering intensity until at last she asked: ¡°Do you swear you have no ill intentions toward me or my people?¡±


    ¡°Aye, I swear. So have I said, may it be so.¡±


    Ayla shook her head. ¡°I do not have any gift that will bind you to your words. But I am pleased to hear you say it.¡± She took a deep breath to calm herself, then let it out slowly and gazed into mine with her unfathomable blue eyes. ¡°I¡¯d like to trust you.¡± She surprised me greatly with her forcefulness. ¡°I do not understand why you chose my dignity over your comrades¡¯ lives, when doing so must have been difficult. Even so, you have been more reliable than some of my own kind at times, and I will no longer question your motives.¡±


    ¡°It was no more difficult than doing the right thing ever is. At any rate, thank you kindly, princess.¡±


    Ayla glared at me, her cheeks turning red. ¡°Just because I have said I trust you, does not give you permission to call me a princess. I am no such thing.¡±


    I grinned. ¡°I beg to differ. If I am the knight who rescued you. You are the maiden. That makes me the hero and you the princess.¡±


    Ayla scoffed and barked a laugh. ¡°I have lived over a century. I hope you do not truly believe I am a maiden.¡±


    I scowled, trying to drive away the warmth crawling up my neck as my mind went places. ¡°That isn¡¯t the point of the¡­ You know what? Never mind.¡±


    During the final two days of our journey out of the Waste, we talked about many things. Ayla told me of Tyrna, and the many enclaves she¡¯d lived in since the war, last of which was Verdanveil. She told me of her sister, of her role as a devotee of Danu, and her desire to reach the Great God Tree of Danu.


    ¡°The priestess of Verdanveil told us there are still God Trees  beyond the Waste. I seek the Godtrail, so that I may petition Danu directly.¡±


    ¡°You think you can literally talk to your goddess at this God Tree?¡± I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but it was no use.


    She frowned at me. ¡°I don¡¯t expect a faithless person to understand.¡± Ayla meant it, but once again, I was surprised by the lack of bite to her words.


    ¡°So where is this enclave?¡± I asked. ¡°East isn¡¯t exactly very specific.¡±


    Ayla shifted in her seat. ¡°I do not know.¡±


    ¡°Well that¡¯s helpful.¡± I rubbed the back of my neck. ¡°I propose that when we reach Tempest, we¡¯ll try to gather information. Mayhap someone could point us to any nearby elf activity.


    ¡°You¡¯ll need to keep your headwrap on tight, and wear it low to conceal your ears. You can keep my cloak as well. As far as anyone knows, you¡¯re just another Valenheim exile trying to make a life out east. If anyone asks, just tell them you don¡¯t like talking about your past. That won¡¯t be a strange answer out here. Anyone who presses, just stare at them until they give up.¡±


    Ayla¡¯s eyebrow arched. ¡°Does that really work?¡±


    ¡°Like a charm.¡±


    The kilometers melted away. Slowly, we climbed higher, the terrain becoming greener, trickling streams becoming more frequent. The road became more distinct, and we began to pass small settlements and farming communities. Any people outside watched us warily as we passed.


    Then there were other wagons and travelers coming from the north and south, joining alongside us. Some were friendly folk who called out to us and waved, asking for news from out west when I told them where we came from. Many were surprised that we¡¯d taken the route through the Valley of Death.


    As dusk began to descend, we saw the city in the distance, its many lights like a twinkling storm nestled in the heart of the basin. Tempest rose on the horizon, a patchwork of repurposed materials slowly giving way to fresh stonework, evidenced by the construction along its edges. The shadow of death was behind us. We had no way of knowing what challenges lay ahead.

 Chapter Thirteen: Tempest

    Chapter 13: Tempest


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    I become more anxious as we approach the human city. I have avoided them all my life, and now I am entering one disguised as a human. It almost makes me want to vomit¡ªor so I¡¯d like to say, but the truth is, there is no room for disgust or hatred, only fear. Fear of being discovered and made a prisoner again.


    When did I become a coward?


    I find myself pressing closer to Jace without meaning to, then force myself to slide away again. If Jace notices, he gives no sign. His presence has become reassuring, but I do not want to let him think I am a fawning little girl. I trust him¡ªit is difficult not to after everything he has done¡ªbut it is still embarrassing.


    Wagons of different sizes and construction pull up alongside us as we approach the city, their drivers offering friendly greetings and ¡°How do you do¡¯s.¡± The leading wagon in one of the caravans pulls up next to us.


    ¡°Howdy!¡± A balding man with round cheeks and a bushy orange mustache calls out from my side. ¡°Are y¡¯all traveling from the Westlands?¡± I have no way to answer, as this is not one of the questions Jace and I rehearsed. I almost level my rifle at him before Jace places a gentle hand on my arm to stop me.


    ¡°Well met, traveler. Aye, we come from Valenheim.¡± Jace sounds friendly, and his eyes flicker to mine. I cannot tell if he is trying to reassure me or if he looks amused at my reaction. I don¡¯t understand him. How can he be so friendly to strangers?


    ¡°Any news?¡± the man asks. ¡°Are the politicians still spouting that nonsense about Manifest Destiny?¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡± Jace¡¯s tone turns grim. ¡°But war¡¯s still fresh in people¡¯s minds. It¡¯ll be many years yet before everyone gets behind the cause.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope they never do,¡± the man says.


    Suddenly a wiry girl with short, bright orange hair climbs over the mustached man, stepping on him and causing him to groan loudly in complaint. The girl leans so far over the side of their cart I think she means to leap onto our wagon. ¡°Hey, are you all adventurers? Are you any good? Why do you have so many Striders?¡±


    The mustached man grabs her by the belt and pulls her back into their cart. ¡°Do your business in the city, Renn. Quit harassing random people.¡±


    The girl slaps her father¡¯s hand away. ¡°Stop it, pops! It¡¯s not like I did anything wrong. I just asked a question.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re too forward, girl. Have you learned nothing?¡±


    Jace chuckles, but urges our Striders forward, leaving the man and his daughter arguing behind us.


    The city gates are imposing and carved with runes. Tall stone towers flanking the gates are each crowned with battlements and watchful guards. I can feel a buzz of faint magic coming off the walls as we approach.


    By the time we are next in line to be inspected at the checkpoint before we can cross the gates into the city, night has fallen.


    A pair of guards in armor, carrying crossbows instead of guns, inspect the underside of our wagon using a long metal rod with a mirror on one end. A third guard¡ªwho appears to be their captain¡ªsteps up to Jace and asks what we are transporting.


    ¡°We have weapons, materials, and relics.¡±


    The guard takes a closer look at our wagon, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, then at Jace. ¡°Is that right? Where are your papers?¡±


    Jace produces a folded sheet of paper stained with blood. The blood does nothing for the guard¡¯s suspicion. He whistles sharply, which is apparently a signal for his men to be on guard, because they all stop what they¡¯re doing and train their weapons on Jace and me.


    I draw a sharp breath and resist the urge to reach for my rifle.


    The guard holding the bloody papers unfolds them and reads. He then looks up at Jace. ¡°I knew I recognized the wagon. It belongs to the Turner adventuring party. Why do you have it?¡±


    Jace keeps his hands within clear view of the guard so as to not provoke them. ¡°We were traveling together when we met and fought a band of Reavers on the road. We got away. The rest didn¡¯t. With his last breath, Marcus asked we finish the delivery for him. So here I am.¡±


    The guard scoffs, his hand twitching towards his weapon. ¡°That¡¯s a bit melodramatic for a pair of opportunist brigands, don¡¯t you think?¡± His stare is hard and unyielding, but Jace meets it humorlessly. I get my first taste of what Jace means when he says that silence is a weapon. The guard sighs, acknowledging he¡¯s lost the game and Jace won¡¯t take the bait. ¡°Am I meant to believe you¡¯re delivering these goods out of the goodness of your heart?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Jace says. ¡°I intend to get paid.¡±


    ¡°Of course you do.¡± The guard pinches the bridge of his nose then asks our names.


    ¡°Jace and Ayla Le¨¢l.¡±


    I try hiding my severe blush under the neck of my cloak. Jace has already warned me that this is part of our backstory. My features and hair are too different from his for me to pass as his sister; as his wife, I will ¡°cause less trouble, and be easier to explain.¡±


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    Whatever the reasons. It¡¯s mortifying.


    After recording our names, the captain orders one of his men. ¡°You, lead this wagon to the governor¡¯s caravanserai. I¡¯m assigning you to ensure they arrive without issue.¡± The captain then takes the guard aside and whispers additional orders which we do not hear.


    Our assigned escort mounts one of the bicorn tied on the other side of the wall, then escorts us deeper into the city and I get my first good look at how humans in a big city live. It is different from their smaller settlements, such as the Sisters, which I visited on occasion when I was younger.


    The structures here are taller, the streets brighter. They are illuminated by bright lanterns that don¡¯t seem to be burning, yet still produce light. The city is also noisier than I¡¯m used to. I can hear street vendors calling out wares, trying to get any of the wagons and travelers passing by. They follow along, offering fresh cooked honeyed meat, calling out that they have the best deals and most comfortable inns. A group of children run alongside wagons handing out papers they claim are discounts to their restaurant or bar.


    Deeper in the city, we pass a large plaza where fire eaters and dancers perform for crowds of applauding and cheering onlookers.


    They are¡­cheerful, happy, normal. It reminds me of the kinds of daily performances we put on in our enclaves. The music and dances might be different, but they aren¡¯t so different.


    Then I remember they are all humans, the race who regularly enslaves and kills my kind, and I keep my head down the rest of the way into the more expensive district, where the city quiets and on the streets there are people dressed in finer garments.


    The guard on the bicorn leads us to the grand wrought-iron gates of the caravanserai. The intricate design of twisting vines and elegant scrollwork is both beautiful and imposing. As the scent of raw iron fills my nostrils, a mix of awe and apprehension washes over me, the smell adding to my unease. Guards, dressed in sharp uniforms, stand at attention, their eyes sharp and alert.


    One steps forward, his movements crisp and precise. He holds out a hand and says:  ¡°This is Mayor Prospero¡¯s private property. Please state your business.¡±


    Our escort sounds miffed when he answers. ¡°You don¡¯t have to be so formal with me, cousin. Ugh. You¡¯re exasperating. Alright, have it your way. These travelers bring goods meant for the governor. Please arrange his board and inform the master of the house that the Turner company¡¯s goods have arrived.¡±


    The guard nods, then gestures for us to follow. The gates swing open with a soft metal creak, revealing the beautifully landscaped courtyard within. A central fountain bubbles serenely, surrounded by lush gardens that contrast sharply with the dusty streets outside. It¡¯s all so different from the environs outside that it¡¯s jarring.


    The cobblestone street encircling the great fountain splits three ways. The right leads to an imposing black and brass tower with odd discs moving in slow circles, and glowing sigils all along its walls. It vibrates with an unfamiliar electric magic that makes me uncomfortable.


    I notice Jace also looks at it with wariness. I ask him, and he tells me it is a mage¡¯s tower. I have heard that human mages like to build towers. I remember someone a long time ago said humans build towers when they are compensating for something. At the time I¡¯d thought it was a juvenile joke. Now I¡¯m not so sure. It is such an ugly thing.


    The center path on the other side of the fountain leads to a palatial structure, and the left¡ªwhere we are ultimately led, is a two storied building with its own stables behind it.


    Several attendants appear seemingly from nowhere to help us store the wagon in a secure bay¡ªwith a padlock for which we are provided a key. Then the animals are stabled. We are told they will each be fed, watered, and rubbed down.


    Finally, we enter the lavish building where we are to be ¡°checked in,¡± and our weapons are confiscated at the door, then carried off to a ¡°safe room¡±. I feel naked without my rifle, or the folded steel sword I took from the darkling. But since Jace doesn¡¯t complain, I don¡¯t either.


    I follow Jace through a red carpeted lobby that smells faintly of cherry. Behind a desk, another attendant takes down our names in a book, just as they did at the gate. Are humans so forgetful that they are always writing things in books? I almost ask this question aloud, but stop before I give myself away. I shudder. I should be more in control of myself. I will ask Jace later when we are alone.


    ¡°These must remain on the premises.¡± The guard who served as our escort from the gate tells this to the attendant, gesturing to Jace and me. ¡°Until the governor or someone from his staff comes to fetch them and their cargo.¡±


    I tense, expecting Jace to complain. Do they suspect us? Why else would they demand that we remain confined?


    Instead of making a fuss, Jace agrees as if it is the most natural thing in the world. The escort then finally leaves us. Then, yet another human in fancy livery leads us up the stairs and to our room. After opening the door, he hands Jace the key. Then we are finally alone.


    The room. It is¡­roomy, with plush, ornate carpets and a high ceiling. The walls are paneled with a lustrous mahogany. There is a couch, a sitting area, and a writing desk. Then I notice the overlarge four poster bed draped with rich fabrics¡­ There is only one bed. This is unacceptable.


    ¡°If you think I am sleeping with you, I will cut you.¡± I say.


    Jace laughs in that carefree way of his. He looks at the soft bed longingly, then he throws himself on the couch and lets out a languid sigh. ¡°You can have the bed. I¡¯ll sleep here. Oh, and through that door over there, I imagine you¡¯ll find a bath. You can go first. In the morning, maybe tomorrow we can buy some new clothes we can wear in the city. Ours are a little worse for wear.¡±


    Hmph. Did he think that things would go otherwise? Of course the bed is mine. I sniff myself surreptitiously. I reek.


    ¡°Indeed. I will take a bath.¡± Then I head into the room to do so.


    Just like the main room, this bathroom is enormous. Such a waste of space for gaudy nonsense that no one needs.


    Except for the bath itself. Everyone needs a good soak now and then. It takes me a few tries to figure out how the levers work to produce hot water, but when I do, it doesn¡¯t take long to fill. The bath is delicious. I even go ahead and add one of the lavender scented balls from a basket labeled ¡°bath bombs¡±. The water explodes with suds and the relaxing scent.


    I lose track of time and fall asleep for a time. Eventually, I leave the bath, dry myself, and don one of the fluffy robes hanging on a wall.


    Leaving the bath, I decide I must sate my curiosity. ¡°Jace, do all humans live with all this space and adornment? This is more than I would have imagined was fit for royalty.¡±


    Jace sits on the couch reading a letter and massaging his left arm, which has healed quite well by now, proving that his confidence about how quickly his body healed was no boast.


    From the look on his face, the contents of the letter are nothing good.


    ¡°What is it, Jace?¡±


    He looks up, then tosses the paper on the table. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s nothing. Someone slipped that under our door. They¡¯re accusing us of murdering Marcus, and vow to take revenge. Damn, and I was looking forward to a good night¡¯s sleep.¡±

 Chapter Fourteen: Eyes and Trust

    Chapter 14: Eyes and Trust


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    In the morning, I confronted the clerk at the front desk. His eyes flickered with a hint of irritation, but he maintained his polite facade. Of course he denied any knowledge of who could have slipped us the note. I complained about the lack of security in such a reputedly fine establishment¡ªwhich was just my way of venting steam since it was unlikely I¡¯d get anything useful out of him¡ªand the clerk tried to assuage my fears with food:


    ¡°You are perfectly safe with us here in Zephyr. Please visit the meal hall, where you can eat a delicious complimentary breakfast.¡±


    Having nothing better to do, and having been denied permission to leave until Mayor Prospero¡¯s representative was ready to see us, I capitulated and headed to the meal hall.


    Ayla¡¯s eyes darted around, studying everything like if there was a snake around every corner ready to strike. She kept unconsciously reaching for her shoulder, where her rifle was usually slung; I wondered when I started thinking of it as her rifle rather than my rifle which I had loaned her.


    I tried reassuring her that whoever left the note was unlikely to attack us out in the open. And that they too had probably had their weapons checked when they entered this establishment. I hoped it was true, and that our hidden adversary wasn¡¯t someone from the staff.


    The meal hall, like everything else in the serai, was opulent and, in my opinion, overdone. I had to explain to Ayla that, no, this wasn¡¯t how all humans lived, and no, I wasn¡¯t a prince in a foreign land¡ªthough I suspected that last comment was her attempt at a joke, further proof that she was loosening up around me.


    ¡°This place is a way to make people the governor has business with feel important.¡± I explained. ¡°A lot of folks have a tendency to put their guards down and be more compliant when they feel that they¡¯re being treated with respect.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± She said, though I didn¡¯t think she did. I needed to take Ayla around town and show her how humans lived, and maybe give her lessons. Staring at people and things like you¡¯re going to hit them or burn them to the ground were not effective ways to blend in.


    Ayla asked for a fruit salad and lentil soup, which to my surprise was brought without issue. I asked for eggs, bacon, and sausage.


    Among the others in the meal hall, there was a group with clothes as travel-worn as ours, and I suspected them to be adventurers¡ªtalking to an orange-haired wiry girl who I recognized as the merchant¡¯s daughter we¡¯d met outside the gates. Her orang-mustached father was eating from a spread of food fit for three or four people.


    There was also the large black man wearing a black duster, with braided locks tied tight behind his head. He stared at us intensely without looking away since the moment we arrived. It made me uncomfortable, and I intended to go confront him if it continued.


    Before I could, however, the orange-haired girl reached our table. ¡°Hey! I remember you guys!¡± She was bubbly and friendly, waving at us despite being a couple meters away from us. ¡°You¡¯re those adventurers aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Ayla glared at her with mistrust, which the girl noticed, but didn¡¯t seem discouraged by.


    ¡°Aye, that¡¯s us,¡± I  nodded slightly and leaned back in my chair, waiting patiently for her to explain why she¡¯d approached us.


    ¡°So¡­since you¡¯re adventurers, I was hoping you might be interested in taking a job with us.¡±


    Straight to the point. Though she acted a bit like a little girl, on closer inspection, I guessed she must be in her early twenties. Her reddish brown eyes were distinctive and keen. She knew how to talk in a way that lowered your guard, but those eyes were not those of a silly little girl. I could feel her taking us in and weighing us.


    I considered brushing her off and refusing on her spot, but given I had no idea how things would go with the governor, it couldn¡¯t hurt to hear her out. ¡°What¡¯s the job?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s an escort mission,¡± she said, her hands making a sweeping gesture. ¡°I¡¯m looking for an extra pair of hands. After we stock up, we¡¯ll be making deliveries to some of the fringe towns of the basin. If you can swing it, we can make it worth your while!¡± She punctuated her offer with a confident smile.


    I rubbed my stubbly chin thoughtfully. It could be a boon to travel with someone who was familiar with the region. No one knew the countryside and its safest routes like a merchant.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t your father have anything to say about this?¡± I asked, suddenly curious about their dynamics.


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    ¡°Nah. He handles politics and trade, I take care of the rest.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t eager to make a hasty decision, so a non-committal answer was the best I could do. ¡°I don¡¯t know that we¡¯ll be staying in the region for very long. Going back and forth might not be convenient for us, but I¡¯ll keep your offer in mind. When do you plan on heading out?¡±


    ¡°Anywhere between five to seven days. Maybe a bit longer. We gotta restock, plus we¡¯re waiting for a couple of our wagons to get back to the city. Gives me enough time to find me a few extra hired guns.¡± She made the index fingers on each hand into pantomimed pistols and made a ¡°pew-pew-pew¡± noise to mimic gunshots.


    It was ridiculous and oddly endearing.


    ¡°We have business with the governor¡ª¡± A fact, I realized, was silly to point out, given that everyone who was put up in the governor¡¯s private caravanserai had business with the governor. ¡°We¡¯ll give you a proper answer when we¡¯re finished.¡±


    ¡°Great! Just look us up at the Gilded Pony if you decide to audition for the job.¡±


    Audition for the job? That was an interesting way of putting it. ¡°You¡¯re not staying here at Zephyr?¡±


    The girl squinted at me. ¡°Neither are you, silly. As soon as Prospero¡¯s done with us, he kicks us to the curb or whatever. I¡¯ll see you at the Golden Pony, ¡®kay? Oh, by the way. I¡¯m Renn. My pops over there¡¯s Cornelius. I call him Corny, but you can call him Neil.¡±


    And with that, she was gone. I chuckled as I watched her go, then get into an argument with her father because he ate all of her favorite pastry.


    ¡°I don¡¯t trust her.¡± Ayla whispered. ¡°She¡¯s too easy, but her eyes tell a different story.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I think so too. It didn¡¯t hurt to hear her out. If nothing else, we can pick their brain for information about the region.¡± From the way Renn talked, I guessed it wasn¡¯t the first time they¡¯d traveled to the reaches. Maybe they¡¯d traveled further. They could provide helpful information that could get us closer to the enclave Ayla was looking for. Or, maybe Ayla would choose to remain with them. The thought gave me a pang of sadness. But if that was her choice where to end our travels together, it was for the best.


    My attention came back to the large black man in the corner alone. He still had his eyes trained on us. I sighed and got out of my seat. ¡°Stay here, ¡®La. I¡¯ll be right back.¡±


    Ayla¡¯s reaction to the nickname I¡¯d come up with on the spot was amusing. She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. I guessed the shock was too great.


    Then I strode to the big man, who watched me with an increasingly intense glare. I stood in front of him. He was imposing, even sitting and looking up at me.


    ¡°What¡¯s your deal?¡± I asked.


    The man sipped his ice water, eyes still trained on me. Then he set it down and smiled. It did not touch his eyes. ¡°What did you do to Marcus?¡±


    Huh. I hadn¡¯t expected it to be that easy to identify the culprit behind the note.


    ¡°So you left me that pert note under my door?¡±


    ¡°What if I did?¡± The man said. His canines were sharp, his expression just shy of a snarl.


    I sighed. I told him the story I¡¯d told the guards at the gate checkpoint. That we¡¯d been attacked by Reavers and Ayla and I were the sole survivors.


    ¡°Marcus and his team wouldn¡¯t go down that easy. Killed by Reavers? Nah.¡±


    ¡°Who said he went down easy? There were about seventy of them and seven of us.¡±


    The man¡¯s snarl faltered. ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±


    I shook my head. ¡°You were friends, I take it?¡±


    The man didn¡¯t answer. His surprise was replaced with skepticism. ¡°A group that large wouldn¡¯t travel without a chief.¡±


    ¡°We took him down too. Actually, to be more specific, she did.¡± I pointed back toward the table where Ayla glared just as viciously as the man had at us. Somehow, that unsettled the man more than my own glare had.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we quit the juvenile staring contest.¡± I sat down in the chair across from him. ¡°Let¡¯s have a normal conversation like adults. I¡¯m Jace. And you are?¡±


    The man tapped on the table with a sausage thick finger as he considered. Then he answered: ¡°Name¡¯s Bear.¡±


    ¡°Well that suits you.¡±


    Bear leaned forward in his chair. ¡°Why would Marcus let you travel together in the first place? He isn¡¯t¡ªwasn¡¯t exactly the charitable kind.¡±


    I let my eyes flash gold for a moment. ¡°We were in the same unit.¡±


    Bear¡¯s surprise was quick, but then his body untensed and he bowed his head in defeat. My story had suddenly become plausible, my status as Branded clinching the deal. Revealing my eyes was becoming something of a habit these days. It made me feel dirty.


    ¡°Fuck.¡± Bear said. ¡°Alright then. Let¡¯s go. The governor will see you now.¡±


    That was unexpected. ¡°So you¡¯re the governor¡¯s rep?¡±


    Bear shrugged. ¡°Had to¡­check your credentials. The note last night was to see how you¡¯d react. Whether you¡¯d try to run or keep your head. I can¡¯t say I trust you. But I¡¯ll share a beer with you.¡± Then he grinned. This time, there wasn¡¯t any of the malice he had before. ¡°You¡¯ll have to tell your story to Mayor Prospero in person. Whether or not you¡¯re telling the truth, he¡¯ll have a use for a Branded.¡± Bear pointed a thumb in Ayla¡¯s direction. ¡°You can leave your woman. Unless she¡¯s like you?¡±


    I shook my head.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t think so.¡± Bear shoveled the rest of his food¡ªit looked like oatmeal¡ªdown his wide gullet, then did the same to the glass of water.


    Then he turned and beckoned me. I didn¡¯t follow right away. I went back to tell Ayla to wait for me in the room and not open for anyone but me. She didn¡¯t refuse, but didn¡¯t seem happy I was leaving her on her own.


    Bear was waiting for me just outside the serai. And just like that, I was on my way to meet the governor of Tempest.

 Chapter Fifteen: The Mayor

    Chapter 15: The Mayor


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    I followed Bear, expecting he would take me to the big mansion. Instead, we walked toward the mage¡¯s tower. It looked even more ominous than it did the previous night. The brass gears of the clockwork devices along the side of the black stone left no doubt this wasn¡¯t just any mage¡¯s tower, but a technomancer.


    When we reached the top of the steps, the brass double doors opened on their own. Just the kind of eerie show of power mages loved.


    Inside, the heart of the tower is an open atrium, a vertical shaft where the ceiling is visible even from the ground floor. Dominating this space is an enormous celestial model. Concentric brass rings rotate on a single axis, each adorned with shining stars and other celestial bodies that orbit around a brilliant central sphere, illuminating the whole of the inside of the tower.


    I turned to Bear. ¡°I didn¡¯t think there were any technomancers left outside Valenheim. How did the governor find one and convince them to move east of the Waste?¡±


    Bear shook his head and chuckled. ¡°You¡¯ve got the wrong assumptions, but you¡¯ll see soon enough for yourself.¡± He stopped walking once we were standing in the center of the tower.


    Then we just stood there.


    After a minute, I couldn¡¯t help myself and finally asked: ¡°What exactly are we waiting for?¡±


    As if the tower itself had been waiting for me to ask that very question, it responded with a screeching whistle and the hiss of steam. Suddenly, it felt like the entire tower was spinning on its axis. No¡ªnot the tower. I realized, we were the ones rotating. We stood on a platform that was corkscrewing deeper into the tower¡¯s bowels. As the platform lowered, the floor above us closed like the reverse budding of a flower.


    After a tense moment of pure darkness, the walls opened to reveal a vast underground chamber. The walls of the chamber, lined with copper pipes, hummed and pulsed hotwhite like the veins of a great beast to an invisible heartbeat.


    Around the room, several workers moved with purpose, inspecting crates and adjusting various instruments. They wore utilitarian clothing, marked with the emblem of a cloud and lightning, and their movements were efficient, almost mechanical. The air was filled with the soft hum of their activities, punctuated by the occasional hiss of steam or clank of metal.


    At the center of the chamber stood a raised dais, atop which sat an ornate metal chair that was almost throne-like. Its back was to me and I could hear a harsh authoritative voice barking orders to his men.


    To his right, was an immense glass-like container, only that inside it was a roiling black and blue clouded storm that flashed with tendrils of lightning.


    The chair on the dais spun suddenly, and the thick-bearded gold haired mage raised a heavy clockwork arm and shouted: ¡°Quiet.¡± And all the workers stood at attention waiting for instructions. Even the screaming pipes quieted, and there was an eerie silence, except for the rumbling of the captured storm.


    More surprising than encountering a genuine technomancer was the realization that he was a dwarf. Dressed in elaborate robes interwoven with metallic threads and bearing an intricate clockwork arm, his presence was both imposing and enigmatic. As he stood before me, barking orders, it dawned on me that this technomancer was none other than Mayor Prospero himself.


    Both the presence of a technomancer and a dwarf were unusual. Dwarves had suffered as much as other races during the war. They had been allied with humans against the elves, and renown for both their engineering prowess as well as their skills in smithing. Many of the most advanced weaponry the Dominion had produced were designed and crafted by dwarves. However, they weren¡¯t, in general, particularly adept at magic. And yet here was one that radiated magic like heat from a forge.


    ¡°Mayor Prospero.¡± Bear greeted the governor with a slight bow. ¡°As requested, I have brought the adventurer.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± Prospero asked.


    ¡°He is also a Branded one. He may be useful to you.¡±


    ¡°That remains to be seen.¡± The dwarf walked a circle around me. He placed a brass lens that was somewhere between monocle and looking glass. Then hummed and hawed as he studied me. ¡°So, Jace Le¨¢l¡­ That is not a family name I am familiar with. How is it you returned with Marcus¡¯s wagon but he didn¡¯t? What exactly is your story?¡±


    I repeated the story I told Bear, all the while, the dwarf continued to study me through his monocle.


    When I was finished, Prospero clicked his teeth and put the monocle into his coat pocket. ¡°You speak mostly the truth.¡± He placed far too much emphasis on the word mostly.


    I schooled my emotions. Was his monocle some kind of lie detecting device? If so, could he tell exactly what part of my story was an untruth?


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    ¡°Do not be overly concerned, Jace. The only thing that matters to me is that you brought what is mine.¡± He gestured to the open crates along one of the walls of the room. Already, many of the crystals, relics and other goods that had been in Marcus¡¯s wagon had been set on a table where the workers had been cataloging them.


    I sighed, then took out the key in my pocket and held it up for the dwarf to see. ¡°What good was locking up my stuff and giving me a key if you were just going to take it anyway?¡±


    Prospero waved a hand dismissively. ¡°We only took that which I hired Marcus and his men to retrieve for me. I left the weapons and your Striders. And of course the wagon.¡±


    ¡°What about our pay?¡±


    Prospero arched an eyebrow. ¡°Your pay? Did I have a contract with you? I hired the Turner company, not you. You will be given a finder¡¯s fee, of course. But do not expect anything more.¡±


    I thought about how I might respond. The governor did not sound the type who was open to negotiation. His was a bullshit excuse to avoid paying what the goods were worth, but what could I do in these circumstances.


    Prospero snapped his fingers and one of his men rushed over with a box, then opened it in front of me. It was a chest full of coin. It wasn¡¯t an insubstantial sum. I grimaced. If this was the finder¡¯s fee, I could only guess what the going rate for the relics and crystals Marcus had found.


    The dwarf grinned at me. ¡°Aye. I know what you¡¯re thinking. Take the coin and go. Or¡­¡±


    I waited for him to say more.


    Prospero harrumphed. ¡°You ain¡¯t the talkative type, are you?¡±


    I didn¡¯t bother answering. The dwarf chuckled and waved to his man to hand me the box. I tucked it under my arm.


    ¡°There was a job I had planned for Marcus. It is somewhat urgent. As a Branded, I¡¯m thinking you could serve as a suitable replacement.¡±


    I shifted my weight. Something about the dwarf¡¯s manner of speaking put me on edge. ¡°What¡¯s the job?¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t an easy one. But I will pay handsomely for results.¡± He began to pace. ¡°I have big plans for Tempest. You see, it will become a pillar of strength in the east, as Valenheim is in the west. Not everyone is¡­amenable to this plan. ¡±


    Prospero explained how his domain¡ªhe considered the entire basin Tempest¡¯s purview¡ªwas beset by troubles on all sides. From the northern plains, he had to deal with frequent skirmishes with the elves, who harried their forts and villages, and kept pushing to encroach southward, often going so far as to attack supply caravans. His tone was particularly aggressive when discussing the eves.


    When subtly probed, the dwarf¡¯s presence crackled with a deathly aura. ¡°They killed my daughter.¡± That was all he would say about that.


    To the south, where the last fingers of the Waste extended east, there were monsters and bandits interrupting the mining operations to extract new relics and crystals from the known ruins.


    But what the governor wanted my help with, and the thing that he claimed posed the greatest threat, was a corrupted greater spirit. ¡°We should have seen the first rains of the season weeks ago. On a clear day, you can see the storm clouds over the Sybillan mountain range cast a black shadow with all the rain that ought to belong to the basin. And yet the rains are held back by the spirit. And when it does rain, it isn¡¯t pretty.¡±


    The spirit, the dwarf said, was controlled by a darkling, who sometimes attacked the reaches, and travelers trying to make it across the pass. It was imperative that someone took the job and eliminated the spirit and its darkling master.


    While he spoke, the container with the storm thundered angrily. I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that there was something the governor was leaving out of his story. As he had so succinctly put it earlier: What Prospero said was only mostly the truth. And he was leaving out some crucial details.


    ¡°You won¡¯t be the only adventurer I hire for the job, mind you.¡± Prospero said, wrapping up his pitch. ¡°I¡¯ve already put out an open quest. Whoever can eliminate the threat and bring me the proof they did the deed, will be paid a king¡¯s ransom.¡±


    I thanked the governor for his offer, and for the ¡°finder¡¯s fee¡± he¡¯d paid me. I told him I¡¯d think about it. There was a moment when I considered asking him more information about the elven raids for Ayla¡¯s sake, but decided against it. It wouldn¡¯t be a good idea to reveal my interest to this man. His hatred for the elves was too visceral.


    I begged my leave and Bear led me up to the surface.


    ¡°You should consider joining the expedition.¡± Bear said. His arms crossed, he tapped a finger on his arm as he considered me. ¡°In fact, you should join my team. I know a hardened fighter when I see one. I could use someone who won¡¯t piss themselves at the first sign of trouble.¡±


    I adjusted my hat. ¡°Like I told the good governor. I¡¯ll think about it. I don¡¯t like to rush into things.¡±


    Bear nodded thoughtfully. ¡°Fare well, Jace. We¡¯ll be setting out in a week. Send a message with one of the gate guards. I¡¯ll come find you.¡±


    When I finally reached Ayla in our room, she was pacing back and forth and biting her nails. As soon as she saw me, I saw her take several steps forward then stop herself.


    ¡°Were you about to rush over to me and give me a hug?¡± Ayla turned bright red.


    ¡°Absolutely not.¡± She growled. Not five minutes ago, a man came to the door and said that I should pack my things and get ready to check out. They left without another word. I¡­worried something happened to you.¡±


    ¡°What happened was that we have exceeded our usefulness. Anyway, we got paid.¡± I held up the box under my arm. ¡°It should be enough for us to get new digs and upgrade our gear. C¡¯mon. I¡¯ll take you to a market. I¡¯ll treat you to some proper greasy food.¡±


    Before we left the caravanserai, we retrieved our weapons, then checked our wagon. True to his word, Prospero had left the gear,  guns, and supplies, and taken only the crates that were meant for him. I hitched the Sand Striders and we headed out of the governor¡¯s property.


    I wondered where we should stay next, then remembered the Golden Pony that girl Renn would be staying at. Maybe that would suit us. In fact, if we intended to take a trip north to approach the elves of the plane, having a guide who was familiar with the region might make that easier. Perhaps taking her up on her escort job wouldn¡¯t be a bad idea. I was willing to trust her intentions more than the governor¡¯s.


    But before any of that, the market was my first priority. I couldn¡¯t wait to see Ayla¡¯s face when I introduced her to pizza.

 Chapter Sixteen: Food and Fashion

    Chapter 16: Food and Fashion


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    Those of us who follow the Old Way will not eat meat nor eggs. It has always been a sign of our adherence to non-violence. For me, I think, it is like holding on to the last strand of a fraying rope, praying that no matter how hard the world pulls, it will not snap. I must confess that mine has nearly snapped many times.


    The market is full of the sickly sweet smells of cooking meat. I have not eaten as well as I did in the enclave for weeks, rationing food like a jay during a famine. There have been times when even the boiling fat of whatever lizard or wild desert quail Jace hunted smelled appetizing. I know this is because my body has been lacking in calories and fat. It still makes me sick that my body would crave death.


    I am a hypocrite. Have I not killed before to survive? Have I not recently killed Reavers and a darkling out of rage and thirst for vengeance? Mine is a fraying rope indeed.


    Between all the scents that sickens me, one catches my attention and holds it fast. I am so drawn to it, than when Jace grabs my hand to guide me forward and through the crowded street, I do not think to complain¡ªhe is pulling me closer to the scent.


    ¡°You can smell it, can¡¯t you?¡± Jace asks, snapping me out of my hungry delirium.


    ¡°Is that cheese?¡± I cannot help myself. My mouth waters. It has been so long since I¡¯ve had cheese. Despite our efforts, we couldn¡¯t acquire milking animals to raise in the desert, but I haven¡¯t forgotten the scent. I remember that smell.


    There is a line of humans we must wait behind before we are able to purchase a dish Jace calls ¡°pizza,¡± which he says will spoil me for all other food ever. As I watch others walk away from the food stall carrying their pie-like slices of melted cheese, I wonder if he might be right.


    Finally, he pays the funny man in a white outfit¡ªhow one can cook and keep such an outfit clean is a mystery to me¡ªand we walk toward a nearby bench that has just become available and sit to eat.


    Jace wasn¡¯t wrong. Pizza is¡­amazing. The gooey melted cheese, the perfect blend of tomato sauce, garlic, and baked, slightly charred bread.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to cry.¡± Jace talks with his mouth full, open mouth huffing to cool the extra large steaming bite in his mouth.


    I wipe away a tear I didn¡¯t know was there. Who cares? I close my eyes and enjoy this little slice of heaven.


    ¡°Oy! Fancy running into you all here!¡± The irritating sound of the bubbly orange-haired girl shatters my reverie.


    I open my eyes and Renn is there, gobbling up the last of her own slice of divine cheese pizza. She wipes her greasy hands on a handkerchief she then stuffs in a backpocket of her breeches.


    ¡°Hello Renn.¡± Jace sounds unbothered by Renn¡¯s presence, which irritates me further. ¡°Out for a stroll about town?¡±


    ¡°Something like that.¡± Renn looks at me and winks. Why does she wink? It isn¡¯t like we share a secret. Who does this insufferable girl think she is? ¡°I¡¯m glad I ran into you, though. I noticed you parked at the Golden Pony. Excellent choice!¡± She touches her index finger to thumb to form a circle, the other three fingers extended straight.


    Jace finishes his own pizza and I realize that I¡¯ve finished mine as well. He wipes his hands and lips with his handkerchief, folds it neatly, and offers it to me with a small smile. I take it and do the same, though I¡¯m not sure how to copy his neat folds and, thankfully, he takes it back before I can look the fool.


    ¡°You guys aren¡¯t done eating, I hope.¡± Renn puts her fists on her hips. ¡°Because I know all the best eateries around. Just name a dish, any dish at all, and I can find the tastiest place that makes it.¡±


    What possesses me to answer, I don¡¯t know. Out of spite, and not expecting her to even know what it is, I say: ¡°Rice curry and naan.¡±


    Instead of staring at me blank-faced, asking what it is, or pretending to know despite ignorance, she taps a finger to her chin and surprises me. ¡°That¡¯s an elvish dish, isn¡¯t it? Hmmm¡­there¡¯s only one place I can think of that has something like that. C¡¯mon. I know the owner so I¡¯m sure he can get us a seat.¡±


    Jace gently pushes up on my jaw so I close my mouth. There isn¡¯t even room in my mind to complain. I get up and we follow Renn.


    The restaurant isn¡¯t in the market. Rather, it is a few streets down where it is significantly less busy. As we turn onto a narrower, cobblestone street lined with smaller shops and something Jace calls ¡®caf¨¦s,¡¯ the bustling noise of the market fades into the background.


    The restaurant itself is nestled between an artisan''s workshop and a bookstore. Its exterior is inviting, with large, arched windows framed by dark wooden shutters and hanging flower baskets brimming with colorful blooms. A modest sign above the entrance reads ¡°Rare Delights¡± in elegant script, accompanied by a small depiction of an oak leaf.


    Despite the relative quiet of the street, the restaurant appears fairly full. Through the windows, I can see patrons seated at wooden tables adorned with simple yet elegant white linens and flickering candle centerpieces.


    Renn guides us inside, says a few words to the person at the front, then, while we wait, she lets herself into the back, returning with a short fat man in a greasy apron. Renn introduces him as Bordain, the cook and owner. At first, I think he might be a dwarf, but he is just a short human. One with a net over his graying black hair, and peg leg. He takes a look at us, then nods approvingly. ¡°A¡¯right Renn. Bring ¡®em on back. We¡¯ll set up a table in the yard fer y¡¯all. Mind you don¡¯t feed the chickens. Makes ¡®em think they own ya, yer table, and yer food.¡±


    There¡¯s no one in the yard. It¡¯s surprisingly spacious, surrounded on all sides by buildings, but with enough space that a corner is reserved for a pen to keep the cattle. Free roaming chickens and a rooster stare at us with hungry sharp eyes, and I resolve to follow the cook¡¯s advice and avoid feeding them.


    We don¡¯t wait long for the food. Jace answers Renn¡¯s slew of questions about his adventures with a mix of ambiguity and specificity depending on the subject. As always, he avoids the subject of the war and anything to do with killing, but has no problems sharing his strategies for surviving the Waste, and details about what the remaining towns and cities in the west are like.


    ¡°Valenheim¡ª¡± he says, ¡°is like Tempest, only ten or twenty times bigger, and with the pervasive stink in the air of technomancers¡¯ arcane workings as they try to soak up all the magic they can before the rift takes it all. You¡¯re not missing much.¡±


    I¡¯m only vaguely aware of other details of the conversation, which begins to shift to the subject of Renn and her father¡¯s business in the basin.


    The only thing that occupies my mind is the bittersweet promise of food from home; and the dread that I will be disappointed.


    It doesn¡¯t take long for the cook to return, deftly carrying plates and water glasses for each of us on his tray. He laughs heartily when he sets everything before us. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since anyone¡¯s asked for elvish cuisine.¡± He thrusts a thumb in Renn¡¯s direction then winks at her. ¡°This one was the last. But I¡¯ll be honest. This is one of my personal favorite dishes. Please enjoy.¡±


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    My hand shakes when I try my first bite, the familiar smell promising what I hope will be¡ªand it is. It is just as it should be. I can taste all the spices; the things we couldn¡¯t even get in Verdanveil. try to hold back the weeping. I don¡¯t want to give myself away in front of this stupid little girl. But I can no longer, in good conscience, think of her that way. She has given me a taste of home¡ªof my true home, the Tyrna. Something I thought I would never taste again.


    When I finish and finally look up, Renn is studying me thoughtfully, with just a hint of more intensity than I feel comfortable with. Just as Jace said, her eyes are surprisingly keen. Not the eyes of a little girl at all, but seemingly much older. I can¡¯t help but wonder what her true intentions are? Why has she singled us out? What does she have to gain by befriending us?


    The moment passes and she grins girlishly, as if nothing is amiss. ¡°Wow! You must really love that dish!¡± Then she turns to Jace. ¡°Never seen someone get that way about food. Hey, what do you guys say about letting me give you a tour of Tempest? I know the best places for everything. I practically grew up here, ya know.¡±


    ¡°Are you trying to butter me up so we join your expedition?¡± I can tell Jace is only half joking.


    Renn taps her nose. ¡°And what if I am?¡±


    Jace offers her a crooked smile. Perhaps he is spot on. ¡°We need new travel clothes. Preferably somewhere that can provide protective wards and other enchantments woven into the fabric, or repair the ones we have. Ayla¡¯s cloak has temperature control but it¡¯s wearing out.¡±


    ¡°Easy,¡± Renn says.


    When we arrived at the store, I didn¡¯t expect it to turn into a fashion show. Renn insists that it is necessary. She insists so hard and with such genuine good nature that even Jace capitulates and is bullied into going first.


    At first he tries on a variety of plain and practical clothes. Solid color shirts with multiple boring leather vests with a varying number of pockets.


    Renn declares it is unacceptable, and retreats with both the poor old woman who runs the shop and Jace to the back of the store while I am left to wait on a bench for them to return. I feel a pang of jealousy when she grabs his arm and pulls him away. I crush this feeling ruthlessly.


    When they return, my eyes widen, and I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh that tries to explode from inside me. Jace is wearing heart-shaped sunglasses, a red shirt patterned with hearts, a pink-dyed vest, a matching pink hat, and tight black trousers. The funniest feature of the outfit, however, is his mortified scowl.


    ¡°How¡­?¡± I mean to ask ¡°how did she convince you to wear that?¡± But just opening my mouth to speak runs the danger of releasing my undignified laughter.


    Jace is not amused. He glares at the old shopkeeper. ¡°Why would you even have this kind of thing in stock? Who buys clothes like this?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised what young people like to take into the bedroom these days.¡± She replies. Then the old shopkeep winks at me and my smile turns to scowl mirroring Jace. ¡°Fashion is an ever evolving animal.¡±


    Hands on hips, Renn declares victory. ¡°Yes it is, isn¡¯t it.¡± Renn offers me a knowing smile. I hadn¡¯t realized how sad I¡¯d been since eating the curry until now. Had Jace and her conspired to cheer me up?


    ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± Jace growls. ¡°I¡¯m going to change.¡±


    Ultimately, he chooses a brown leather duster, several plain solid-colored shirts, and a brown vest with multiple pockets¡ªnot unlike his previous one¡ªalong with several pairs of sturdy jeans. Also, he buys fresh boots that are also very similar to his old ones.


    Renn decides to take a turn modeling, choosing several dresses that I have to admit she looks good in, and I once again have to squash my jealousy when she comes out in dresses with a low neckline and Jace pays her compliments. She doesn¡¯t buy anything, though, saying she has too many outfits already.


    Then it is my turn. I surprise myself by not refusing. I almost forget myself and let Renn into the changing room with me, before I catch myself. I can¡¯t let her see the long ears underneath my headwrap. At some point, I¡¯d become much too comfortable with this human. I check myself for any hints of charming magic that might be affecting me. I find nothing.


    Renn doesn¡¯t make a thing out of my disallowing her to enter the changing room, even if she looks a bit disappointed. Even so, she does bully me as effectively as she did Jace, and I turn beet red when I stand before Jace in several elegant gowns. I have not worn clothes this nice in a long time.


    The way Jace¡¯s eyes linger on me makes my heart race, and nothing I tell myself can make it stop. My favorite dress is modest and deep green, with flowing vine-like lace along the sleeves and neckline. It is impractical for travel, but I can¡¯t help wishing there was an occasion to wear it. When was the last time I had occasion to wear something beautiful and elegant, rather something meant for work, practicality, and running away.


    Ultimately, all the garments I choose are clothes for practicality, with pockets and belts to hold ammunition. They are similar to Jace¡¯s style, but tailored to better fit my form and not hinder my mobility.


    The shopkeeper tries to sell me cloaks to replace the one Jace gave me, but I refuse. She will repair it, the enchantments, and add a camouflaging feature.


    Jace leaves a list of enchantments he wants the shopkeeper to have sewn in. And though she can¡¯t promise the success of all of them, she agrees to try her best with the materials at hand. I don¡¯t know much about the value of money in the human realm, but I can tell that the prices she gives for our order is exorbitant. Jace doesn¡¯t bat a lash when his heavy bag of coin becomes a big pile on the counter that leaves it significantly lighter. He promises to pay the rest upon delivery.


    Before we leave, Renn places a silver brooch on the counter. Its design is that of a crescent moon encompassing a sun over an oak tree. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. ¡°I saw your girl eyeing this, Jace. You¡¯re going to buy it for her.¡± Renn is lying, of course. I I have never seen it before. That said, I cannot deny its beauty, nor how nostalgic the design makes me feel. Jace takes a look at me. I¡¯m able to keep a straight face this time. It is indeed beautiful, but I am confused and I know spending more coin on such paltry things is impractical.


    I open my mouth to express the needlessness of such an unnecessary purchase. But Jace digs into his pouch and sets another small pile of coins in front of the shopkeeper, and I find I want the brooch too much to refuse. ¡°Enchant this one with the strongest defensive charm you can muster.¡±


    I look up at Renn. She winks at me. Despite my efforts, I blush once more.


    When we finally leave the shop, wearing fresh, clean clothes, it is almost night time, the streets illuminated by their strange, flame-less light posts.


    ¡°You should probably call it a day in terms of shopping.¡± Renn says. ¡°Instead you should visit the theater and watch the play. Just tell the guy at the ticket booth that Renn sent you and you won¡¯t have to pay anything.¡±


    ¡°What are you, the mayor of Tempest?¡± Jace asks. It isn¡¯t a serious question, but Renn¡¯s face twists into an ugly scowl. It is the first time her expression has been anything but bubbly and carefree.


    ¡°Please don¡¯t. I don¡¯t want to even think of being in the same category of person as Prospero.¡±


    Jace nods. ¡°Aye.¡± Then her scowl vanishes and she is her good-humored self again, and gives Jace directions to the theater.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be off then. Find me tomorrow at the inn, ¡®kay?¡± Renn waves us goodbye. Then folds her hands behind her back and leans forward. ¡°Just so you know, you passed the audition.¡±


    Before Jace or I can ask her what she means, she skips away, turns a corner, and is gone. I almost miss her cheerful presence. Then I remind myself she is human. ¡°You think we can trust her?¡±


    Jace tilts his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know. She¡¯s definitely eager to hire us as escorts for her company¡¯s caravan.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± I ask. Jace meets my eyes and offers a crooked smile. Then I remember who I¡¯m talking to. Images of Jace raining lead and death on Sandsharks, Reavers, and even Marcus and the others flash to the forefront of my mind. I can¡¯t help but shiver. ¡°Never mind.¡±


    Jace¡¯s lips purse as he considers something. ¡°There¡¯s definitely something unusual about that girl, though I don¡¯t sense she means any harm; only time will tell.¡±


    ¡°Should we really be considering taking her job offer seriously?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re definitely knowledgeable about the region. Traveling with her company for a while might prove useful.¡±


    We start walking down the street, night falling slowly but surely. I could tell Jace was lost in thought about something. But then, so was I as I replayed the day¡¯s events.


    Then I felt Jace¡¯s gaze on me, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. ¡°So, Ayla. Do you like plays?¡±


    My eyes narrow and I glare at him. ¡°What are your intentions, Jace?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°A quiet, contemplative evening with my wife.¡±Jace groans when I punch him as hard as I can in the side. I smile, satisfied with this reaction.


    ¡°Sure thing, husband.¡±

 Chapter Seventeen: Capernus and Evandra

    Chapter 17: Capernus and Evandra


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    It was an outdoor theater. From our vantage point, we looked down on the stage where the actors performed. We could see them, and the great eye in the night sky could see us.


    The play was about two star-crossed lovers and their perilous journey to escape the evil emperor, Neros. Neros loves Evandra so much that he cannot bear to see her with another man. If he can¡¯t have her, then they both must be killed.


    Capernus steals Evandra away in the middle of the night, warned by the virginal Mara¡ªthe goddess whose name was shared by a precious Mara I knew long ago. She was sister to the human deity Valens, who sat on a gilded throne watching events unfold¡ªmuch like the eye in the sky always watches us.


    The lovers set out on a perilous journey to find sanctuary in the mythical land of Paradise.


    The players were earnest in their interpretation, weeping or celebrating at all the right moments, taking comfort in each other''s arms every time their characters narrowly escaped being caught and killed by the emperor¡¯s men.


    It didn¡¯t sit well with me how the lovers always seemed to be rescued by Mara, often in direct response to their prayers. Meanwhile, Valens never stirred, silently watching from upon his throne.


    In the end, Capernus and Evandra find a modest temple in the mountains. Upon placing their hands together on the stone tablets of the dais there, they ascend to Paradise to live together forever in everlasting bliss.


    Ayla watched the play with rapt attention. Her expression was neutral most of the play, though I noticed she sometimes ignored the players in favor of studying Valens. Much like I did.


    Contrary to all the excited people around us reliving scenes from the play in excited paraphrasing of their favorite parts, Ayla and I were both silent as we followed the crowd¡¯s slow shuffling out of the theater. I wondered if it was for the same reason I had nothing to say.


    The more I thought about it, the more I got the feeling that the actors¡¯ interpretation of the play had been contrary to the author¡¯s intent. Perhaps, only the actor who played Valens truly understood the real meaning. His slight scowl of judgment as he watched events unfold. Even when the rest of the players arranged themselves in a line at the end of the play and bowed, he remained seated, his gaze now fixed upon the audience. Somehow, I was certain he was the author.


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    As we walked away, the pieces of the true meaning arranged themselves in my mind and I didn¡¯t even realize that I had spoken out loud until Ayla repeated my statement and asked me what I meant.


    ¡°What do you mean ¡®It¡¯s ridiculous?¡¯¡± I wondered what thoughts hid behind her inscrutable expression.


    I considered keeping my thoughts to myself. I knew Ayla was a true believer of her goddess Danu. Would she find my thoughts unpleasant? I answered her anyway. ¡°The play is a satire passing itself off as an earnest portrayal of the gods¡¯ involvement in our lives.¡±


    Ayla nodded to herself as if my words were a confirmation of her own thoughts. Her response wasn¡¯t what I expected, and sounds more like musing out loud. ¡°If our gods intervened in such a manner in our lives, perhaps things would not be as they are.¡±


    I followed her gaze upward to the rift, all of its terribly beautiful purples and greens, clearly visible in the cloudless sky, as well as the void at its center that looked so much like a dilated pupil.


    Her eyes shone with a liquid radiance, the colors of the rift reflected in what might be eyes on the verge of tears.Hers was a beauty that left me breathless, and I wished I had the courage to wrap an arm around her to comfort her.


    ¡°I thought you were a believer.¡± I tried not to make my comment cynical, but despite my best efforts, I can¡¯t hide the slight edge revealing my own thoughts on the matter.


    ¡°I am.¡± She studies me for a moment, then turns her eyes forward as we continue along the cobblestone streets. A lamp post nearby flickered as whatever magic or runes kept it alight showed signs that it was beginning to fail. ¡°I believe in Danu with all my heart. This is why I must reach the Godtrail, Jace. I must cross it so I can stand before the God Tree and speak with her myself. I need to know why she has been silent all this time, despite my people¡¯s desperate need.¡±


    ¡°Maybe she¡¯s dead.¡± Me and my big mouth. I wince at Ayla¡¯s scathing glare and instantly regret my words. Not so much for the anger, but for the sadness that follows it.


    ¡°She can¡¯t be.¡± Ayla clasps her hands together to her chest, an unconscious gesture as if in prayer. She shook her head as if to dispel intrusive thoughts, then glared at me again, but her usual intensity faltered. ¡°Please don¡¯t speak blasphemy in my presence.¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡±


    We didn¡¯t speak again that evening. I couldn¡¯t shake the image of Ayla¡¯s tear-filled eyes and how vulnerable she looked. It made me feel like the only thing in the world that mattered was ensuring she never had cause to look that way again.


    A foolish ambition for a foolish man. Once I helped her reach her people, I probably would never see her again. As I threw myself on the couch and closed my eyes, I was grateful for the impending oblivion.

 Chapter Eighteen: Politics

    Chapter 18: Politics


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Over the next five days, I spent time hunting for more information about the movements of elves over the last decade. Ayla spent much of this time at the public shooting range available near the Adventurer¡¯s Guild, something she started to do to avoid Renn¡¯s repeated attempts to take her out exploring town, but which was also a practical passtime.


    The most useful information I learned during this time came from the bookseller next to Rare Delights¡ªwhich had instantly become Ayla¡¯s preferred eatery after Renn took us there.


    The bookstore was longer than it was wide, with dusty shelves filled with tomes. There were histories, biographies, and records of cities now buried under the Waste or obliterated from existence. There were even some books on the politics between elves and humans. None of them showed signs of having been touched or perused in quite some time. Only one shelf seemed to show any signs of movement: the fantasy fiction section.


    The bookseller himself dominated the store. His name was Jargyn, an odd elderly creature with clear signs of fey ancestry. His skin was the color of graying fall leaves and, despite being hunched from age, he stood over two meters tall. He had clipped ears suggesting they had once been pointed, and he exuded a strong scent of sweet gum.


    When I asked him about his ancestry, he did not deny it, though the specifics were left to my imagination.


    He told me about the enmity with the northern elves of the plains, which according to Jargyn, began when Mayor Prospero began extending his influence into their lands.


    He also answered some of the questions I¡¯d felt uncomfortable asking elsewhere.


    ¡°Jargyn, I noticed that Tempest represents few races other than humans. Not even elf slaves despite being so close to the remaining elf lands. Why is that?¡±


    The old man scratched his wispy hair with a hand as big as my forearm. ¡°It wasn¡¯t always like this. It¡¯s Mayor Prospero¡¯s doing. I¡¯m glad for not seeing much slavery¡ªthe practice is sickening¡ªbut it isn¡¯t for a noble cause he outlawed the practice in the city.¡±


    ¡°What was the reason?¡±


    ¡°Paranoia. Prospero believes that everyone will betray him. He barely trusts anyone except his own kind and humans, and he harshly vets any non-humans entering the city. As far as he is concerned, the war never ended. On the subject of slavery, Prospero rightly predicted keeping them in the city runs the risk of rebellion, as well as even more elf aggression from the region. There¡¯s enough of that as it is.


    ¡°The plains near Tempest are particularly valuable due to the wild cattle and riding stock, making them a contested resource between humans and elves. For the elves, these animals can be vital for agriculture, even if they do not consume them directly.¡±


    It painted a very different picture than Prospero¡¯s and made me even less inclined to trust him.


    During a lull in our conversation, I browsed the books again and withdrew one on human and elf politics. I opened the dusty book and a cloud of dust erupted in my face, making me cough. Flipping through the pages, I realized the book was written just before the war would have started.


    The book was a detailed assessment of the political climate, and made a case for peace. One chapter early  in the book caught my eye, called: A Grim Future. With prescient alacrity, the passage read as follows:


    Should the relations between the two prominent nations on Paxratha continue to decline, the only future the continent can  look forward to is one of fire, blood, and ashes. At the current pace of escalating tensions, the arms race between the Western Dominion and Kingdom of De¡¯danaan will soon reach a critical tipping point, inevitably inciting war and catastrophe. The only path to peace is forged through legislation on both sides to encourage the gradual end of prejudice and the senseless culture of animosity between races. Such may only be accomplished through cultural exchange, and even perhaps, through the intermarriage of the species.


    Intermarriage of the species? Ayla suddenly came to mind and I instantly closed the book along with that line of thinking.


    I turned the book on its side and read the name of the book title: Diplomacy and Discord: The Human-Elf Relations on Paxratha by Jargyn ¨® Fionnsi¨²l.


    Looking up at Jargyn, I found him studying me, eyes narrowed. When our eyes met, he smiled, then nodded.


    ¡°Indeed. I wrote that book.¡± He took it from me reverently, flipping through its pages with a deft gentleness that was hard to believe possible in his overlarge hands. ¡°Not that it did much good. Can you believe the Western Dominion banned the book? As for the elves, their literature is distributed through spoken word and oral tradition, as well as their trees. Did you know that during the war, one of the first places the Dominion struck when entering a new domain was to target their God Trees?¡±


    I shook my head. This was news to me. I was young when I was conscripted, and knew so little about the world outside the Sisters. Everything I learned about elves and their culture was filtered through the indoctrination of the Dominion. I¡¯d never heard of the Godtrail or God Trees until Ayla mentioned she was looking for one.


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    Sighing, Jargyn put the book back in its spot on the shelf. ¡°I always wonder if there was more I could have done. Alas, what influence can one man have in turning away a swelling tide.¡±


    The old man¡¯s thoughts stirred something in me. A revulsion for the blood on my hands. Anger at people in power who I¡¯d never met who could have done something to prevent a war that in the end served no purpose. A sense of helplessness that I couldn¡¯t do anything either.


    I didn¡¯t want to think of these things. Into the black box they went. I changed the subject. ¡°Jargyn, you ever heard of something called the Godtrail?¡±


    I thought it was an innocuous enough question, but Jargyn¡¯s reaction was unexpected. One moment he looked sad, then suddenly he brightened. He stood a bit straighter, and looked many years younger. He even smiled.


    ¡°Son, I have not heard that word in many years. And never from the lips of a human. Where did you learn it?¡± There was a knowing look in his eyes, but no enmity, only unbridled curiosity. He reminded me of a professor whose student had just given him an opportunity to give a lecture on a subject he treasured.


    I didn¡¯t think Jargyn was the type to turn me in¡ªhe was sympathetic to elves. Even so, I couldn¡¯t very well tell him my traveling companion was an elf, especially in a city where they were outlawed. When I hesitated to answer, however, the old man waved a hand in the air as if clearing smoke.


    ¡°Never mind, it matters not. If you will listen, I will tell you what I know.¡±


    Jargyn explained that the Godtrail was a kind of trial or rite of passage performed by acolytes seeking to become priests and priestesses of Danu, whose powers and wisdom enabled them great weight in matters relating to their community.


    The subject led Jargyn on tangents relating tales of his travels, and the many beautiful enclaves he had visited and the people he¡¯d met. I let him talk as long as he wished. It was an opportunity to focus on a happier, greener time in the world.


    Eventually, he came back to the subject. At the end of the trail, the acolyte would then have an encounter with the goddess herself. Unfortunately, the details of what the trial itself consisted of were a closely guarded secret. For me, one of the most fascinating details was this: While there was only one Godtrail, apparently, it could be accessed through any seedling of the Great God Tree, which were themselves called God Trees.


    ¡°If any of the God Trees remain,¡± Jargyn said, his sadness returning, ¡°then they would have to be far beyond the Tempest basin and deep in the elflands.¡±


    Even though I found Jargyn¡¯s company pleasant overall, I left with a somewhat sour feeling in my stomach. Being reminded of how much the world had gone to shit hadn¡¯t done me any good.


    The training facility near the Adventurer''s Guild was an extension of the building, though one didn¡¯t need to be a member to use it. I¡¯d already learned that it wasn''t out of charity, but an opportunity for groups to recruit. Three days ago, when I used the range to test my revolver after I took it to a gunsmith for repairs¡ªit needed a thorough clean, springs replaced and a new firing pin¡ªI¡¯d apparently cleared several courses in record time. The vultures wouldn¡¯t stop circling.


    I lost count of how many adventurers tracked me down and insisted I join their party, until I nearly lost my cool and knocked an especially unruly ¡°dual-wielding¡± idiot upside the head with the butt of my gun.


    Of all people, Bear had seen the exchange and intervened. When he learned what happened, he personally took care of it with the guild and, to my relief, I hadn¡¯t been approached since.


    ¡°Adventurer¡± is a common enough word thrown around to describe anyone with a gun, the ability to fight, or even just an explorer. For this reason, it doesn¡¯t matter to me if I am taken for one. Call me a gunslinger, adventurer, explorer¡­ I don¡¯t care. It won¡¯t do to be confused for a mercenary.


    That might make me a hypocrite. After all, wasn¡¯t I a bounty hunter for so many years in Valenheim? Still, I don¡¯t want anything to do with merchants of blood. Not anymore.


    The ¡°Adventurer¡± in Adventurer¡¯s Guild is, in my estimation, a euphemism for soldiers of fortune, and their guild is nothing more than a place for mercenaries to pick up contracts, assemble parties, and participate in glorified pissing contests for who killed what and how much money they made off it. I¡¯m sure there are decent fellows who are members; needless to say, I have no intention of ever joining.


    When I reached the firing range, Ayla was still at it. She¡¯d gotten pretty effective at shooting targets accurately and quickly at various ranges. Today, she¡¯d even gathered a small crowd.


    She was engaged in a friendly competition with a shooter on another lane: a black man with dreadlocks¡ªBear.


    Bear wielded a long-ranged semi-automatic repeater. Ayla her bolt action rifle. The range operator called ¡°The range is hot!¡± Then the buzzer rang and each began firing.


    Down range, moving steel plates pinged on both lanes. Bear¡¯s lane with more at a time, given that his weapon was capable of firing many more rounds before reloading. Ayla¡¯s targets pinged at a slower rate, but steady, and louder.


    The contest had three stages: five moving targets at one hundred meters, standing; five at three hundred meters, kneeling; and five at five hundred meters, prone.


    They were each allowed only fifteen rounds.


    The objective was to hit all the targets as quickly as possible. Despite both going through bullets at a drastically different rate¡ªAyla could only shoot every two or three seconds¡ªtheir accuracy was worlds apart. Not so much at the close range, but at the longest distances, and in the contest in general, Ayla missed only one of the furthest targets. Bear hit none of the five hundreds and missed one three hundred.


    In summary, their skills were night and day. The weapons they used had a lot to do with it¡ªthe rifle was optimized for accuracy, while repeaters optimized for speed¡ªbut that didn¡¯t make Ayla¡¯s accomplishment any less challenging. The final score was eleven to fourteen.


    When it was over, the small crowd applauded, and Bear offered Ayla a hand, taking the loss in good spirits. He noticed me then barked loudly, ¡°Your woman can shoot! You lucky bastard.¡±


    ¡°Heck yeah!¡± A cheerful voice called out from the back wall. Renn stood on a stack of crates so she could see over everyone else and watch the competition clearly. ¡°And don¡¯t you forget she¡¯s mine and you can¡¯t have her!¡±


    That was another thing. Since agreeing to be part of Renn¡¯s escort team, Renn had been possessive and vocal about having recruited ¡°the best gunslingers in the east.¡± At first, I couldn¡¯t figure why she would, until I got to know her better and realized there was no reason. There were many things she did purely for her own amusement.


    Ayla,scowled as she made a beeline toward me. When she stood in front of me she stomped her foot like a petulant child . ¡°I missed one.¡±


    I grinned. ¡°Aye. Looks like you need more practice.¡±

 Chapter Nineteen: Beers and Brawls

    Chapter 19: Beers and Brawl


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Ayla went back to the Golden Pony, while I joined Bear for a beer. He¡¯d asked me to pay him back this way after he stepped in to stop people from hounding me for recruitment. It seemed like a small price for a moment of peace.


    The Lucky Strike Tavern was one of the first establishments in Tempest, back when it was just a fledgling settlement made up of survivors and repurposed scraps salvaged from ruins. Its name came from one of the early nicknames of the town after the first settlers discovered a natural aquifer while mining nearby ruins, making it the ideal place for a permanent settlement.


    Its rough-hewn exterior, constructed from weathered planks of wood and mismatched stone blocks, was half buried in the city that had grown around it, and required us to descend a short flight of stairs to reach the tavern proper. A heavy, iron-bound door like something stripped from a bunker, creaked loudly as it swung open.


    Inside, the dim light from oil lanterns cast flickering shadows across the room, highlighting the eclectic decor, which included artifacts and trinkets hanging from the walls which were a patchwork of scavenged tiles. Overall, it was kind of nostalgic.


    ¡°Trevor!¡± Bear barked at the barkeep as soon as we were through the door. ¡°Pour us a couple of Tornado Blondes. Off the tap; none of that cheap canned shit.¡±


    Trevor was the second dwarf I¡¯d seen in Tempest. He was missing a forearm, with his white shirt tied in a knot at the elbow. There was a glass mug under his arm, which he was polishing with his good hand. He must have been standing on an elevated platform that ran across the floor behind the bar, because he stood eye-level when we sat down.


    ¡°Coming right up, boss.¡± Trevor gave the mug a deft flip and caught it, then poured a pair of bright golden beers from the modified tap that let him easily handle one-handed. It was a perfect pour with a nice head. ¡°Enjoy.¡±


    The tavern wasn¡¯t too full in the middle of the afternoon, just a group of adventurers huddled in the corner and a pair of old men drinking an amber liquid at the end of the bar.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you took me up on the beer.¡± Bear said. ¡°Thought you were all lip service when I named the price for getting the word out there that you were a sonofabitch who people oughta leave alone.¡±


    I tipped my mug back. The fizzy yellow liquid went down cool and swirled slightly as it went down¡ªjust like a tornado. It was a weird sensation but not unpleasant. A strange way to use magic, sure, but there were worse ways too.


    ¡°Don¡¯t pretend like you did me a favor. Aren¡¯t you just going to do the same now you¡¯ve got me alone and tied to my beer?¡±


    Bear slapped me on the shoulder. Friendly, not hard despite his obvious strength. ¡°Guilty as charged, brother. It¡¯s a pain. I''m that dwarf bastard¡¯s favorite errand boy. At least it pays well.¡± He looked up at Trevor, whose eyebrow was arched so high it met his hairline. ¡°No offense to dwarves, Trevor. Just to employers in general.¡±


    Trevor nodded, mollified. Like any good barkeep, he resumed polishing glasses.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get on with it. The sooner I refuse, the sooner we can enjoy the suds in peace.¡±


    Bear shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re something else, man. It¡¯s no wonder the governor¡¯s obsessed to get you on the team.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know I was that important.¡±


    He shrugged, an awkward gesture with his bulging shoulders. ¡°Not many Branded around these days. They say most went mad after the Shattering. It¡¯s a shame about Marcus.¡± Bear took a swig of his beer but I could feel his eyes studying me sideways. He wasn¡¯t convinced I had nothing to do with Marcus¡¯s death. ¡°Tell me true, is that sonofabitch really dead?¡±


    I gave a slight nod. ¡°Food for carrion eaters.¡±


    ¡°Shit. Must¡¯ve been an epic battle.¡±


    I winced. I was never keen on reliving a fight. Especially one where those I fought alongside were dead. Moreso since I¡¯d been the one to kill them.


    Bear noticed my discomfort. ¡°Alright then. The offer is this¡ª¡± He told me how much coin and resources Prospero was willing to expend to entice me to join.


    ¡°Not interested.¡±


    ¡°Ha! You¡¯re cold, man. Didn¡¯t even bat an eye.¡± Bear finished his drink and waved a hand for Trevor to serve another. ¡°You know that figure is the upfront investment. The reward for success is ten times that. You sure that¡¯s how it¡¯s gonna be?¡±


    I didn¡¯t bother saying more. He could tell I wouldn¡¯t budge. Instead of pushing the subject any more, he took a moon clip from his jacket pocket and set it on the bar. There were six runecarved bullets in the caliber of my gun. They buzzed with a kind of magic I wasn¡¯t familiar with. The sensation was like eating something that sucked the moisture from your mouth as soon as you bit into it¡ªlike an unripe potato.


    Bear pointed at the clip. ¡°It¡¯s the last I¡¯ll say about it. This is a gift from me. If you change your mind, these bullets are guaranteed to kill a greater spirit. Our teams all have a lot more than that, but I got a feeling if you¡¯re up against the fucker, you won¡¯t need any more.¡±


    I considered refusing. Accepting a gift often comes with an implicit price.


    Like he read my mind, Bear said:¡°Before you turn ¡®em down, you should know that these bullets are rare as hell. They¡¯re the governor¡¯s own design. Anti-magic bullets. Even if you never come across the spirit¡­¡±


    I asked the barkeep for a spare hand towel and wrapped the gift in it, then pocketed it in a belt pouch. I didn¡¯t want to touch them with my bare hand. ¡°Does Prospero know about this¡­gift?¡±


    Bear stretched languidly. ¡°Nope.¡±


    I smiled. ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Hope you never need ¡®em.¡± Bear knocked on the bar. The barkeep took that to mean he wanted a couple more beers rather than a ward against bad luck. Good naturedly, he offered to buy that round for me too.


    True to his word, Bear didn¡¯t bring up my joining his expedition again. Although he did tell me about his party¡¯s plans, it felt more like just keeping a friendly conversation going rather than something with an ulterior motive. They were setting out tomorrow, and planned to travel south to do some monster culling, then work their way northeast until they reached the Sybiline Mountain Range, where the darkling and his greater spirit were said to reside.


    It was the opposite route we would take escorting Renn and her father. One of the biggest contributors to our decision to take the escort job was that we would be traveling north to the border towns. It was the perfect opportunity to both learn the lay of the land, as well as potentially make contact with the elves of the plane. Ayla and I agreed that if she could, she would go with them and my oath would be fulfilled. Then I would be free to complete my contract with Renn, and afterwards, continue my journey beyond the basin to Hope¡¯s End. I had already made a call from the Sending Office in Tempest to let them know I was delayed. The mayor of Hope¡¯s End was just pleased I had made it across the Waste safely and informed me that their gunsmith was still alive and kicking. So long as I could make it before the end of the season, it would be alright.


    Soon, it was time to go. Surprisingly, I enjoyed Bear¡¯s company more than I thought I would. He knew not to pry into my past, and I knew not to pry into his. We were just two people whose lives revolved around violence sharing a beer and amenable company away from that violence. Though, as opposed to me, I got the sense Bear enjoyed the thrill of danger.


    And Bear could sense my aversion to it. As I got up to go, he indirectly asked me about it. It caught me off guard; I didn¡¯t expect a deeply philosophical question out of the big man. ¡°What are you looking for out of this life, Jace? Clearly it isn¡¯t money.¡±


    I meant to blow off his question by answering with something trite and superficial. Instead, the truth spilled out of me like water from an overfilled cup. ¡°A life far away from killing¡ªsomeplace quiet to die.¡±


    Bear¡¯s affable smile became solemn. ¡°Then, may you find it, brother.¡± We clasped arms.


    Of course, the gods of irony decided that would be a perfect moment to laugh in my face. As I got up from my barstool, the group of adventurers that had been in the corner now stood, arms crossed arrayed in a line in front of us.


    I recognized their leader in the center. He was Two-Pistols¡ªI¡¯d forgotten his name¡ªthe crackshot whose speed and accuracy record I had obliterated at the shooting range. Incidentally, he¡¯d been one of the people who tried to recruit me into the guild, and his party. Recalling our exchange, I also remembered that I hadn¡¯t been very nice to him.


    I¡¯d been downright rude. He approached me after I¡¯d already suffered numerous people asking the same thing. In fact, he was the one I nearly got into a fight with and the inciting incident that led Bear to intervene on my behalf. That said, the kid¡¯s arrogant attitude hadn¡¯t helped.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°What ho, gunslinger. Bear. Fancy meeting y¡¯all here.¡± Two-Pistols knuckled his nose. His narrow face, sharp nose, and slick-back hair made him look like a bird of prey. ¡°Boys, ain¡¯t it nice?¡±


    Three on his right. Four on his left. They all voiced agreement in the way henchmen do for their boss¡ªslimy and ass-licking.


    Bear scoffed, then growled humorlessly. ¡°What¡¯s crawled up your ass, Altivo?¡± He gestured at the group. ¡°Why does it look like you¡¯re looking to start something?¡±


    Two-Pistols¡ªAltivo¡ªspat on the floor between us. ¡°That¡¯s between me and that bastard next to you.¡±


    Bear crossed his arms and widened his stance. Somehow, he managed to make himself look even bigger than he already was. ¡°You¡¯ve got nerve, picking a fight in front of me. You sure this is how you want to die? Something wrong with your head?¡±


    The slick-haired man raised his hands like a man surrendering, but not with the face of one. Then gestured to me. ¡°You talk for this friend now? My, my¡ªyou two lovers on a date?¡±


    Bear¡¯s fists clenched and he nearly took a step forward, stopping when I put a hand on his arm. ¡°Easy.¡± I sighed. ¡°Let me.¡± The big man leaned back on the bar, eyes screaming bloody murder.


    ¡°As you wish.¡±


    ¡°Pisto¡ªI mean, Altivo.¡± I held my hands palm up. ¡°If this is about my being rude to you before, I apologize. I took out my frustration on you.¡±


    Altivo¡¯s initial surprise morphed into mocking laughter. ¡°I didn¡¯t take you for someone who cowed easily.¡± He took out a thin cigar and flicked open a lighter to light it.


    ¡°No smoking.¡± The sound of a scattershot pumping loading a shell was impossible to ignore. We all turned to see Trevor, finishing his one handed pump with the stock of the gun braced on the bar. The barrel may have pointed up, but by the way he handled the weapon, anyone could see he knew how to use it.


    Frowning, Altivo put away the thin cigar.


    ¡°Clearly, you idjits plan on fighting.¡± Trevor sounded like someone who¡¯d gone through this situation before. In fact, he¡¯d sounded more upset about someone smoking in his bar than fighting. ¡°Fucker who damages my collection on the walls gets a dose of buckshot to the face. Loser pays for any other damages. No guns, no knives. No one dies. On my mark once everyone¡¯s agreed.¡±


    Oh¡ªTrevor wasn¡¯t angry. He was looking forward to it. He set the rules so things didn¡¯t get out of hand, and kept the scatter shot on display as a threat of punishing anyone who didn¡¯t adhere to them.


    Bear shot me a questioning look. ¡°How ¡®bout it, pacifist? No shame in bowing out. I can give ¡®em their lesson all on my own.¡±


    Shaking my head, I cracked my knuckles. ¡°No chance. I like Trevor¡¯s rules. I got nothing against a bit of sport. I¡¯ll take the right, you take the left?¡±


    Bear grinned. ¡°Next round of beer¡¯s on whoever knocks out the most teeth? I got an itch to win something after your woman kicked my ass at the range today.¡±


    ¡°Nah. Don¡¯t want that weighing on my conscience. First to disable his four wins.¡±


    ¡°Ugh¡­ Fine.¡± Bear grunted.


    I took off my hat and placed it on the bar, then I raised my fists, feeling a familiar rush of adrenaline. ¡°Ready when you are barkeep.¡±


    Trevor¡¯s voice was pregnant with unbridled glee. ¡°Three¡­two¡­one¡­ Go!¡±


    Even before Trevor finished his countdown, Altivo dashed forward swinging a wild haymaker meant to catch me off guard. I expected as much, and stepped into the arc of the punch. I blocked and caught his sleeve with one hand, then hooked my other arm under; turn and squat; lift then rotate¡ªresulting in a perfectly executed throw.


    I caught a brief glimpse of Altivo¡¯s confused expression as the world around him spun without him having a clue why. Then slam! His back hit the ground.


    That knocked the wind out of him. It also surprised the rest of the attackers targeting me. I sprinted wide of the bully with a ponytail on my far right. I needed him to give his companions his back and make them have to go around him.


    Ponytail was quicker than expected, launching a swift kick at my midsection. I caught it under my arm, ribs creaking from the impact, then drove forward aggressively. He stumbled back, knocking over a table and chairs on his way down.


    Bully three had a pink, patchy birthmark over one eye, number four had round cheeks and an enormous fat nose. Birthmark and Fatnose came at me at the same time.


    Birthmark lunged with a straight punch aimed at my face, while Fatnose charged in low, arms spread for a double-leg takedown. The takedown was the greater threat. I sprawled hard, shooting my hips back and dropping my weight on his shoulders. In a perfect world, he would have let go and fallen on his face. Instead, he kept a grip around one of my legs, making my life difficult while Birthmark got a few free punches at my head and ribs. I caught one in the ear that ruptured the cartilage on my upper ear, and another that cut my cheek. His ring was a weapon in its own right.


    My knee connected with Fatnose¡¯s signature facial feature, nose flattening against my knee with a sick crunch. Blood spurted like a popped water balloon. With him out of the way, I was able to bat away one of Birthmark¡¯s punches and connect a set of punches to his sides, one of which I felt dislocate a rib, then I created distance with a push kick. The man crashed against Ponytail¡ªwho had just picked himself up off the table he knocked down¡ªand they both went down together.


    I backed away, putting one of the two support columns in the tavern between me and my attackers so I could assess the situation.


    Fatnose was rolling on the floor hand to face and out of the fight, but Birthmark, Ponytail, and Altivo were all on their feet and spreading out to crowd me.


    Meanwhile, Bear¡¯s fight was a chaotic mess, and far more brutal. Apparently, even if we weren¡¯t competing with each other on who could knock out the most teeth, he¡¯d taken up the challenge anyway. At just that moment, he rammed his attacker¡¯s face into a table, knocking out an entire row of top teeth and shredding the man¡¯s lips. Teeth spilled from his mouth and one was even embedded in the table. The man gave a choked cry before falling unconscious.


    I would have considered it overkill if it hadn¡¯t been obviously justified. As the man fell, he dropped a jagged bottle he¡¯d smashed and turned into an improvised lethal weapon.


    The rest of Bear¡¯s opponents had bloody brows, noses and split lips. They got their licks in, but Bear was so big, he¡¯d just shrugged off blows as he focused on laying down the pain. Of his four, one was toothless and unconscious. One suddenly backed away nursing a broken wrist, and the last two were circling but wary as they all caught their breath.


    The difference between a real fight and fiction is how quickly they end. This one was already coming to a close and if it had been a minute I¡¯d be surprised.


    In reality, there isn¡¯t the stretched out choreography like you read in stories and see in plays. While it isn¡¯t easy to knock someone out with a single punch, that¡¯s not usually what ends a fight. A bit of pain is enough to do that. The most efficient way to end a fight when the aim isn¡¯t to kill, is breaking a wrist or kneecap. But I was holding back¡ªunlike Bear; my goal was simply blowing off steam.


    Altivo and his men who were fighting out of some overinflated sense of pride had no such qualms. Altivo ordered Birthmark and Ponytail to grab a chair. The latter did so, while the former refused.


    ¡°I¡¯m done, Al.¡± Ponytail said, clutching his dislocated rib.


    ¡°Chicken shit.¡± Altivo growled.


    Bear¡¯s exultant cry rang out just after another grunt of pain put the last of his attackers on their knees, clutching their stomach. ¡°I win, Jace! You¡¯re buying the next round.¡±


    Birthmark looked around uncertainly, then up at Altivo for guidance. The proverbial table had turned and now with Bear behind them and me in front, having just crippled six of their number, I could see his will to fight crumble.


    Altivo cursed again. Birthmark, rightly determining the brawl was over, set down his chair. That was the last straw for the slick haired asshole.


    He took two bold steps forward and I could see the bloodlust in his eyes. His left hand dropped to his side and closed around the grip of his gun.


    In a life or death situation, it was instinct when there was no choice but to draw on the Goldeneye. As soon as I¡¯d seen the murderous intent in his eye and he touched the grip, I pulled hard on my mana. My eyes shone molten gold, and, later, Bear would say that my movement was quicker than a viper¡¯s strike¡ªand as someone who, he boasted, had the reflexes to catch one mid strike¡ªBear was left speechless.


    The reality was that Altivo¡¯s draw was fast, smooth, and without wasted movement. He¡¯d chosen to draw left-handed to throw me off. It was a well practiced movement that spoke to countless hours of training, and in that moment of slowed time, I could appreciate, if not approve of, the hit to his pride and subsequent reaction to being snubbed when I outdid his record at the range.


    In fairness to his skill, if it weren¡¯t for my Goldeneye, I would have been shot.


    I strained, and followed the ethereal projection that marked the trajectory of his gun. He meant to fire from the hip, further reducing the time for me to respond.


    My hand gripped the top of his gun and pushed it aside just as it went off. My other hand quickly followed, clutching his wrist and twisting up and in an angle that would have broken it if his body didn¡¯t adjust involuntarily. The gun came free. His arm came straight and his knees hit the floor. I released his wrist before it snapped, thinking that would be an end to the exchange, but he spun to face me and went for the other gun.


    ¡°Fuck you, you sonofa¡ª¡°


    I swung, striking him square in the teeth and dazing him. Moaning, he leaned forward, then spit out teeth, blood and spit. It was unsteady, but his hand still reached for his gun again.


    Trevor hopped over the bar and pointed the scattershot at Altivo¡¯s chest. ¡°Don¡¯t fuck with my rules, idjit. You lost.¡±


    Finally, Altivo seemed to understand the situation he was in, and his loathsome spiteful eyes lost their blind fury and he slowly raised his hands in surrender.


    The party of bullies picked up their injured and emptied their money pouches on the bar table¡ªtheir tax for the damages to the tavern. Two helped Altivo to face me, and he held out his hand for his gun.


    I studied the revolver properly for the first time. It was beautiful. Masterful flourishes engraved along the chrome-plate, with a polished bone handle sporting the image of a griffin carved on both sides. I thumbed the cylinder release catch and snapped it open. It used the same 8.2 Parabellum as mine.


    Fortuitous.


    I spied the other gun on Altivo¡¯s hip. It wasn¡¯t part of a set. That was good; it might have made me feel bad to take one and not its twin.


    Rather than handing it over, I flipped the weapon barrel down and tucked it into my belt. ¡°My prize.¡± Then let my hand rest on it, ready to draw if he showed any sign of resisting.


    Blood and spit streamed from one side of his face, but he still managed a choked growl. ¡°I¡¯m going¡­to kill you.¡±


    ¡°Not today.¡±


    Then the entire party limped out of the tavern with their tails between their legs. There was scattered applause from several of the patrons that had entered since I started drinking with Bear, and who had spectated the brawl.


    I donned my hat and tipped it at them.


    Bear squatted by the scattered teeth Altivo left on the floor. He grinned up at me with a face that said ¡°I thought you weren¡¯t playing.¡± He pointed at each one, counting, then barked a laugh. ¡°Looks like you¡¯re buying next time.¡± I couldn¡¯t help rolling my eyes.


    When I left Lucky¡¯s I was sore, and a bit miffed the fight got out of hand, but overall in good spirits. I¡¯d gotten a workout, and gained a suitable addition to my arsenal.

 Chapter Twenty: Nugget

    Chapter 20: Nugget


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    A month ago, the idea that humans could be anything but evil seemed impossible. Humans started the war; they stole our lands, magic, and resources; they were greedy, disgusting creatures devoid of honor or compassion.


    Then, suddenly there was an exception¡ªJace. He was an ex-soldier of all things. The kind of human I should despise above all others. Someone who, by his own admission, slew more of my brethren than he can count.


    And yet, Jace¡¯s repeated efforts to keep me alive¡ªin spite of a hate I made no efforts to hide¡ªchallenged my expectations. When he killed people I thought were his friends for my sake, my convictions were obliterated. Here was a human who was not evil. Here was one human I could trust. This left my heart in turmoil.


    When we arrived at Tempest, I still simmered with the heat of our previous traveling companions¡¯ betrayal. Other than Jace, someone who must be an anomaly, no others were trustworthy.


    The human city was a constant reminder of what I¡¯d lost; of scorched earth; of silence where once there was laughter. It was a dangerous place where the threat of discovery meant death or imprisonment. Every human was a target for my rage, a threat to assess.


    Rage and loathing are difficult emotions to sustain for an extended period of time. Intellectually, it is impossible to forget that the anger is justified, but at some point, the body must rest. I was tired from weeks of travel under the heat, constant vigilance, and the weight of my hatred.


    Renn showed me a playful side to humans. I didn¡¯t want to trust, but she introduced me to a place where humans appreciated cuisine from my homeland, and my gratitude created dissonance with my resolve to hate. I saw humans being kind to each other. Later, I would see another side to them, one that reinforced my own prejudices, but the cracks in my ironclad beliefs were spreading.


    Two days later, my body shut down. I became ill and sweated the whole night, suffering nightmares of a burning Tyrna, the many friends and family who died before my eyes, and the many places we¡¯d tried to call home before we were once again driven away. But when I woke, I found that like the fire in my dream, the intense emotions I tried to hold on to had gone up in smoke and only a void remained.


    It is little over a week since we left the Waste behind us. I have gone outside enough times to know that as long as I do not remove my head wrap or outright tell anyone I am an elf, the humans will treat me as one of their own.


    Jace has decided it is a good idea to join Renn and Cornelius, and we will guard their merchant caravan, at least for a round trip


    There is a chance we will find some of my people in the northern plains. The expedition has been delayed, however, for reasons I do not understand.


    So I explore the city. At first, I did it out of boredom. Now, I must admit I do it out of curiosity, and because in some small way, I know that, while I am not eager to call any of them friends, I am beginning to see humans as people, with a nuanced culture. Not a race composed of senseless killers.


    This morning I decide that instead of spending it at the shooting range¡ªBear has already left on his own mission and nothing else there poses a challenge¡ªI will wander aimlessly. Renn spots me from the breakfast hall and sprints toward me.


    ¡°Ayla!¡± She says. ¡°Do you want to come with me to a tea shop that opened on eight street? I¡¯m bored out of my mind waiting for Corny and Jace to settle the permit amendment requirement issue¡ªwhich is honestly just bullshit that it¡¯s taking this long.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather not. I feel like people watching in silence, and you¡¯re no good at quiet.¡±


    Renn rolls her eyes. ¡°Ouch. You really know how to let a girl down easy.¡± She doesn¡¯t sound hurt by my directness. I have learned she has a thick skin and finds my ¡°sandpaper personality¡± amusing. ¡°Well, if you change your mind, the place is called Bitters. They have outdoor seating if you want to people watch with me instead of alone.¡±


    She winks, and though I show no sign, on the inside, the corner of my mind twists upwards. I know exactly what she means. Renn¡¯s idea of people watching was ¡°pointing out cute guys¡±, a pastime I find utterly ridiculous¡­and somewhat amusing to watch.


    Renn waves goodbye then skips back to the breakfast hall. I leave the inn and head to the market. It¡¯s a busy enough place to start.


    The market is especially interesting to me because it is a microcosm of human behavior. There are stalls and storefronts operated by both the fair-skinned and black and brown people that make up the majority of the population of Tempest. Their interactions illustrate the many personalities and prejudices between the groups.


    The dark-skinned peoples are primarily from the far southern lands, which were dry and desert even before the Shattering. In my understanding, their skin color is a natural adaptation that makes them superior at dealing with relentless sun. I think their color would have been convenient for me living and traveling through the Waste.


    The way Renn explained it to me, the fair-skinned apparently settled Tempest first, and, in the beginning, felt threatened by the sudden influx of ¡°southerners.¡± Meanwhile, the southerners banded together to form their own unique culture and created a strong community in the city that now represents nearly half the population. Early in Tempest¡¯s history, they were segregated. But intermarriage and the need to depend on each other tore down walls. And yet, an echo of that prejudice is still there among some.


    I hear street performers playing music between the din of the rhythmic shuffle of footsteps, the melodic shouts of vendors advertising discounts on fruits and fragrant spices, and the hum of conversations.


    Moving in the direction of the music, I navigate the crowd of street walkers. They wear colorful garments in strange cuts. Less flowing and natural than what I¡¯m used to, with angular cuts and adornments that serve no practical purpose that I can see. Even bright hats that do not protect from the sun and patterned capes draped over a shoulder, useless for the wind or cold.


    It is amusing, and I know it is only possible to dress this way because the city knows peace. It also makes adventurers and travelers easy to distinguish from the rest. There have been markedly less ever since those participating in the mayor¡¯s quest set out from the city.


    The musicians sit on a street corner, their patchwork clothes and plumed hats distinguishing them as bards¡ªthe catchall name for entertainers. An open box lay before them, where people have dropped coin. There are other gifts next to the box, such as a collection of fruits and even a bottle of rice wine.


    The band consists of three women, and despite the difference in their ages, by the similarities in their features¡ªthey each have a mole in the same place at the corner of their lip¡ªthey must be a family. The youngest woman plays an ebony flute. Its deep, slow melody is sweet and melancholic. The next oldest, who was probably her mother, plays a string instrument nearly as big as she is, its honeyed drone produced by the friction of a bow across the strings. The last must be the grandmother. She writes the punctuation of each phrase with marching slaps along the edge of the box on which she sits.


    The music stirs a weird nostalgia inside me, despite never having heard the tune.


    It is these foreign yet familiar elements of human culture that impress upon me just how similar elves and humans are. The presentation may be different, with different nuances, and yet we are fundamentally the same.


    Out of the corner of my eye, a boy catches my attention and my heart skips a beat. He is dressed in rags and his skin is brown, but I know that face. My body moves on its own and my voice shouts a name: ¡°Ewan!¡±


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


    Of course, he doesn¡¯t turn around. How could he? Ewan died when I was still a child. The disconnect makes my brain hurt, and memories I haven¡¯t thought of in more than a century flash before me as if they were yesterday:


    A pale faced boy with a broken body. Many elves work together to pull him out of a hole in the ground. While playing in the woods, his brothers say they heard the earth roar, then watched as it opened its mouth like the jaws of a monster and swallowed him whole. His brothers stand over him, weeping as his father sets the boy down on the ground. My own hot tears stream down my face as I shout at them that they were wrong, he couldn¡¯t be dead. How could the forest we all loved do such a thing, and why?


    Too many years and too many deaths stand between that time and now, so the pain of loss I felt then holds no bite now. It is ridiculous that I should feel anything at all. I blame the music for putting me in such a state.


    Before I walk away, I toss three coins into the musician¡¯s box and the flute player¡¯s eyes smile at me; then I head toward the boy.


    He stands still in front of a fruit stall, just outside the shade of its awning, while the fair-skinned vendor casts sideways glances at him between negotiating with a heavyset woman filling her basket.


    It has mottled brown fur, a ferret-like body, and a bushy tail. Standing on two legs, it sniffs the air, turning its head as the red gem embedded in its forehead catches the light.


    It is a carbuncle¡ªa rare species of creature that is said to be attracted only to the pure hearted. The carbuncle pulls on the boy¡¯s ear with some urgency, then points up the street with a tiny finger. I follow the boy¡¯s gaze. At first, there is nothing remarkable in that direction. Until I hear the shouts.


    ¡°Stop! Thief!¡± A voice calls out, nearly drowned by the din of the market, but loud enough that several people turn to see what the commotion is.


    Not two seconds later, a figure bursts from between a group of spectators, knocking several of them over. Presumably, this is the thief. A dark-skinned man with a hooded cloak that partially conceals his face, and a sack over one shoulder. He turns to look behind him as he sprints forward, failing to notice the boy with the carbuncle who stands in his way.


    The boy does not react in time and the thief knocks into him hard. The thief tries to keep his feet, but the sack throws him off balance and he rolls into the corner of the fruit stand, breaking one of the shelves and spilling oranges into the street.


    The guards¡¯ shouts grow louder, and the thief picks up his sack, scrambling to get away.


    Meanwhile, the boy slowly gets to his feet, the carbuncle chirping worriedly on his head. In his hands, he holds a jewel encrusted diadem. It must have fallen out of the thief¡¯s sack when they fell.


    Then three uniformed guards arrive at the scene. The first is a tall, lanky man with jet-black hair and a protruding throat knot. His eyes dart from his skin, to ragged clothes, then fixate on the diadem in the boy¡¯s hands, and he does not hesitate to draw the wrong conclusion.


    ¡°I caught one of them!¡± The lanky guard shouts. ¡°You two follow his partner. I¡¯ll take care of this one.¡± The two other guards follow this order and continue their sprint after the real thief, while he towers menacingly over the boy. ¡°Thought you could get away with it, didn¡¯t ya?¡±


    It''s absurd. Can¡¯t the guard see that the boy was just an innocent bystander who happened to pick up something the other had dropped? The boy isn¡¯t even trying to run away, or keep the stolen item for himself. Rather, he holds it up, offering it for the officer to take it back.


    The lanky man sees none of these things, rather only the judgment he already passed. In a practiced motion, the guard slides a black club from behind his belt, then swings it at the boy¡¯s head¡ªwhere it connects with my forearm and shoulder in a high shield block.


    A small vortex of wind whirls around me as I whisper the name of the wind. With my right hand, I cross my body and grip the hilt of my sword, then thrust the butt into the guard¡¯s gut. Immediately after, the wind coalesces and pushes the man backward several meters, where he falls to his knees clutching his stomach and gasping for air.


    I blink.


    When did I move? Why did I move? This child is nothing to me. Have I just put my own life and safety at risk for the sake of a boy I don¡¯t even know¡ªbecause he looks like someone from my childhood? Ridiculous. And yet, my body moved on its own.


    ¡°What do you¡­think you are¡­doing, citizen?¡± The guard says between gulps of air.


    It takes me a moment to understand why he does not immediately attack me. I do not look like a bandit or thief. In fact, I am quite well dressed, all things considered.


    While my garments are less flashy than the more ¡°fashionably oriented¡± people of Tempest, my city clothes are of good cut and quality. My newly restored blue cloak¡ªthe enchanted cloak Jace gave me¡ªis clasped on the shoulder with an expensive silver brooch. My boots are premium leather. My green tunic and fitted trousers are fresh and unsoiled from long travel.


    I may not look like what humans consider a noblewoman, but I can ¡°pass for a wealthy merchant¡¯s daughter¡±, or so Renn had joked.


    All of this contributes greatly to the guard¡¯s reluctance to simply respond with aggression in turn without giving me a chance to explain myself. It helps that my attack was clearly not meant to seriously injure, rather to stop him from harming the child. My sword is still sheathed; though, depending on how the guard responds going forward, it may not be so for long.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you?¡± I shout at the guard. ¡°You could have killed him. He is just a child!¡±


    The guard pushes himself up to his feet. ¡°Excuse me, ma¡¯am. But that boy is a thief. It is my duty to put paid to their kind.¡±


    Ah, so this man is one of the prejudiced kind. Not surprising. ¡°He is not a thief, but an innocent bystander who the real culprit knocked into. Your quarry dropped this thing while scrambling to get away.¡±


    The boy tugs on the edge of my cloak and I look down as he offers me the diadem the same way he¡¯d tried to do so for the guard. I smile at the carbuncle as it climbs on the boy¡¯s head and stares daggers at the man who tried to hurt his friend.


    Throwing the diadem at the guard¡¯s feet, I growl:¡°Take it and go.¡±


    The guard¡¯s face twists in anger. ¡°You expect me to believe an unlikely story? I caught that red handed and you¡­¡±


    But the people gathered around us have overcome their surprise. There is a sudden swell of shouts that echo my own indignation. The fruit stand owner is among the loudest of these, berating the guard for his ignorance and pointing at the broken stand as evidence that the thief crashed through here.


    The danger to the boy has passed, and the crowd is growing as more people come to rubber neck the increasingly loud verbal barrage against the city peace officer who nearly killed an innocent child.


    Once again, humans surprise me with their ability to show compassion even to someone they do not necessarily like. It did not escape my notice how that fruit stand owner had looked at the boy before the incident. There was only wariness in his eyes then; and yet afterward, his rage at injustice was loudest.


    That thought nudging the back of my mind, I slip away in the chaos now that I am not needed any longer.


    Not long after, when I¡¯m only a couple streets from exiting the market district, I notice I am being followed. It is the boy with the carbuncle. When our eyes meet, he lowers his head, then shuffles his feet uncertainly, like a mouse unsure whether it should run and hide. But he doesn¡¯t run.


    I should leave him behind. I should shout at him and scare him off. It wouldn¡¯t take much. He is already terrified enough as it is. He is not my responsibility.


    Instead, I nod for him to follow and he quickly catches up, a bit apprehensive, but still keeping stride next to me despite his shorter legs. The carbuncle on his shoulder chirps at me to slow down. When I do, the creature chirps twice in approval.


    The boy looks lean under his baggy rags, but not frail. Still, he is definitely underfed. ¡°Are you hungry, child?¡±


    The boy brightens, nodding enthusiastically.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± The boy shrugs and shakes his head. I get a flash of intuition and narrow my eyes. ¡°Do you¡­speak?¡±


    The corner of his mouth twists in a half smile and he shakes his head again, slower this time. His deep auburn eyes twinkle the same color as the carbuncle''s.


    ¡°That¡¯s going to be a problem. I need to call you something¡­¡± I¡¯m about to suggest a series of names until I land on something he likes, but before I can do so, the carbuncle launches its furry face right at mine, bracing itself with soft little pads on my cheeks as its nose touches mine, then deftly leaps back onto the boy¡¯s shoulder."It¡¯s the most terrifying display of adorable I¡¯ve ever encountered in my life. As our noses touch, I sense a faint connection, a gentle telepathic nudge. Suddenly, a name comes to mind unbidden. ¡°Silas?¡±


    I¡¯m stunned when the boy nods. He looks uncertain again. Perhaps, he is afraid I will react poorly to the exchange.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Silas. I won¡¯t harm you or your friend.¡± I ruffle the boy¡¯s hair. It is filthy. The boy is in desperate need of a bath. I extend a finger to the carbuncle. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± It paws at my finger, and the connection happens once more, even easier than the last time. ¡°Nugget¡­¡±


    Nugget the carbuncle turns a happy circle on Silas¡¯s shoulder. I can¡¯t help but smile. It is a fitting name. Small, precious, unique.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go. Silas, Nugget, follow me.¡± As I lead the way to Rare Delights, I vow to myself not to get attached. The plan is simple: I¡¯ll feed the child and his pet, then we¡¯ll go our separate ways.

 Chapter Twenty One: A Troubling Sense of Responsibility

    Chapter 21: A Troubling Sense of Responsibility


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    I sit across from Bordain in the yard behind Rare Delights, several empty plates of food between us. Together we watch Silas and Nugget play a game of catch and release with the chickens.


    The cook and owner never stays long, but he likes to sit with me sometimes; usually, the only thing he talks about is food. Apparently, most of his patrons have a habit of ordering only from a select few dishes, which makes them eminently boring. So he treasures those who offer a challenge. So far, I have tried nearly a dozen of his ¡°food fusion¡± experiments.


    If there¡¯s one weakness among elves, it is delicious food.


    This time, however, Bordain is more contemplative than usual. Business is slow today, so he¡¯s handed off the majority of his responsibilities to his apprentice, a freckled man who is too young to be growing so many white hairs in his goatee. Bordain rubs his leg absently as he watches the game:


    The carbuncle chases the frightened birds in circles until he successfully shepherds them into the boy¡¯s path. Then Silas dives after them, most of the time closing his hands over thin air. This time, however, Silas catches a white hen, looking like he¡¯ll be carried up into the sky by her flapping wings as she tries to get away. When she is promptly released, she scurries to her place at Bordain¡¯s feet where she clucks indignantly and keeps a wary eye on the game in relative safety.


    ¡°It¡¯s amazing no one¡¯s taken that carbuncle from him.¡± Bordain says, sipping from his tankard of ale.


    I make a sound that says, ¡°I¡¯m interested and you should definitely continue.¡±


    ¡°Once upon a time it was in vogue for rich folks to keep one or two in cages to show off. Sommat believe that gem in their head makes ¡®em lucky. Don¡¯t know about that, but ain¡¯t never seen one out in the open like this, getting on so well with a person.¡± He gestures at Silus with his ale.


    Of course he is right. Carbuncles are notoriously skittish. And while they are indeed known to bring good fortune, they can just as easily bring misfortune. It takes a truly pure hearted one to forge a bond like what the boy has.


    Bordain grins at me then leans in conspiratorially. ¡°You know, I always took you for one of them quirky stoic types who only get sentimental about food. Do you know that someone asked me the other day when they saw me with you? They asked, ¡®who¡¯s the ice lady¡¯? I just about fell off my peg leg laughing, then I said¡­¡±


    I shoot Bordain a biting sideways glare and he realizes he¡¯s skirting on thin ice. Abruptly, he clears his throat and takes the conversation elsewhere.


    ¡°Ahem, so it¡¯s a shame, really. There¡¯s more and more of this type coming from the fringe settlements¡ªrefugees like the boy.¡±


    To signal this is an acceptable shift in subjects, I ask: ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°A lot of people are losing their homes these days. If it isn¡¯t the late rainy season drying up the land, it''s the elven raids, or monsters what make orphans and widows. When survivors got nowhere to go, oftentimes if they¡¯re hard enough, they make their way here. Orphans like him have it roughest. Not a lot of jobs a kid like him can get to. Wish I could help, but I¡¯ve already got all the hands I can afford.¡±


    I try not to dwell on the child¡¯s situation. What is the point of sympathizing? When we are finished here, we will part ways and never see each other again. That is the way things must be.


    I stand and keep my voice firm. ¡°It¡¯s time to go, child.¡±


    Bordain gets up also and thanks me for coming. As if in direct contradiction to my earlier thoughts, he says: ¡°Bring back the kid and the ferret any time! You¡¯re always welcome under my roof. Food¡¯s on the house.¡±


    The boy abandons his game with the chickens, but not before bowing to them with hands clasped, like someone thanking their opponents for a good game.


    Bizarrely, all the chickens that had been playing line up in front of Silas and perform their own version of a bow. Only the white hen does not participate, rather clucking irritated as she abandons the safety under the table and heads toward her coop. I get the distinct impression that she is being a bad sport. The rooster who has been watching the game from the very start from a perch on the roof of the building, descends on the hen, berating her until she too takes a turn to bow.


    Bordain and I exchange baffled looks. The cook scratches his chin. ¡°You, uh, saw that too, right?¡±


    When we leave, I head back to the market where I found him. I wish to leave him behind along with my curiosity and pity. I refuse to acknowledge any sense of responsibility. When I glance back, I notice his small figure trying desperately to keep up, clutching Nugget close to his chest. His eyes are wide and uncertain, yet filled with an inexplicable trust. I grit my teeth and brace myself to tell him that now that I¡¯ve fed him he should go away.


    Instead, once we are near the bustling market square, the sounds of haggling merchants filling the air, a shop selling brightly colored tunics catches my eye. I turn to study the boy¡¯s rags. I feel the heavy bag of coin that Jace gave me¡ªa small portion from the sale of everything that Marcus had in his wagon.


    My plans to leave him right away dissolve. I can at least dress the child. Hopefully the vendor will not notice my inexperience trading in human money then overcharge me.


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get you fresh clothes.¡±


    The child follows me in the store and the vendor greets me with a smile, which falters when she notices the boy following me in. She almost shoos the boy away but I cut her off. ¡°I need fresh raiments for the child.¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± The woman fixes her expression. I can see her trying to piece the puzzle of how we are related.  ¡°Of course.¡±


    This is very different than it is for my people. We have no orphans. A child who loses their parents is immediately adopted by a suitable family. The pride of our ancestors will not allow us to abandon one of our own.


    The woman takes Silas¡¯s measurements, her nose wrinkling at his smell, becoming startled when Nugget peeks out from under his shirt. She continues her work, muttering that pets ought to wait outside, but I can see she finds the carbuncle as adorable as I do and does not insist that he leave.


    Then she assesses my own clothes and purses her lips, consideringly. Then she chooses a selection of tunics and linen pants that look finer than the rest. Ah, I see. She has determined that I have the money for it, and is testing my limits. She lays out three outfits.


    I pick the one that is less flashy than the others¡ªa plain blue tunic with silver trim, black pants, and sturdy leather shoes. I ask her how much and she tells me. I have no idea if this price is acceptable, but I keep a straight face and say nothing. I have seen Jace negotiate this way to great effect. The woman has no tolerance for the uncomfortable silence, and she quickly adjusts the price.


    ¡°That is acceptable.¡± Then I count out the coins and put them in her hand. ¡°Is there somewhere the boy can change?¡±


    The woman scoffs indignantly. ¡°Absolutely not! You will ruin them. And I must say, wandering around with a filthy child will draw unwanted attention. You must give him a bath and a haircut first.¡± Her tone carries a warning, hinting at the social repercussions of being seen with Silas in his current state.


    It is true. Now that I have begun this makeover, I can¡¯t let him change until he is clean. Which means that I have put myself in a predicament. My desire to be rid of him versus the growing sense of responsibility. I cannot abandon him until I have finished what I started.


    The vendor snorts derisively at my ignorance, then I see her expression shift from wariness at my intentions with Silas to something softer. ¡°Wait here.¡± She says, and goes to the back of the store, returning with new garments. ¡°These were left here by a previous customer. I was going to reuse the fabrics for something else, but¡­ Have the boy change into these. They can serve as a temporary solution until after he is clean.¡±


    By the end, the vendor was much more welcoming than she had at the beginning. The woman led us to the changing room. While I waited for Silas, she recommended a barber near a bathhouse where I could take care of ¡°the situation.¡±


    The rest of the day was occupied with this project. I felt growing pressure. I needed to be done with this. I was angry at myself for becoming so involved.


    In the end, Silas looked like a respectable young man. No longer did anyone cast judgmental glances as we walked the street.


    Silas turned out to be wiser than a boy his age should be. I never got the chance to tell him to leave. When my uncertainty and frustrations reached a critical point, he touched my arm and smiled. Then Nugget jumped on my shoulder and licked my cheek. Feelings of peace flooded me, and I knew that they were saying goodbye.


    I watched them walk away until I lose sight of them in a crowd. Then I go back to the Golden Pony feeling frustrated and miserable. I bathe and change, letting my hair down. I wish I could talk with Jace. He is already in his room. Of course I let him know I¡¯ve returned so he doesn¡¯t worry, but I refuse to talk about it when he asks me what¡¯s wrong.


    He is too perceptive for my own good.


    Night falls. I skip dinner and lay in my bed unsure how to feel. Unsure how to think.


    A persistent tapping at my window tears me from my thoughts. I cross the modest room¡ªmuch less opulent than the Zephyr¡ªand reach the window.


    ¡°Nugget?¡± The carbuncle is skittering back and forth on the sill. Its eyes are wide and desperate. When it sees me it claws at the glass. My heart sinks with a bad feeling. I open the window. ¡°What¡¯s wro¡ª¡±


    I don¡¯t get the words out before the carbuncle jumps at my face. As soon as it makes contact, visions and emotions flood my mind.


    From Nugget¡¯s perspective with his head peeking out from Silas¡¯s shirt, the boy runs along the alleys of dilapidated buildings. The damp smell of the gutter rises with every step Silas takes, his ragged breaths mingling with the distant clink of coins in the marketplace. The cold air cuts into his lungs as he looks over his shoulder. Homeless people lining the gutters look up but do not stir. The boy looks over his shoulder. Three men in grays and blacks that blend with shadow sprint after him and are gaining on him quickly.


    Silas rounds a corner. Another man in black grabs him by the waist. Then a sack descends. Silas urges Nugget to get away. Nugget refuses. He doesn¡¯t want to leave him, but Silas insists.


    ¡°Run away. You mustn¡¯t be caught. Go to the forest. Back to the home you left for my sake. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Nugget sends a thought back. ¡°But you are home.¡± He follows in the shadows, where the men can¡¯t see him. Another one comes, angry that the others let the carbuncle get away.


    So he kicks Silas. Again, and again.


    Pain. Fear. Despair. Nugget can feel everything Silas does. Nugget snarls. He follows. He will not abandon.


    Time skips. There is only darkness and muffled, gruff voices.


    ¡°The kid ain¡¯t talked yet?¡±


    ¡°No. I thinks he have to be mute. Didnae make a sound when we kicked him.¡±


    ¡°How long do we have to keep hurting him?¡±


    ¡°Boss says until the ¡®bunkle shows up. Go ahead and take off the hood. It¡¯s not like it matters now anyway.¡±


    The sack lifts. My eyes are seeing through Silas¡¯s. I look up from where I¡¯m sprawled on the ground. A hole in the ceiling lets in the light from the stars and the rift in the sky. There¡¯s a broken statue of Mara casting eerie shadows. Four men stand in a semicircle. Their faces are cruel and annoyed.


    The perspective shifts again to Nugget. Running. Not to safety, but to the one person who might care enough to help. The redhead elf, whose soul sings with blinding storms and fathomless rage.


    The vision fades, but the emotions remain, along with the knowledge of the exact route that the carbuncle took from the ruined church.


    For a heartbeat, I stand frozen, my breath catching in my throat. Nugget¡¯s plea pulses through my veins, his fear merging with my own.


    I don''t have time to think of the implications that Nugget¡ªand by proxy, Silas¡ªknow that I am an elf. I should shoo the carbuncle. They aren¡¯t my responsibility. What do these thought matter, though? I am already holding my sword and sprinting out of my room and down the stairs. Then all thought shrinks to the point of a sword. My eyes see only red, and the faces of the men I need to kill.

 Chapter Twenty Two: Entanglements

    Chapter 22: Entanglements


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    Earlier that day¡­


    GTQ Merchant Company. That was the name of Renn and Cornelius¡¯s business; it stood for ¡°Get There Quick¡±.


    ¡°It¡¯s important for a brand to stand for something.¡± Renn had said when I asked. ¡°We provide a valuable service: timely deliveries and the promise of reliable prices.¡± It was no surprise Renn was the mastermind behind that particular ¡°marketing decision.¡± The problem was that we were four days behind schedule now, which threatened to affect the company¡¯s reputation.


    The morning Ayla decided to go wandering the city to watch people, I was roped into helping GTQ solve its ¡°permit problem¡±. Apparently, the Permits and Licensing Office had requested to interview me before clearing us to exit the city.


    Renn¡¯s father Cornelius had been wrangling with the licensing office for several days now. An official had been sent to inspect his caravan¡¯s cargo and paperwork¡ªsomething the mustachioed merchant assured me was highly unusual. He also insisted that the ¡°amendment requirement¡± to which the company was being beholden was a contrived fabrication, though he did not know why he was being subjected to it. When I suggested it could be a competitor, he rolled his eyes at me in a way quite like his daughter did. And that had been the end of that line of inquiry.


    ¡°Neil, do you have any idea why they need to speak to me? I¡¯m not even your chief of security.¡± Cornelius and I hiked up the hill to City Hall, where the affable merchant fussed with his belt and the back of his pants the entire way.


    Giving up on finding the proper tightness, he sighed exasperatedly and looked up at me. ¡°I don¡¯t quite know, friend. I just know you were asked for by name.¡±


    That didn¡¯t sit right with me. There were a limited number of people that knew my name in the city, and the only person I could think of who had shown any interest in me and had the power to involve me in any kind of bureaucracy was the mayor.


    The question was, why?


    Tempest¡¯s civic center wasn¡¯t far from the market district or the main square at the heart of the city. It featured a plaza adorned with statuettes and plaques within gardens honoring the purported heroes from the war. And in the center of the plaza, there were four reflecting pools surrounding an immense statue on a dais of Prospero himself, wearing a double breasted suit and looking into the distance with a sense of self importance that I found almost sickening.


    Surrounding the plaza were the Tempest Cathedral of Valens, the constabulary, and several guild buildings¡ªthough, notably, the Adventurer''s Guild was absent, being located in the industrial district.


    Finally, on the north side of the plaza stood City Hall, an imposing building of stone and steel with columns along the entrance. It was a perfect reproduction of the Dwarven Guildhouse, an old building once situated in the capital of the Dominion. It was the seat of the dwarven people¡¯s power once upon a time. All the Masters, as they were called, gathered there to promote the height of their people¡¯s craftsmanship. Technomancers, weapon smiths, engineers¡ªthey had all been represented there.


    On the one hand, it was a clear sign of Prospero¡¯s influence in the development of the city. Even among a predominantly human city, the building was a tribute to his race, and in that way it was admirable. On the other hand, it was worrisome, given that the Dwarven Guild was primarily an organization dedicated to the advancement of the military machine.


    The entrance hall was lined with more columns with intricate carvings along each one. From the ceiling hung the bones of a behemoth with enormous curled horns, its sharp toothed, open maw angled so that as we crossed the hall, it looked as if it might lower its head and devour us at a whim.


    ¡°Unsettling, isn¡¯t it?¡± Cornelius asked, shivering slightly as he looked up at the massive bones, his orange mustache vibrating comically. ¡°The office is on the second floor. We don¡¯t want to be late for our appointment. Follow me.¡±


    I followed him down the hall and up the stairs, until we reached a door with a bronze plaque reading ¡°Permits and Licensing Office.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t help the sudden premonition that I was about to be entangled in something more than a bureaucratic hurdle, and it didn¡¯t take long to be proven right.


    The receptionist behind the mahogany desk spoke our names into a metal disk, then touched his ear to a pearl earring. Then they said ¡°Yes, Inspector. Right away, sir.¡± And led us to a conference room with a long black table. The room smelled vaguely of disinfectant.


    ¡°Good morning, gentlemen. I am Inspector Birat. Please sit.¡± The inspector was a tall lanky man with immaculate black hair, a pressed blue button down shirt, and a pocket protector from which several writing utensils stuck out. Also, he wore pristine white linen gloves. ¡°You¡¯re early. Very good. The others will be with us shortly.¡±


    ¡°Others?¡± Cornelius took a seat and eyed the inspector warily. I took a chair next to him.


    ¡°Yes, but that will not preclude us from starting the meeting. In fact, it is convenient given that we shall waste less time.¡± Birat straightened a stack of papers which were already perfectly stacked. ¡°Mr. Naranj, your compliance audit has come back satisfactory. Cargo, permits, itinerary, and security detail have all passed muster and are very clean. Congratulations.¡± The inspector took a paper from the top of the stack without so much as disturbing the others beneath it, and handed it to the merchant.


    Cornelius¡ªwhose surname I was vaguely amused by¡ªbegan to read, while I remained silent and waited for more. Birat just stared at us with an annoying perfunctory smile. For once, it was my turn to break the silence as my patience reached its limit.


    I interrupted Cornelius before he could speak, leaning forward and addressing the inspector. ¡°Quit wasting our time. Why were we summoned?¡±


    The inspector¡¯s smile widened, and yet it still did not touch his eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t you mean, why were you summoned?¡± I narrowed my eyes. The inspector chuckled, then he read from a sheet of paper in front of him. ¡°Mr. Le¨¢l, you should be pleased to be held in such high regard by our illustrious mayor.¡±


    There it was. Confirmation Prospero was involved in this mess.


    I know what happens when I lose my temper: the intensity that follows, the pressure the magic in my soul expresses upon the world around me when I let it loose. I usually keep a tight lid on it. But at that moment, the tap slipped open for an instant.


    ¡°Explain.¡±


    The inspector tugged once at his collar as if it was too tight, and droplets of sweat instantly started forming on his forehead. Otherwise, he was professional, his voice and eyes steady; his eyes unfaltering.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°Mr. Naranj¡ª¡± When addressed, Cornelius, who was staring at the document before him, looked up. He was not happy. ¡°¡ªshould consider it an honor to have been so wise as to hire a gunslinger of your caliber. The mayor was quite impressed with your record. Both during the war, and your work in Valenheim. It is thanks to you that the GTQ company was selected for a special mission.¡±


    So the mayor had made inquiries into my background. For a man like him, a few calls to key people in Valenheim would be all it took to get all the information he needed.


    Cornelius cursed under his breath, then passed the document he¡¯d been reading to me. ¡°We¡¯ve been doing business here for seven years, inspector, and never before has something like this been done. This is absurd.¡± He was more direct than I¡¯d ever heard him. His usual bumbling affability was slipping, hinting at something harder beneath the layers of fluff.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid it is an urgent matter.¡± Birat¡¯s smile twisted into an insincere commiserating frown.


    I scanned the document in question. It listed the results of the inspection, confirming everything the inspector told us so far. The rest of it, however, read like a contract¡ªwith both Cornelius¡¯s and my signature required at the bottom. It adjusted GTQ¡¯s itinerary slightly, and required that we accept and protect a VIP passenger, whose safety would be my responsibility.


    I had no idea how that would work, given that I wasn¡¯t even the head of security of the GTQ company¡¯s caravan. Not to mention that the document also said that he would have a pair of escorts of his own and his own wagon.


    We were tasked with escorting this VIP to Fort Magnus, a northern bastion named¡ªrather tastelessly¡ªafter the Technomancer General of the Western Dominion. He was one of the human architects behind the Shattering. The whole thing made no sense and left me uneasy.


    Birat took out a white handkerchief and dabbed delicately at the sweat on his forehead and brow. ¡°Consider this a favor for our illustrious mayor.¡± His tone implied it was anything but; rather, it said, ¡°you don¡¯t have a choice.¡±


    As if on cue, the door to the conference opened and four people poured in, and I caught the tail end of their conversation; it was the thin, nasal voice of someone I did not recognize: ¡°¡­and reliable. The long ears are desperate. If the plans hadn¡¯t been leaked, then¡ª¡° The conversation was abruptly cut off when Mayor Prospero raised his hand to stop him.


    The owner of the voice was a stocky fellow my own height, with sunken eyes and thick lips. He and the two men behind¡ªtaller men, with muscular builds, angular cheekbones and close cropped military haircuts¡ªeach wore matching green uniforms with rank insignias on their collars. The nasally-voiced man was a colonel, the men behind him sergeants, likely elites.


    The mayor ran fingers through his blonde, perfectly oiled beard. Today he was not wearing his technomancer¡¯s robes, rather a crisp double breasted blue suit¡ªmaybe even the same he¡¯d worn when he posed for the statue in the civic center plaza. ¡°I see they arrived early.¡± He sounded pleased. Looking to Birat for confirmation, the inspector answered that we had already been informed of our ¡°mission.¡±


    ¡°Excellent.¡± The mayor clapped his hands together. ¡°Colonel Fyoran, I¡¯d like to introduce you to Mrs. Naranj and Le¨¢l. Merchant of the caravan you¡¯ll be joining, and the Branded Soul.¡±


    Of course. The reputation of the Branded. That was what they were after. Not that the sergeants were too happy about it. Their hot glares were full of disdain.


    ¡°Yes, that will do nicely.¡± The colonel smacked his lips. Then he studied me the same way one might study a mount to assess its value. With two fingers he made a ¡°come hither¡± gesture. ¡°Stand, so I can get a better look at you.¡±


    I did not stir. I felt myself fuming. The tap opened more. The pressure in the room increased such that the air stirred like steam. The inspector leaned back in his chair, visibly grimacing.


    Prospero was unfazed. The colonel and his men, however, took an unconscious step back.


    Cornelius next to me cleared his throat uncomfortably. ¡°Jace¡­¡±


    I reigned my anger in and tightened the lid. ¡°Sorry, Neil. I let it get away from me.¡± To Prospero and the others, I growled. ¡°I am not your dog. I will not be ordered to do tricks for you. I will not be ordered at all.¡±


    Colonel Fyoran looked uncertain for a moment. Prospero patted him on the arm¡ªan awkward gesture that required him to reach up, given his shorter stature.


    ¡°Intimidating, isn¡¯t he? Worry not, colonel. He may be unbroken, but he can be counted on. By all accounts, he is a man of his word. Isn¡¯t that right, Mr. Le¨¢l?¡±


    I almost cursed him out right then and there. Why should I take any of Prospero¡¯s bullshit? But I was starting to understand the stakes. True, if I had to, I could find a way out of the city with Ayla and head out on our own. Though it might make some things more difficult, we didn¡¯t exactly need to travel with the caravan, and I doubted Prospero would order his guards to try and stop us.


    But Prospero knew I wouldn¡¯t do that. He¡¯d looked into me. Indeed, I wasn¡¯t the sort to go back on my word without good reason. I¡¯d already agreed to be part of GTQ¡¯s security team. Based on what the inspector and Prospero had implied so far, should I refuse, GTQ¡¯s permit wouldn¡¯t be signed and they¡¯d be unable to leave the city.


    Cornelius must have known this too, but even so, he stood abruptly and growled. ¡°I refuse to submit to extortion, mayor. Nor will I abide you accosting one of my contracted employees. Had you made a proper request, or given time for us to consider and discuss the matter¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, Neil.¡± I said, standing up slowly as well. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have to put your company at risk for my sake. I¡¯m sorry you got dragged into something just for having me around, but the mayor¡¯s right. I won¡¯t go back on my word.¡±


    I could see the tension in Cornelius¡¯s shoulders relax just a fraction. He had not been insincere. He really was about to spit in the government officials¡¯ faces and walk away, mostly for my sake. But since I was willing to agree, he wouldn¡¯t be crushed because of his principles.


    Prospero laughed heartily. ¡°All the seriousness of a funeral marching band. You act as if you all won¡¯t be compensated for your troubles. Fyoran, didn¡¯t I tell you they would come around?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Fyoran studied me once again, then  nodded to himself. He adopted a smarmy grin. ¡°I believe he will do nicely.¡±


    Then the  mayor, the colonel, and his men, all left us alone with the inspector, talking over details that I barely paid attention to. I was livid, and wanted to leave this place as soon as possible.


    Inspector Birat plucked a pair of pens from his pocket protector and placed them in front of us. ¡°Naturally, we¡¯ll be needing your signatures here before I can stamp the approval.¡±


    On the steps of City Hall, Cornelius and I took turns apologizing to each other, even though we both knew where our real frustrations ought to be directed.


    Cornelius urged me to wrap up any loose ends. We would be setting out in the morning. ¡°I¡¯m going to go back and see what I can learn about why this is happening. Officers don¡¯t just get dumped on someone like us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll hit the taverns. Might as well see if I can learn something too. There¡¯s plenty of guards who like to drink like fish.¡±


    Cornelius smiled. ¡°Sounds good. We¡¯ll see each other tonight. Oh, and¡­when Renn asks, just tell her that we got offered a good deal on taking on a passenger. I don¡¯t want her worrying about¡­you know.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    Later, when it was close to nightfall, I was in my room, reflecting on the events of the day, when Ayla popped in to let me know she¡¯d gotten back. I kicked myself. I¡¯d been so concerned with the mayor¡¯s scheme that I hadn¡¯t even realized she¡¯d been out this late. Something seemed off about her, and I wondered if perhaps she¡¯d had just as bad a day as me.


    I tried asking her about it, but she wasn¡¯t in the mood for talking. I decided I¡¯d try again in the morning. Ayla always kept her composure, but tonight there was something different in her eyes¡ªsomething conflicted. I decided to try again in the morning.


    There was no way I could have guessed the bloody business she¡¯d be involved in.


    Only a few hours later, just as I was fading into sleep, my door burst open. Ayla stumbled in, red-eyed and covered in blood, carrying a dead child bundled in her cloak.


    ¡°Jace¡ªhelp me!¡±

 Chapter Twenty Three: That Which is Mine

    Chapter 23: That Which is Mine


    Ayla R¨²th Harya


    Just a few hours earlier¡­


    The carbuncle leads me to the abandoned church, its pace urgent¡ªfaster than its diminutive size suggests¡ªbut I stay close behind, ignoring the burn in my lungs. When it scales the side of a building, I follow without hesitation, and soon we¡¯re navigating the rooftops.


    We reach the abandoned church in the poorer side of the city, where many of the buildings remain as remnants of the early settlement, untouched by renovation. I recognize the hole in the roof that I saw through Silas¡¯s eyes and look up at the rift. Tonight, it looms like a yawning mouth, threatening to devour the nearby moon.


    I climb carefully up the weary tiles of the church ceiling, which bend and creak with the strain of holding my weight. I tread carefully until I can peek through the lip of the hole. The collapsed portion of the ceiling spills onto an overlook, and onto the main space in the church.


    Nugget climbs onto my shoulder and I grab hold of the exposed rafters and lower us down, careful to keep to the shadows. From my perch above, I see the shattered and ruined pews below, scattered like broken bones. My insides boil when I spot Silas¡¯s crumpled form. His arms are tied behind him and his face is bloodied. He has been dragged under the altar, where he leans weakly against the stone dais.


    The kidnappers are no longer four, but eight. I curse myself that I left in such a hurry that I did not think to bring my rifle¡­ Or Jace. Even so, the number of enemies does not weaken my resolve.


    I watch, and listen as murmurs of the men¡¯s voices rise to meet me from below.


    ¡°Imbeciles! Just imbeciles.¡± He is fat, and the only one whose clothes are not black and made to be nondescript. Instead, they are a rich blue and red, more like the wealthy merchants and businessmen I¡¯ve seen in the city. By the way the others defer to him, he must be their leader. Something confirmed when the scrawniest of the kidnappers with wispy patches of hair answers him:


    ¡°Sorry, boss. It just got away right when we caught the kid. No one¡¯s seen it since.¡± The scrawny kidnapper looks to his fellows for assistance. The three men behind him nod emphatically. They echo his sentiment. Even from my vantage, I can tell they are the men I saw in Nugget¡¯s vision.


    ¡°And you beat him?¡± The leader asks, but he doesn¡¯t sound particularly reproachful. He can see for himself that Silas has been beaten from his bloody and bruised face. ¡°Try it again. The buyer said the carbuncle is supposed to react to that sort of thing.¡±


    The leader points to three of his men. Two immediately pick up the boy, and the third begins to punch Silas in the gut. I almost lose all sense of reason and rush into their midst and start swinging my blade, but that would not be a good idea. I need to be strategic.


    Even if I can keep my wits, it seems Nugget cannot. He jumps from my shoulder and skitters along the length of the balustrade. I reach for him, but miss, and he nimbly makes his way across to the side of the overlook opposite me.


    How I know what he is about to do is a mystery. But I know that I must capitalize on the distraction he means to create. There isn¡¯t time to plan otherwise.


    Creeping along the shadows of the balustrade, I find the broken staircase leading to the ground floor. An ear-piercing screech cuts through the air like a blade, and the men punching Silas stop and look up.


    Looking down from his place on the overlook, Nugget stands on his hind legs. The gem on his forehead glows white hot, illuminating him such that he is impossible to miss.


    ¡°Finally!¡± The leader says, running a hand through his greasy hair, greed painted on his face. ¡°You see? It worked like a charm. Carbuncle! If you want to save your little friend from any more pain, then come quietly and get in the bag!¡± He orders a man wearing his hair tied up in a bun, and he produces a sack large enough to accommodate the carbuncle.


    Nugget continues to shine from his perch, and lets out another shriek. It is impressive how much noise he can make despite his diminutive size.


    Nugget holds everyone¡¯s attention. Several of the kidnappers inch toward the only set of intact stairs leading to the overlook on the carbuncle¡¯s side of the church. Another pair of men shift uneasily toward the center of the church, almost as if they anticipate that the creature will jump down on them. Indeed, the creature was exuding a faint menacing aura that merited wariness. They move cautiously, careful not to spook the animal now that it has shown itself.


    From below, Silas raises his head weakly, one eye swollen shut. He looks up at his friend and companion, his expression twisted in pure agony that has nothing to do with the pain from his abused body. His mouth opens in a silent scream.


    ¡°Oy, boss,¡± says the kidnapper with the patchy hair, his hands still partially covering his ears. ¡°Can that thing even understand you?¡±


    ¡°Of course it can.¡± The greasy-haired leader points behind him at the boy. ¡°If you don¡¯t come down here right now I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    A sharp cry of pain interrupts him, and he turns to look over his shoulder.


    While they were distracted by Nugget¡¯s screeches, I had not stayed idle. When Nugget first shrieked and drew their attention, I leapt down onto the ground floor, landing silently on the cold stone. Allowing the carbuncle¡¯s screams to mask any noise I might make, I sprinted, sword drawn and sheath left behind.


    I closed the distance to the first pair of kidnappers, and with a swift downward slash, cut down on the first¡¯s head, freeing it from his shoulders in a bloody spray that soaked the left side of my face and body with hot blood as I passed by. The headless corpse convulsed at an odd angle as his nerve endings fired for the last time, and he fell forward. The jet of blood alerted my next target as he felt the warm liquid along the back of his neck. The man turned right into my upward slash across his chest, eliciting the sharp cry that made my presence known to the rest of my enemies.


    Could I reach one more before they drew their weapon? The third kidnapper, positioned in front of the altar, was already fumbling for the pistol in his belt. No, I would come up short. And the others, gathered near the statue to my right, were recovering from their surprise too quickly.


    In a last ditch effort as the third kidnapper frees his weapon, I swing my sword and throw it mid-swing. The blade arcs toward the man in front of the altar and he stumbles backward in surprise. The blade cuts between the shoulder and neck, then clatters to the floor. It is not a crippling blow, but as he twists to avoid it, he stumbles, and out of pure bad luck and pain, his arm, now in an awkward angle, points inward, and he accidentally shoots himself in the thigh just below the hip.


    The man groans, and his eyes roll into the back of his head as he hits the ground and clutches the wound.


    At the same time this is happening, I take a deep breath and gather my magic, fingers tingling with energy, then shout a name for the wind. A wall of air sweeps across the six humans to my right¡ªincluding Silas¡ªand they all stumble backward, assaulted by dirt and debris. Just in time too. The man with his hair in a bun had managed to unholster a thick tube from his waist and fire. The scattershot rang out with a thunderous boom, and a good portion of the pellets hit the face of the Mara statue above me. Chunks of stone rain down over me as I bend to pick up the wounded man¡¯s pistol and my sword.


    Then I dive behind the altar and take cover with my back against the stone dais, as a hail of bullets rain down on the stone.


    Between the crackling gunfire, I hear the leader shout. ¡°Who the hell is that bitch with a sword?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know boss! You think they¡¯re here for the kid?¡±


    ¡°Is that bitch your friend, kid? Fucking gonna fill her with holes.¡±


    It won¡¯t be a good idea to stay here. At some point they¡¯ll close the distance under covering fire and all I have is a pistol I stole from one of their men.


    I¡¯m not Jace. In a situation like this, I can appreciate the training and the many bloody combat situations he must have experienced. All elves learn sword dancing and bowmanship. It is a tradition as old as time, even if for nearly a century I never had the need to use my skills aside from sport. During the war and the subsequent years, I fought scarcely, and usually in a fighting retreat, escaping with other acolytes under the protection of seasoned warriors whose numbers dwindled so much over time.


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    It wasn¡¯t until the desperate battle in the Valley of the Damned, that I had fought and killed with hate in my heart and out of a desire for justice¡ªand if I was honest with myself¡ªfor revenge. However, even then, one could make a case for that having been a defensive battle fought out of need, not one I¡¯d necessarily chosen. In this moment, I suddenly realize¡ªthis is the first time I¡¯ve chosen to throw myself into a life-or-death struggle, one I could have easily avoided. For someone I had no business feeling responsible for.


    I don¡¯t care. The moment of introspection takes all of a second, and is cast aside just as quickly. In my mind, the kidnappers are all that is evil in the world. The ones responsible for all the losses I¡¯d ever suffered at the hands of humans. Silas is my sisters, my brothers, my friends. All the people I couldn¡¯t save. It matters not that he is human. It matters not that he has no family.  Yesterday he was an orphan, but my people have no orphans. Today he is mine. And no one will stop me protecting what is mine. Never again.


    An awareness seeps into my mind. A familiar presence I immediately recognize as Nugget¡¯s mind touching my own. I can feel the echoes of our shared rage resonate and feed off each other. There is also approval. Nugget is moved by the nature of my resolve, and somehow I know it empowers him. And once again, I know what he is about to do.


    I brace myself, tensing for the moment to act. Nugget¡¯s screech vibrates even in my bones. It is a sound in the air, from the depth of the earth, a distortion that transcends natural sound.


    The shooting stops and I leave cover, sprinting at my foes. I watch Nugget leap from his perch on the balustrade and defy the laws of gravity, leaping from platform to platform of summoned light, descending directly toward the men who threaten Silas.


    The leader of the kidnappers clutches his head with one hand, and the other keeps a tight grip on Silas¡¯s wrist as he throws himself behind a church pew and orders his men to shoot, all notions of profit and greed overcome by the current turn of events.


    A new mental impression from Nugget urging me to close my eyes causes me to do so. A brilliant disorienting flash of light erupts from the carbuncle, and when I open my eyes, I see two men who are blinded and shooting wildly. Two more are huddled under a bench near the leader, who still clutches Silas tightly.


    I have only practiced shooting a pistol a handful of times at Jace¡¯s insistence. Regretting that I didn''t practice more, I raise my weapon, trying to recall the brief lessons. I close one eye and aim for center mass. I squeeze the trigger and there is a sharp report followed by one of the blinded men drop his gun and hunch over. I aim at the second blinded man, the scrawny brown noser with the wispy hair. I miss twice, then hit twice; once in the shoulder and the other  on the side of the head and he crumples like a cut-string puppet.


    Then my heart sinks. I remember one of the fundamentals Jace taught me: always know how many bullets are left.


    I do not know this weapon.


    Six shots. That¡¯s how many rounds I¡¯ve counted. But I do not know how many are in the pistol. It has no cylinder like a revolver, rather something called a magazine. From my time in the range, I know it varies from gun to gun. I could have one or two¡ªor none.


    These thoughts were a distraction. Fleeting, but every second counts. I am moving toward cover, sprinting for a column along the wall, when I hear the thunder of the scattershot and my head whips to the side, and I feel my head wrap shred and unravel as the force causes me to stumble and trip over a rotted pew that collapse beneath me. I am assaulted by searing pain as if the side of my head and face have been raked across by a half dozen tiny invisible claws. I am temporarily disoriented as the understanding finally hits me that I have been shot.


    Hot blood and pain flood my senses. My ear, my scalp, my cheek, neck and shoulder have all been hit by tiny pellets. The effective distance of a scattershot is less the further away you are. I know I am lucky to have suffered so little damage. I huddle against the ruined pew. I am barely concealed behind it. It¡¯s hard to think with the screaming from my injuries.


    ¡°Is she down?¡± One of the kidnappers asks. It isn¡¯t the leader or the man with the hair bun, rather one I haven¡¯t heard speak since I got here. And yet the voice is familiar.


    ¡°I know I hit her. Don¡¯t think she¡¯s dead.¡± I recognize this as hair bun.


    ¡°Well go check, you fools!¡± The leader says.


    ¡°Go. I¡¯ll cover you.¡± Hair bun says. I hear him break open his scattershot to reload.


    I can¡¯t afford to wait. I heave myself up and point the pistol at the first human I see, only a few meters in front of me. It will be impossible to miss. The man starts and freezes. Then I know why I recognized his voice. I know him. He is the guard who threatened Silas at the market.


    The implications of his presence here are largely a mystery, and unimportant. I squeeze the trigger and the mystery of how many bullets is answered. Pow.


    A tiny hole appears in the center of the guard-turned-kidnapper¡¯s forehead. The man¡¯s eyes widen dramatically as his face muscles spasm, then slacken. Then he falls.


    ¡°Shit! It¡¯s a fucking elf. An elf!¡± The hair bun man shouts hysterically. My headwrap has come undone and slipped off my head, I realize, exposing my ears and identity. This works to my favor as the man fumbles in a panic to reload a cartridge into his weapon.


    My own pistol is useless. A spent casing is lodged in the ejection port. ¡°Jammed¡± Jace would say¡ªthe magazine gun¡¯s weakness that makes him prefer a revolver. I toss it to the side and sprint forward, grimacing from the pain. If I can reach him before he regains composure, I can cut him down with my blade. I pump what¡¯s left of my magic¡ªmy wind spell takes up a frustratingly sizable amount of energy in this mana deficient world¡ªinto my body for an explosive burst of speed.


    It has nothing to do with skill when his fumbling fingers manage to drop a shell into the chamber. He closes the gun and begins to raise it in the same motion.


    In that moment, a diminutive furry figure with a glowing forehead and vicious snarl, lands on the kidnapper¡¯s shoulder. Nugget chomps down on his ear and pulls. The hair bun man¡¯s head involuntarily twists into the pull and his body follows. The scattershot goes off aiming at nothing, and I run him through the chest.


    ¡°Elf¡­¡± he mutters, then I kick him off my sword. He continues to mutter weakly in increasingly shallow gurgling breaths as his lung fills with blood.


    Now there is only one human left. Their leader. My body suffers a wave of intense weariness as the last of magic from my muscles fades and I am left overextended and spent. Even when I fought with the darkling I was not so exhausted.


    Muscles that suffered bruising when I crashed into the pew now ache, but nothing compared to the burning on the side of my head.


    So much blood leaks down onto my right eye that I can not see through it. I take a deep breath and straighten. I cannot show any weakness now. Not given how the leader has chosen to spend his last moments.


    ¡°C¡­come any closer and I¡¯ll kill the kid.¡± The leader stutters. His own gun is a snub nosed revolver. It quakes in his hand as he points it at Silas¡¯s head. Silas, who the man struggles to carry because he has fallen unconscious.


    The sight of the boy''s bruised and swollen face, blood dripping from nose and mouth, stirs anger so hot in my body that I feel as though I¡¯m being once more flooded with mana. My pain forgotten, my muscles screaming. My soul urges me to tear this bastard apart limb from limb; urges me to scatter his parts to the four corners of the world such that his soul will never know peace.


    I feel a furry warm body alight on my shoulder. I realize my intense rage is being enhanced through the connection and feedback loop I am experiencing through Nugget.


    ¡°Release the boy.¡± My voice is cold steel, a grim reaper promising pain beyond death.


    ¡°B¡­bitch. You think I¡¯m an idiot? You¡¯ll kill me if I let him go. Get back. I said don¡¯t come any closer!¡± His voice is a high pitched shriek. He¡¯s liable to accidentally pull the trigger if provoked. No. He¡¯s smarter than he looks. He has the wherewithal to keep his finger off the trigger. He knows if the kid dies, so does he. He isn¡¯t a zealot willing to kill the boy if he doesn¡¯t get his way. He¡¯s a terrified man clinging desperately to life, hoping that a bluff might save him. It won¡¯t.


    Nugget won¡¯t let it happen.


    The rage that has been building into a preternatural energy fades quickly, like water siphoned from a jar with a hose and poured into another. That jar is Nugget.


    An aura like red smoke seeps from his fur. It¡¯s appearance is like flames, except they have no temperature. They are the byproduct of his body suddenly overflowing with magic power; I understand intuitively that Nugget has just transmuted our emotions into pure mana, something I did not know was possible.


    The smoke coalesces into the carbuncle¡¯s gem and it glows a bright, ominous red. I watch in awe as the last kidnapper¡¯s body goes taught. He lets out a choked cough and increasingly loud and frantic groans of protest as his trembling hand moves on its own¡ªuntil his revolver goes flush under his chin, and he pulls the trigger.


    Nugget releases his mental grip and the man crumples. The last of the kidnappers is dead.


    The carbuncle wavers on my shoulder and I catch him before he falls. In my mind I feel overwhelming gratitude that isn¡¯t mine, but his. Then a plea that I should protect his home, and I know he means Silas.


    Slowly, the carbuncle¡¯s eyes drift closed and he goes limp in my hands.


    ¡°No!¡± My heart skips a beat and I press my ear to Nugget¡¯s chest¡ªand I sigh in relief. His heartbeat and breathing are steady. He is merely unconscious. I cradle him to my chest and limp toward Silas.


    When I check the boy, however, the situation is much more dire. His breathing is shallow and labored. I raise his shirt and find intense red,  purple, and blue bruising all over his chest and abdomen. A cursory inspection reveals broken ribs and likely internal bleeding.


    ¡°Danu. Please.¡± I hear the trembling in my own voice. I hear my own thoughts screaming he is mine.


    These injuries require a higher working than ordinary healing magic. Ordinary medicine won¡¯t help. My mind races, then settles on the picture of a red jeweled broken dagger.


    Jace. I need to get Silas to Jace.


    I find the remains of my headwrap and do a ragtag job of tying it around my head, yelping involuntarily as my shredded ear and injured scalp sting with bright pain. I collect my sheath. Then I unpin the brooch securing my cloak and wrap the boy as securely as I can. I tuck Nugget into one of the folds and lift Silas.


    I offer another prayer to Danu, afraid that no matter how fast I run, I won¡¯t make it in time.

 Chapter Twenty Four: The Broken Dagger

    Chapter 24: The Broken Dagger


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    The boy was not dead¡ªjust pale-faced, his breathing so shallow that, at first glance, he appeared lifeless. But a closer look revealed the truth: he wasn¡¯t long for this world.


    I cleared the small, worn table by the window for Ayla to lay the boy on and we carefully unwrapped him, then I cut away his shirt. One look was all I needed to know this wasn¡¯t something a doctor could fix.


    ¡°Ayla¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t. Jace, just don¡¯t. He¡¯s not going to die. I won¡¯t let him.¡± Ayla¡¯s eyes were red, tears streaming down her blood-caked face. There was blood soaking her headwrap and all her clothes. What happened in the last few hours? ¡°He needs a higher working of healing; something powerful. I don¡¯t have the magic.¡±


    My breath hitched and my eyes instinctively flicked to the nightstand by my bed. The broken dagger lay there, wrapped in a cloth. Ayla''s eyes followed mine and widened in recognition. Then she stared at me with an intensity I had never seen from her¡ªboth a demand and a plea.


    Did she know what she was asking of me? She might have an idea, if she¡¯d been paying attention. Given the care and possessiveness I¡¯d shown. Given that I¡¯d been willing to risk losing an arm rather than using the few remaining ruby colored mana stones. But she couldn''t know the whole of it.


    Then I looked at the boy. Really looked. He couldn¡¯t be older than twelve or thirteen, except he was malnourished, and likely that had stunted his growth somewhat. His skin was the color of tanned leather and his hair a mop of curls. Who was this boy to Ayla that she was so moved to helping him despite her hatred of humans?


    From a fold under Ayla¡¯s cloak, a ferret-sized creature with a jewel on its forehead¡ªa rare carbuncle¡ªcrawled out weakly, until it lay curled up and pressed against the boy¡¯s neck. It was just as a surprise as the boy¡¯s arrival had been. But it didn¡¯t take a genius to understand it was the boy¡¯s pet, or perhaps companion. It was a tender sight.


    ¡°Jace¡­please.¡± It was no ordinary ¡°please.¡± I could tell her request was part warning. Instinctively, I knew that if I did nothing, Ayla might choose to fight me for the dagger.


    I couldn¡¯t afford to procrastinate any further. The boy¡¯s breathing was worsening.


    Crossing the room, I took the broken dagger and unwrapped it from its cloth. The polished silver that ended in a jagged cut rather than the beautiful engraved blade it had once been. The empty settings that covered the hilt where once there had been beautiful red gems, and now there were so few left, the others having disintegrated after use.


    There was likely two or three more uses for smaller spells. But only one for this healing to take. The boy was in too bad a condition.


    One more use, and the dagger would be nothing but a memory. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mira.¡± I pushed aside all hesitation and went back to the table to stand over the boy and in front of a hopeful Ayla. ¡°You know the working? Good. I know a simple mending spell that can add to yours.¡±


    I held the dagger over the boy, and Ayla hesitated. She looked at me, and I saw sorrow. On my behalf. Maybe she really did know how important it was to me. ¡°Thank you.¡± Her hand joining mine, she began reciting words in elvish that were so beautiful they might as well have been music. In comparison, mine were the grinding of gears, the clanking of pipes. And yet, when our magic melded together, there was a harmony.


    Dual casting is an intimate thing. It has the potential to improve a spell beyond its ordinary capabilities, but it also connects one¡¯s emotions to the other. There comes an awareness of the other that transcends explanation. I can count on one hand the number of times I¡¯ve ever done it. Three of those were when I was being trained by the army.


    Neither Ayla nor I hesitated to join, however. Both of us knew it only improved the chances that our magic would bring the child from the brink of death. And if I was going to sacrifice something I treasured to save a kid I didn¡¯t even know, I wasn¡¯t going to hold back.


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    Ayla¡¯s eyes widened as the emotional sync began. I felt her surprise as she brushed against the depths of my grief. It was the memory of love mingled with the anguish of loss. Her smile was pure melancholy. I knew she knew exactly the kind of pain I felt. She nodded slightly in understanding. ¡°Thank you, Jace.¡±


    Then she opened herself to my emotions. She would have to feel them in full as I must feel her desperation, hope, and urgency. We would need to become one, then draw our focus to a singular purpose.


    Mana burst from the dagger and into us like a flood. I felt the euphoria of so much mana pulsing through me, a reminder of a time when magic was ample. Even so, I had never been talented enough to cast high wordings. In fact, this was exactly my first time ever doing so. As the level of mana continued to increase beyond that which I¡¯d ever held at one time, the euphoria crossed the threshold from ecstasy to pain. All the remaining gems glowed and cast an ethereal light, flooding the room with its scarlet light, then filtered to a blinding white as it was filtered to our purpose.


    High healing white magic¡ªsaid to be among the hardest to master. Compared to my weak mending spell, where my contribution was a trickle, hers was a flood. But I did not need to control anything; my participation merely served as an amplifier.


    After a few moments passed, I could no longer feel my mouth, my tongue, or my own body. I felt my soul brand burn bright, and its energy also was added to the working. In the void of blinding white, I floated¡ªno, I existed. Sensation slipped away like sand through fingers, leaving me in a space where I couldn''t tell where I ended and the magic began. My awareness hung in a vast, endless expanse, disconnected from all reference to space or time.


    In that white expanse there suddenly appeared a figure. Like a shadow at first, but then it took shape and color, and a familiar figure stood before me in the void. A woman in a lieutenant''s uniform. Wearing her special forces beret, red curling locks spilling over her shoulders¡ªwhich was not to code; women were required to wear their hair in a tight bun, but Mara liked to let it down whenever a superior officer wasn¡¯t around to dress her down for it.


    I wanted to call out, but I had no voice to do so. I wanted to reach out and touch her. To embrace her and tell her how much I¡¯d missed her. That I hadn¡¯t forgotten her. That I never would.


    I felt Mara¡¯s fathomless blue eyes stared into mine, despite my having eyes to see. And I suddenly became aware of how much she resembled Ayla.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, Jace.¡± Her voice had always been husky, like she just finished chewing out a soldier for something stupid they¡¯d done. But I recognized these words. These particular words and how they were said.


    ¡°No¡­¡±


    ¡°You go on ahead. I¡¯ll catch up to you later.¡±


    ¡°Please, no¡­¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s an order, soldier.¡±


    They were the last words she¡¯d ever said to me. The last words she¡¯d ever said to anyone. Staring down the threat of a company of powerful darklings closing on our position. Ruby crusted silver dagger in hand¡­ She had always been invincible; and we had our orders¡ªprotect the generals during our fighting retreat. We never doubted she¡¯d come out alive. But she hadn¡¯t. Later, I disobeyed orders and went back, but the only thing that remained of her was the broken dagger.


    Mara raised her hand as if to cup my cheek, but there was nothing to touch. Then I was violently torn from the white space, and my awareness crashed into my body.


    I blinked and felt the hot tears that spilled from my eyes like a constant stream. Ayla stood in front of me. Her face a flushed, twisted wreck as she sobbed loudly, the blood from her cheeks almost completely washed away by her own tears.


    Alarmed, I looked down at the boy, but his breathing was even and steady, his face still gaunt, but the pallor of toeing the line between life and death was gone. Color had returned to his cheeks and all the bruises on his face were gone. I could not understand why she was weeping for him.


    I cleared my throat, but my words came out gritty and hoarse anyway. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. He¡¯s going to be just fine.¡±


    I felt the last of the magic from the spell seep into the boy, and in my hands¡ªstill joined with Ayla¡¯s and hovering over the boy¡ªI felt the silver dagger turn to dust and sift through my fingers.


    Ayla raised her hands to look at them, having caught some of the silver dust in her cupped palms. Then I realized she was not weeping for the boy as I had initially thought. She was weeping for me. Then I had a second realization. She felt everything I had.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­so sorry, Jace.¡± Ayla¡¯s voice was broken by shuddering sobs. ¡°I didn¡¯t know.¡±


    I took a breath to ground myself. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t have made a difference. I would have used it anyway.¡±


    ¡°I¡­know.¡±


    Ayla then did something I never would have expected. She pulled me into a hug. Together we stayed there, sobbing into each other¡¯s necks like idiots. We stood over the boy like that for some time, and didn¡¯t even realize when he opened his eyes.

 Chapter Twenty Five: A Shift in Perspective

    Chapter 25: A Shift in Perspective


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    A small hand weakly tapped me on the thigh, and I released my hold on Ayla. For a moment, there was hesitation, as if she didn¡¯t want the comfort she sought in me to end. In truth, neither did I, but the insistence with which the boy¡¯s hand tried for my attention was difficult to ignore. I angled my head to look down at the boy, and Ayla followed my gaze.


    ¡°Silas!¡± Ayla exclaimed. Her tears forgotten, she brushed aside the sticky, bloody locks matted on his forehead. Now Ayla fussed with the boy¡ªwhose name I now knew¡ªchecking his face, neck, and body for injuries until she was satisfied that the healing magic had done its job.


    Of course, it had. It had been a very powerful spell. However, it was surprising to see the boy awake. Such rapid healing was always accompanied by profound exhaustion.


    The boy seemed to be fighting the grip of sleep to try and get mine or Ayla¡¯s attention. His eyes kept darting toward the south wall¡ªno, not the wall; the room door.


    By the time I realized what he was trying to convey, the boy was asleep again. And it was already too late.


    Suddenly the door to the room swung open and slammed against the wall. My heart skipped a beat, and my hand twitched for my weapon. Ayla turned quickly and drew hers, though her movements were just a fraction too slow, her body betraying the toll her wounds had taken.


    A familiar young woman with short orange hair burst through the doorway, scowling, her mouth half-opened as if to chew someone out. Then she took one look at the situation¡ªthe blood on both Ayla and the boy were impossible to miss¡ªand her anger instantly melted into shock. Concern quickly followed as she darted forward. ¡°Ayla, are you alright? What happened?¡±


    I watched as Renn¡¯s eyes scanned the room, moving quickly from Ayla to the boy, then to me, and back to Ayla, lingering on her ears. ¡ªnow fully exposed, I realized, as her headwrap, already sitting precariously on her head, chose that moment to fall away completely.


    Shock registered on Renn¡¯s face, and in an instant, her expression shifted multiple times as a series of realizations each fell into place like pieces in a puzzle. Her lips parted slightly, as if carefully choosing her next words, her eyes locked on the elf¡¯s sword as she took a small step back.


    Aylas muscles were tensed at the subtle movement, like a spring ready to release.


    ¡°Ayla, hold.¡± I growled¡ªto my relief, she obeyed.


    My stomach churned. This was the worst possible scenario. Why did Renn have to come now of all times? With Ayla¡¯s secret exposed at the heart of the city, would we be able to get away? Would we need to cut Renn down, a girl who¡¯d been nothing but generous and friendly toward us?


    In general, however, Renn¡¯s reactions were developing in quite a different way than expected. In a territory where elves were feared and forbidden to enter even as slaves; where they were regularly perceived as an existential threat; confronted with this reality, the young merchant was becoming¡­amused?


    ¡°Well this explains a lot.¡± Renn¡¯s tone was casual as she peeked over her shoulder into the hallway, then shut the door before anyone else could see inside. She turned to us, the corner of her mouth twisted upward in a knowing smile. ¡°Ballsy, hiding in plain sight in a city like this. Meh, probably not as rare as you think, though.¡±


    Ayla and I exchanged glances.


    Renn let out an exasperated sigh. ¡°You can put that sword away. I won¡¯t bite, and I¡¯m not gonna run around screaming elf, elf! Or something equally stupid. Believe it or not, this makes my situation much easier.¡± Renn unslung her backpack and walked right past Ayla, who still held her sword aloft, and toward the bed.


    Ayla looked to me for guidance and I shrugged. She sheathed her sword, groaning as she moved her injured shoulder. Clearly her stand had been largely bravado, given the range of motion she now displayed. Her shoulder¡ªand all her wounds, for that matter¡ªneeded to be dressed. I still didn¡¯t know what kind of trouble she¡¯d gotten into, but I could guess. It obviously had to do with the boy, and the presence of a rare carbuncle likely played an important part.


    Renn didn¡¯t bother looking over her shoulder as she began to empty her bag, her movements careful and deliberate, lest a sudden movement cause concern. She removed a medium sized tin box, several rolls of bandages, vials and tinctures¡ªall things I recognized as first aid gear. ¡°So I¡¯m sleeping peacefully and dreaming about a hunk with juicy arms and the prettiest shoulders you¡¯ve ever seen¡ªwhen I get a knock on the door like the guard¡¯s come to arrest me. She tells me that one of my hires is running around like she just butchered a cow and got blood all over her carpet and stairs. I thought she was exaggerating, but brought some of the stuff we take on the road¡­for emergencies.¡±


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    Something about the way she told her story didn¡¯t sound right. Not a lie, but not all the truth either. When she¡¯d finished laying out the supplies, they almost looked like what field medics carried on the battlefield: the tin box held sutures, needles, and forceps designed for extracting bullets. Alongside it were tourniquets, clotting agents, and antiseptics¡­ No, this wasn¡¯t just similar to field medic gear: it was exactly that.


    Not your everyday carry. Her backpack was nondescript, but that tin can had the insignia of the Medical Core: the jar and conch¡ªsymbols of Antari, the legendary first doctor who brought the mundane healing arts to the world after the gods whispered their secrets to him via a sacred conch shell.


    Not many outside those who fought in the Dominion¡¯s military would remember the symbol.


    Renn caught me staring at the insignia and she raised an eyebrow. ¡°Jace, you were a soldier.¡± She paused, acknowledging she knew the insignia hadn¡¯t gone unnoticed, and that I would recognize it. ¡°You know how to use this equipment, or do I need to show you?¡±


    ¡°I know plenty.¡± I said, picking out the essentials I would need right away: scissors, antiseptic, anesthetic tincture¡­ ¡°Ayla, sit on the bed. Drink this.¡± I unpopped the lid and put it to my nose, then handed her the tincture. She hesitated, then took it warily, then mimicked me, sniffing the contents.


    ¡°Is this a liquor?¡± Ayla glared at Renn with mistrust. She rolled her eyes and pointed at me.


    ¡°It¡¯s a mixture of distilled herbs and seeds, and yes, a strong liquor as well. It is designed to numb your pain. I need you to keep still as I remove the shot from your head and shoulder. Just looking at it I can tell it¡¯s going to be very unpleasant otherwise.¡±


    Ayla was still reluctant, but at my insistence, and perhaps as a result of her growing pain and exhaustion, she caved, drinking the entire solution in one grimacing swallow. The effects were almost immediate. This particular tincture would have been made by a master alchemist using both the mundane and magical disciplines. Even being over twenty years old, it was just as strong as if it was made yesterday.


    Ayla¡¯s eyes sagged slightly and tension in her muscles lessened somewhat. It would be some time before the medicine took full effect, but the pain numbing should already be helping. While we waited, I¡¯d need to disinfect the tools. I emptied the tin, checking that the inside was clean, then poured a bottle of an antiseptic solution.


    It had been a long time since I¡¯d dressed wounds like this. I knew I could do it. I just hoped I wouldn¡¯t do a shit job.


    While I worked, Renn crossed over to the table where the boy had finally fallen unconscious, the carbuncle still curled at his neck. ¡°So what¡¯s the story with the kit?¡±


    Ayla¡¯s jaw tightened, and she struggled against the sedative effects of the tincture. Preparing to pounce at the slightest provocation. ¡°None of your business.¡± Ayla slurred.


    I laid a hand on Ayla¡¯s leg in an attempt to calm her down.


    ¡°Fine, don¡¯t tell me. Boy is this little guy a cutie.¡± Renn made cooing noises and scratched the carbuncle¡¯s head lightly. It shifted, then snuggled even closer into the boy¡¯s neck. ¡°Alright, I guess I¡¯ll bug the innkeeper to get a hot bath running. While I¡¯m at it I¡¯ll bring some clothes for the kit, I¡¯m sure I have something that¡¯ll fit him.¡± She started heading for the door, but Ayla wouldn¡¯t have it.


    Ayla, despite her growing numbness, forced herself to her feet and awkwardly unsheathed her sword with her off hand. Her right arm had gone limp. ¡°How can we trust her? How do we know she won¡¯t give us away?¡±


    I didn¡¯t think Renn would do that. The medical supplies could be a distraction from a clever girl biding her time, but my gut told me otherwise. Of course, my gut had been wrong before. Rather than intervene, I waited to see how Renn would respond.


    ¡°Relax.¡± Renn threw up her hands. ¡°You aren¡¯t the only ones in the world with secrets. It¡¯s not like¡ªactually we should be¡­ Alright fine. Anyway I look at this, y¡¯all are going to question whether I¡¯m telling the truth or just trying to pull one over ya. So here.¡±


    I didn¡¯t think Renn had more surprises in store. I was wrong.


    Renn grabbed the bottom hem of her shirt with both hands and pulled it over her head. I caught a glimpse of pale flesh and freckles then turned away almost at the same time as Ayla interposed herself between me and the half naked young woman.


    ¡°What¡­do you think you are doing!¡± My voice came off choked and I felt my face flush. I¡¯d completely lost composure.


    Ayla exclaimed something much the same as my sentiment and rattled off more curses and foul language than I¡¯d ever heard her utter. I heard Renn undoing her belt buckle next, and Ayla¡¯s voice only rose higher as she shrieked at the young woman¡¯s current actions as if they posed  an even greater threat than the potential for betrayal.


    There was a rustling of cloth, a sound akin to cracking bone, then silence. Whatever Ayla saw had caught her tongue.  Then the scent of magic filled the air.


    All sense of indignation and embarrassment I felt shed instantly in the face of the new threat. ¡°Get down, Ayla!¡± I turned, drawing my weapon in the same smooth motion¡ªthen stopped cold.


    My jaw dropped at what I saw.


    Renn, wrapped in a subtle orange mist, was in the final stages of a transformation. When it was done, in her place there stood a very large fox.

 Chapter Twenty Six: Fierce

    Chapter 26: Fierce


    Jace ¡°Quickshot¡± Le¨¢l


    ¡°Renn the Renard at your service!¡± The giant fox¡ªRenn¡ªspoke out loud, even though her mouth only opened slightly and the mechanics were anything but what they were in her human form.


    Ayla slunk on the bed, a mix of shock and relief settling in her face as her perspective shifted. ¡°You¡¯re a Fox Spirit.¡±


    ¡°Not really.¡± Renn lay on the floor, crossing her paws lazily in front of her. ¡°My great grandfather perhaps. We¡¯ve been half breeds for generations. My own mother was human.¡± She shrugged a shoulder¡ªa strange gesture on a fox. ¡°Not that most people can tell the difference. Not even the elves.¡±


    I cleared my throat. No manner of surprise would change the situation. I should probably focus on understanding. ¡°So your father is also¡­¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± Renn said, teasing sounding annoyed but not. ¡°Didn¡¯t the hair give it away?¡± She licked a paw and ran it over one ear.


    I¡¯d never met a proper spirit nor a half breed. I did meet a very hairy man who said he was a wolf man once. He was a bartender in Valenheim. Claimed he was part of a top secret experiment gone bad. It could have been true¡ªthough it was just as likely he was simply a man born with too much hair. I knew proper were-people existed. But fox kin had always been the stuff of legends and folktales. Usually about a rich man getting seduced and robbed blind.


    As if she¡¯d read my mind, Renn laughed and her tail¡ªtails; she had two¡ªgently swayed. ¡°You should look at your faces. Jace, I promise only half the stories you¡¯ve heard about foxes are true.¡± She winked. ¡°Now that we¡¯ve both revealed some secrets, I think I¡¯ll¡ª¡°


    Her fur began to exude that same orange mist, but before I could witness the transformation in reverse, Ayla slapped me with her good hand and threw me on the bed, having apparently regained enough of her faculties to defend my honor.


    Some time later, I¡¯d finished extracting pellets from Ayla¡¯s wounds¡ªthree in the shoulder, one in the neck, one in the cheek, and four in the scalp. Ayla was sluggish and exhausted by the time we were done. It took some coaxing, primarily on behalf of Renn¡ªwho she no longer saw as an immediate threat.  They left for Renn¡¯s private bath downstairs, while I stayed behind to towel-wash the boy.


    I wondered what we would do with him once we recovered. Was the plan to take him with us? Would Ayla bring him into an enclave? I doubted it. Most likely she hadn¡¯t thought that far ahead. Not that I had much of a leg to stand on. After all, I hadn¡¯t thought it through when I rescued Ayla¡ªbut that hadn¡¯t stopped me from accepting responsibility anyway.


    Ayla had given me a very brief rundown of her rescue of Silas, the kidnappers, etc. I wished she would have asked me for help, but the air of pride with which she told the story about rescuing him on her own was only outshone by the trembling and guilt she felt at having to kill, even though the men deserved it. She complained that she couldn¡¯t understand why she had those feelings when she¡¯d never felt them before.


    So I only listened. I explained that often there was no sense to make of our own emotions. Simply to accept them. When she asked me how that was done, I answered honestly. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    My thoughts drifted back to Renn. What else wasn¡¯t she telling us? I always suspected she was hiding things, but I¡¯d assumed they wouldn¡¯t be any harm since they didn¡¯t concern us. Perhaps I¡¯d been wrong.


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    Did her secrets have anything to do with why Prospero assigned the colonel to our caravan, and me to protect him? Was it really her he was interested in and not me?


    I had too many questions. I needed to get her alone and soon¡ªbefore we set out for the north.


    The boy¡¯s carbuncle stirred from its nap and looked up at me with particularly intelligent eyes. It studied me, head to toe. Then, as if finding me acceptable, it offered a slight nod then curled back to sleep.


    That was another mystery. I didn¡¯t think these creatures could be found in an urban setting. The last time I saw a carbuncle, it was screeching in a display cage in a general¡¯s office. It would have gotten left behind during the evacuation. Man, was that asshole pissed when I kicked it open on our way out.


    I¡¯d just finished dressing the kid in the clothes Renn brought over¡ªsurprisingly boyish clothes that were only slightly big on him¡ªand tucked him in my bed. When the door to my room opened. Renn walked in first, holding a tray of biscuits and fruit and a pitcher of tea. Ayla followed wearing a blue robe that flowed like water and complimented her deep blue eyes, just barely visible under her hood.


    ¡°Well, go on.¡± Renn said, impatiently. ¡°I wanna see what he says! It¡¯s my best work, I swear.¡±


    My eyes narrowed, uncertain what she was talking about. Then, hesitantly, Ayla removed her hood.


    Her injuries were all still dressed, adhesive bandages covering her wounds. While tending to her scalp wounds, however, there had been a lot of hair I needed to cut. Apparently, Ayla had asked Renn to help fix it.


    Ayla¡¯s hair was now cut short, her soft curls spilling down her face to about her chin. There was a vulnerability in her eyes that together with her new look sent shivers down my spine.


    ¡°It looks that awful?¡± Ayla asked.


    ¡°What? No! I¡ªthat is to say, of course it looks¡­agh!¡± I tripped over myself apologizing and fumbling for the right words before Ayla¡¯s smirk revealed she was¡­teasing me?


    I felt my cheeks grow hot and I shut my mouth.


    Ayla combed a strand of hair behind her injured ear and flinched. Her right ear had been clipped badly, like a small creature had taken a bite out of it. It would be like that from now on,unless a healer as talented as Ayla, and with the magic for it, restored it. Something told me that was unlikely to happen. She might even refuse to do it even if she had the choice. She had said as much, calling her wounds a badge of honor.


    Ayla chuckled tiredly and sighed. ¡°I¡¯ll sleep here tonight. I will not have Silas wake and find that his only company is a stinking oaf like you.¡±


    Reflexively, I sniffed myself. It wasn¡¯t that bad, was it?


    ¡°Fine. You can have it.¡± I headed to the door and stopped in front of her. Our eyes met. And for a long moment we just gazed into each other¡¯s souls. ¡°You look¡­fierce.¡± I would have said beautiful, which she was. But that would not capture what she was¡ªwho she was becoming in my eyes.


    Ayla¡¯s was a self satisfied smile that said I had chosen my words well.  ¡°Good night, gunslinger.¡±


    I beckoned Renn to follow me and I shut the door behind us. ¡°Renn, I¡¯ll walk you to your room. There is much we need to discuss.¡±


    ¡°Aw, now listen here, mister.¡± Renn pouted. ¡°First you need to tell me what a great job I did. That haircut was better than ¡®fierce¡¯¡± Renn raised her hands and curled fingers into air quotes around the word. ¡°What kind of a compliment is that for a beautiful woman? Do you know nothing, smelly oaf?¡±


    I cast a sideways glance at Renn. I could tell she was being clever. She knew perfectly well how Ayla had taken that compliment. So I ignored her, and in her room¡ªwhich was surprisingly luxurious in this otherwise modest caravanserai¡ªI found Cornelius was also waiting for me, drink in hand, an intense set of eyes faintly shining an ominous orange. The other members of the merchant company''s defense team were also in evidence, standing along the back wall; they stared at me just as intently.


    Cornelius was more serious and intimidating than I had ever seen him, and for the first time, I realized how much of the personality he presented to the world was a complete fabrication. ¡°Branded Soul, was that your high working that I felt burning upstairs like a beacon to our enemies? I thought you of all people would have more sense.¡±