《The Unknown Traveler Serial》 Episode 1, Of Utokayavok and Silver Soup Silverknown more commonly as gilded ironis the alchemical ingredient most often associated with dispatching unnatural and unholy creatures. I''m not unaware of the irony: in the days leading to the Harvest''s ruin, these grotesque, otherworldly things found a haven in the damp pits where we spent generations mining for their destruction. Utokayavok,the sign hanging loosely from the collapsing foreman''s shed out front of the mine readthe Gilded Iron Company. Context is crucial as we start at the very beginning of my journey toward the abhorrent and desecrated world we now inhabit. After all these years, I remember that my father once worked for the company when I was a boy, and my sister was just a parasite gestating within my mother''s womb. The true nature of Azrealiya''s ''divine'' lineage is now known, but there was no inkling of the horrors she would wreak in youth. Perhaps the first indication was her birth, wherein she clawed through my mother''s guts with putrid, sickly nails, and the contents of her bowels covered her before anyone removed her. She was born on the day of the Breadfatherthe ancient god Talabyat, patron of the golden hills of wheat we once relied upon. And she was of his blood and loins, and I, as a sprouting from our shared mother''s ravaged uterus, a bedfellow of evil. Utokayavok once produced hundreds of tons of silver during the reign of Queen Jahlrayan of Cambray but had run dry some years before my excursion. I do not remember what precisely brought me therea notice, I believe, posted boldly upon the heavy doors of the poorly attended church had drawn my attention as I passed through. Advertised upon the notice was a promising reward of some twentylovokin exchange for discovering the fate of a girl who had gone missing a week before my arrival. Assuming she was deadand that I could find the bodythe reward would be quickly earned. Even grown village folk would struggle in these woods, knowing now the monstrosities and abominations that had just begun to linger in the shadows of their canopy. I spent two days gathering information as I enjoyed the room and board courtesy of The Church of the Saintly Vanbatar. Through conversation with the adults, I found many had worked the mines a day''s hike up Jekrel''s Mount. And through interrogation of the little ones that boldly lied in the Moonlight Carrela chamber within the church meant to pry confession and atonement from its attendeesI found that the boys and girls had been speaking with some strange, unbodied being that appeared within their soups. Each child described the same experience: that the being would urge them to come and play deep within the sprawling shafts of the old mine, promising them trinkets and foods never beheld by them. My curiosity peaked at such a laughable claim, so I prepared myself for the hike. The evening I reached the mine, I set up camp and prepared a caged bird, which I placed at the mouth of the descending elevator and hurried down. As I enjoyed my meal, I had the forethought to prepare a soupundoubtedly mostly potato, celery, and marrow stock. As the flames of the fire flickered against the seeping darkness of the new moon, I found my gaze entranced with the subtle swirls of fatty liquids and burbles within the broth. No voice called out to me from within it, yet still, I could not escape the ominous, lingering feeling that just beneath the tiny whirlpools and waves, something''s gaze met my own with equal wonderment and hesitation. Before the sun rose the following day, I gathered my equipment: packs of sulfur, iron shavings, a kris in poor repair, rope, and a few other odds and ends. When I raised the elevator, I was shocked to find that my unwilling feathered compatriot was missing, the front of the cage torn asunder, and the interior smeared with a volume of blood or bileI haven''t any idea which it may have been nowfar exceeding the tiny body of the little bird. Further, I descended as the morbidly curious cat would, and I watched my shaking hands as the breaking morning light faded from my perceptible world. The still and musty darkness within engulfed me as the weights and pulleys slowly shifted, and I traveled downward. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. With luck, I drew an old torch from the heated, moist walls around me and managed to ignite it. The relief of light, be it useless and limited in such a claustrophobic space, comforted my wandering soul, and for a few fleeting seconds, I paused to bask in its divine protection. Down those winding, damp, salt-encrusted halls collapsing under the unbearable weight of the eons held above them, I tracked aimlessly, reacting to the most mediocre and minuscule sounds or instincts. Some unknown amount of time had passed before I found the corpse of my bird and discovered the cause of its unanticipated disappearance. At the time, the sight and smell were horrid enough to shock me into a near stupor. I made a feeble attempt to conceal my wrenching and failed, feeling the vomit pressure and push between the minor gaps of my fingers. I lingered close to the fresh effigy born across the hollow wall; the light provided ill-suited for a meaningful inspection. Someone or something had cleaved the poor bird and turned it inside-out, slapping its rotting flesh and crumbled bones loosely to the surface rock with its own drying blood and bodily mucus. I was most struck by the fact that no one had rendered any of its meat or tastier bitsthe scarce fat, eyes, brain, and legsfrom its body. Every little piece remained, rearranged and sorted with devilish fingers, yes, but all parts of the whole were present. I found one of the feathers I had yet to see floating atop a small puddle of mineral water. And with it, I found a trail by which I might find the source of the mauling and, subsequently, the sickening display created from the remains. I felt as a hunter might, tracing the scraps of the carnage, believing that I sought some foul prey deeper in. But I was wrong. I entered a chamber large enough to stand without the uncomfortable cocking of my spine and the unbearable heat of the torch battering my cheeks. After appreciating the miracle in that small pocket of fresher air, I soaked the sweat from my face into my sleeves. The labor now pulled from my face, I looked upward with untainted eyes for the first time in many hours and saw it. A disgusting rotund belly lingered above, boiling and gurgling with pustule sores and canyon-like fissures. Descending from what may best be called a belly button was a bloodshot opal with a violently seizing iris. Its wetness pressed across my face, nearly large enough to consume my skull in its entirety. I felt flesh peel from bony fingers as it probed and wrapped my ankles before tucking into my shoes, and I heard from within that belly a hideous and gluttonous wheezing laughter that grew increasingly manic. Left with no choice as the monster enveloped me, I sank my teeth into the demon''s exposed optical nerve and felt as I began to cut through a vein. I repulsed downward and formed a ball as the contents of its innards slopped from my mouth. My kris drawn thereafter, I severed the phalanges from the wrist that sought to capture me, remembering even still the devilish instrumental plucking that came from the tautness of its tendons. The demon''s laughter morphed into surprise, then suffering, and finally agony. I had gained an advantage I knew would not come twice. Unsure of how best to kill it, I hefted my kris upward and tore through the stomach with little effort. This stabbing created a hole in its flesh that acted as a window to its innards, and I lunged my torch inside. The flame exited my view but raged within the belly of the creature, and its boils and lesions festered, growing and growing until their critical point and rupturing. I shudder to recall my first experience with hellspawn, but I must recent it here for my own sake. I stood in sickened, deafening silence as the rumbling of its flooding acid and flesh filled the chamber up halfway to my knees. Ultimately, I could not locate the missing girl among the muck and madness. But I haven''t any doubt that her long-digested body wound up a part of me, and to this day, I carry some small part of her along on all my travels. Episode 2, The Olovfian Monastery Nestled in the Valley of the Vanbatar, a newer monastery lay along my route to Garivasnk in the east. The trip from Utokayavak was long, as it was at the western mouth of the valley, where the mountains thinned into the foothills. Even with the paved roads of the old kingdom, the compound marked one of the only safe rest stops. Traveling from Utokayavak to the Olovfian Monastery took the better portion of a worker''s week, and the mountains themselves blotted out the sun for most of the sunbathed portions of the day. I always found this phenomenon rather eerie, as the hills cast their shadow below. But the sun''s faint lights kept the sky above bright and blue, a small consolation to the few who trekked this route. Most were pilgrims from the west, others minor merchants or caravans fleeing the rising sea. I was none of these in my early adulthood, but as a child, I walked this path east to west and back again and so it felt familiar to me. Brother Granvich greeted me at the gates, though it was his job to stand and keep undesirables and unpleasant visitors from entry. It was less a greeting and more a checkpoint, but he was himself a polite and charitable man who often ignored the tenants of his order. Granvich was otherwise a bland and uncontroversial man who had aged poorly since the last time I had seen him. Of course, I was only a child the first time we met, and the negotiations for entry between him and my parents lasted nearly an hour. We were refugees of sorts, worshippers of the Elder Gods who fled the new kingdoms and their accompanying wars, which grew like tumors from the carcass of the dead Empire. But as I said, he was a charitable man who took a certain sympathy toward my mother and father that no other would extend to us throughout my childhood. If I could go back and warn him, I would wave him off from accepting us. We would have never made it west, and my mother would never have been impregnated by the old fickle god of the hills, and the afterbirth of his vengeancemy sisterwould have never been born. When I met him again as a wandering adult, he was just as charitable. He ushered me into the gates without much to do, knowing my face and gait well by then. The courtyard had wilted since my last visit, and I could not ignore the suffering of the foliage. The members of this orderexplicitly devoted to Saint Olovfwere known for their blessed green thumbs. When I questioned Granvich about the sorry state of their monastic garden, he noted that their efforts had been fruitless. I am still unsure if this was his poor attempt at humor, and at the time, it settled equally as poorly as it does now, in my recollection. Brother Granvich guided me through the grounds to the mess, where the other monks worked to tidy and preserve the space. They paid no mind to us as Granvich gathered a bowl of stew from the hearth''s cooking pot and sat with me as I scarfed down the unpleasantbut freecollection of roots, nuts, and well-overcooked marmot. "The ground pigs have been a nuisance of late," Granvich explained, "Desperate they are, as we brothers are, for tubers, it seems. Their little holes and tunnels normally sprawl across the fields, but lately, they''ve sprouted through the courtyard. Killing them is unpleasant because I rather enjoy them, but who am I to deny a good stew a ready supply of meat?" "You''d be no good man at all, I''d say. I might be bold to speak on so many other''s behalf, but the marmot does well at hiding the otherwise unpleasant texture of the stock. Know I mean to make no complaint; the likes of me well appreciate your charity." Granvich laughed softly, "Such is so obvious that I dare not question it. And I dared not question it when we first met during the Heretical Migration. But what brings you through again so soon, son?" "Advice," I replied. "From the Church, in fact. Though I do not doubt your knowledge, I fear your dedication to Olovf may leave you in a spot of ignorance to my concerns." "Try me," Granvich replied with a polite smile. I slurped the stew broth while I considered his offer but relented. "Azre has been missing for some time, and I waver at the dauntingness of my search. While following an old lead that didn''t pan out, I found myself in Utokayavak." "The old mining company''s town?" I nodded, and he motioned for me to continue. "While there, I found a demon that had grown swollen and fat from the town''s people. A young girl had gone missing, and while I failed to find any trace of her, I suspect the creature ate her. Lured her into the depths of the mine with greedy promises a child couldn''t understand. Such creatures exist; we all know this, Brother. But is it not strange that one would settle so close to our kind? Do they not typically linger in the virgin forests further west?" Brother Granvich scratched at his pocketed cheeks and hummed troublingly. "Your concerns are fair, son. I do not doubt your recanting of events, but as you''ve said, such a thing would be strange. And to be so active in its feasting on the locals? Their numbers are far and few between in these times, and eating a child is horrific enough to attract a hunter." "That much is true. I slayed it. Inelegantly, but it no longer haunts the children and their soup. That''s how it seemed to reach them through their soup bowls. But surely now you see the information I seek?" Granvich nodded to me. "You wish to know why it would take such a risk to begin with. And I must be honest with you: the winds have changed. I cannot quite explain it, but I feel it in my bones. The fall is coming faster than usual, the fish flee the lake, the garden suffers, and the game is sparse. It is as if the essence of life itself is fleeing the valley. But rest assured tonight that the valor of the Vanbatar keeps vigil over your weary body, my son. Remind me before your leave, and I will write a letter for the diocese in Garivansk on your behalf. Bishop Rysk will see you under my suggestion; I am sure of it." I watched the salt and tiny bits of food debris settle in the negligible puddle of broth at the bottom of my bowl and half-smiled. Granvich was, as always, a charitable man. "You are held in such high regard to me that your word is truly an honor. Thank you, Granvich." If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The wrinkles on his face pulled as he hummed politely. He stood and bowed, and I did the same back after he took my bowl. Off to the Moonlight Carrel, he went for evening repentance, and I trudged along to the familiar hostel on the other side of the courtyard where my family had stayed decades ago. Living in the West meant that I rarely heard the term, but Granvich always mentioned the Heretical Migration. My family was pilgrims of itfollowers of the elder gods who feld Cambray for the unsettled western shores, though we stopped short of it when father took up work as a miner. Many of us did not survive the march, be it the elements claiming us or the roving bands of the Saintly who feared us with great fervor. The fear subsided long ago, but the scars of the Migration remain upon the land; Granvich himself has led the excavation of many a mass grave, but he was always sure to leave the empty pits behind as a reminder. Not a reminder meant to strike fear but to remember the horrors humanity can act against itself. It was not a reminder for the heretics but for the Saintly followers who praised him and the Vanbatar while acting against their beliefs and wishes. I stopped in the courtyard and took time to appreciate the starry night. The brothers of Saint Olovf chose a spot most beautiful to settle. I enjoyed watching the glimmering of the Vanbatar, even if I did not believe in their supposed powers or that their spirits indeed lingered in the lights of the sky. But they were good people, except for a fewnamely Saintess Fraust, whose actions led to the Heretical Migration. However, the Church''s veneration of her is sensible when one considers their context. Even I, one branded as a heretic at birth, can understand the simplicity of supporting a martyr who helped shore up one''s cause. The winners write history, and the Saintly are far more numerous than those of us who followed the Elder Ways. My room was equally as simple as the politics of Saintess Fraust: an austere stuffed mattress, an ancient second-hand nightstand with a candle that the monks themselves created, the metal holder forged from a continuous hunk of scrap beat with crude tools to form it appropriately. The window was a pleasant addition from the last time I had stayed within the grounds and had a wondrous view of the lake. But that night, as I watched the serene, quiet beauty of the lake, the few boats and the returning fishermen on the shorefront vanished in a sudden ominous fog. Seconds passed before their screams and cries of abject terror echoed across the water and throughout the valley. Then, silence. A lingering silence stagnated the symphony of suffering, so much so that even the insects and birds had stopped singing. I recall now that they never did return. I painfully admit now that I know the truth of that night: that the darkness I found in Utokayavok had followed me, my actions waking it from a deep and evil slumber. I rushed from my room as the silence beset the monastery and found Brother Granvich joined by others of the order, though not all were accounted for. "What''s happened?" He asked as if I were some expert on the unholiness that had occurred. My hands shook, my brow wettened, and my legs trembled. He approached and took my hands, placing a silver-plated blade upon them. Seeing the weapon drew my focus back to the moment, and finally, I noticed that Granvich and his companions had taken up spears and swords. "Tremble not, son, for Saint Olovf blessed those who grow within themselves, and you are hardier than any plant." Those words found a permanent home within me, and I clutched the sword''s hilt in a solemn commitment of my aid to Granvich. The five of us made way for the central courtyard, where three of them formed a makeshift spear wall oriented toward the main gate. Two took up a rear defense of the formation while Granvich and I took to the flanks. We waited so long that we wondered if anything was genuinely coming. The awkward stillness of our defense was broken when a bony spike passed through the skull of the leftmost member of the spear wall, cleaving clean through and spiking into the dirt. The man made no sound, and not one of the brothers reacted audibly, though I could see the horror on their faces and feel the tension rising as they committed to their faithfulness. I darted my eyes toward the monastery''s exterior walls, desperate to see what shape the darkness could create. I saw it first, and then Granvich. Its skin was flayed and falling from its body in seemingly endless clumps. Its arms were removed, and the head was sunken below where the shoulders should have supported its weight. Thus, the head was left lined up with pulsing, festering gills. It had no tongue; instead, it was replaced by a slowly regrowing pointed bone protrusion that soaked and burned in some unholy acid, which swelled and leaked from deep within its gullet. During this process, it hacked and screamed, and I began to make out its bent and contorted legs. Each toe of its feet was dislocated and moved independently from one another as it dug into the stone wall. This is how the creature could climb and navigate at such a height. "Charge forward with faith, brothers! We must deny it footing on our holy grounds!" Granvich ordered the four remaining brothers. His head swiveled to me next, and he pointed toward a set of stairs behind me that led onto the battlements. "Cut it off, son! I''ll take the demon from the other side!" Old as he was, the speed by which he cleared the distance to the other stairs was impressive. I rushed up the steps, and we cornered the beast as the brothers below drove their spears upward to draw its focus. It reacted with feargenuine and nearly humanjust as the demon in Utokayavok had when I wounded it. Granvich and I drew our blades and awaited our opening. I chopped and hacked wearily into the creature''s leg and fell forward as my blade cut clean through the decaying flesh and rotted bones. As I fell, its head reared back to face me, and the acid slobbering from its mouth fell across my face and chest. The searing pain was too much for me then, and as my consciousness faded, Granvich hollowed and stepped forward to drive his blade through the neck of the creature. I remember its wails and gurgles as my vision faded to blackness. When I awoke the following day, I was convinced that I had experienced a nightmare. Only when I felt my face and chest did I recall that the dream had indeed happened. Bandages seeped in aloe had been wrapped so tightly around my body that I could scarcely move, but even so much as turning my head dragged the linens just enough across my melted skin that all I could acknowledge was my agony. The damage from these wounds never healed, and the constant, subtle pain never faded. Granvich tended to my wounds as payment for my aid. In total, three of the beasts beset the monastery and neighboring hamlet. Thirty-three were killed, Granvich attending to each for their final rites and incineration. The cremations took four days, the last of which I was well enough to provide a meek assistance in carrying bodies and shoveling the ashes of the corpses. Four days later, I was well enough to travel and met with Granvich the night before my leave was anticipated. "You''ve brought the letter, Brother?" I asked. "I have brought something better, my son. You and I will be traveling to Garivansk as companions. The attack has left behind concerns I fear must be addressed with haste, and we both are far more likely to reach the city in one piece together. Especially if more of those creatures stalk the valley." I nodded in agreement, "Your company is much appreciated, then." "We must make a stop along the way if that''s agreeable?" I cocked my brow, "A stop to where?" "Not to where, but for what? The reliquary is two days east along our route up an old, winding mountain path. We must delve into it so that I can retrieve an artifact." "And what artifact is that?" "The Scythe of Saint Olovf." Episode 3, On The Ill Fate Of Caravans, Pt. 1 The other brothers of the order sent us off the morning of our departure. Gathered at the main gate, they thanked the Hedge Pilgriman honorific name they bestowed on mefor his aid and gave me a pleasant deal of sweet wine, poultices, and several days'' worth of food. As a sympathy for my sacrifice, which came in the form of my disfigurement, they put together a humble sum of lovok as a more transferable compensation. Granvich traveled lightly; his monastic dress, which was more appropriately described as a single contiguous bolt of wool with a hole punched through for the head, an over-shoulder sack containing ascetic foods and water, and his walking stick. He kept a carving of the Candles clung to his necka tight metal chain that dug into the flesh with tiny, polished barbs from which a large medallion hung depicting 27 candles, one for each of the Saintly Martyrs. The flame of each burning wick met in the center and swirled into the shape of the sun adorned with a holy crown of 13 points representing the original martyrs. Seemingly out of respect for my familial traditions, he obscured the fetish as best he could once the eyes of the other monks had left our view. The journey to the reliquary was two days but was more like one and a half with such a small and swift party of two. The weather was still warm enough that traveling the roads was not so dangerous as to wager one''s life against the cold, but the forests of the mountains had begun to change. I could not help but forget our rushed inclination when the scenic views of the red and orange leaves caught the shimmering of the light just before and just after midday. And when the sun was rising or setting, the deep blues and shimmering teals of the Greer Trees were so beautiful I could be convinced that any creaturehuman, beast, or demonwould have to stop and appreciate their fleeting seasonal appearance. I remember Granvich and I had stopped briefly by the river that ran west toward the monastery to rest, and we spoke of the valley. Do you know why this valley was named for the Vanbatar? Granvich asked. I havent any idea, but I was always curious, I admitted. I assume some great martyrdom occurred here? Granvich hooted a laugh and smiled, No, nothing like that, my son. It is much simpler than that. He leaned back upon a boulder and took in an appreciative inhalation. When the Saintly Ones appeared, this is where they would go to collect their thoughts. It was a place of peace and solitude to them, untouched by the corruptions of humanity and its kings. It is a harsh place for the weakness inherent to humanity, especially during the winter, and so it has remained mostly unsettled, save for the hardiest and most blessed among us. My people settled here first if you recall. I am well aware, Granvich replied, turning a knowing smile toward me. As I have said, he was a charitable man, and this truth extended to all his matters. He was quick to compliment others, even heretics when such a compliment was due to a person or their people. I smiled back at him. We finished our lunch and continued until the sun retired. Toward the end of our days trek, we came across a camp of wagoneers along the road, and they naively flagged us down with warm greetings and offers to join them by the fire. Granvich and I considered it silently, and I replied as we tried to hurry past to distance ourselves before we could set up camp. Dark things spread through the valley, friends, and we are a company that would only draw them closer. The head of the caravan responded with a laugh and met us on the road, Dark things spread, you say? Thats just nighttime, pilgrims. You mistake my words for a polite declination. They are a warning. Demons have assailed the Brothers of the Olovfian Order. Granvich confirmed as much, knowing the weight of truth that carried on his vestments, What my companion says is true. Weve spent nearly the week burning the dead. The man looked worriedly upon us. Then I must change my asking to an imploring. We have no warriors among our flock, but you two are survivors. Surely, having you by our side will offer some protection. You do not understand. We will only draw a greater possibility of death toward you. But without you, we will definitely perish. Please. Stay. We have children with us. When we passed the wagons, I did not notice them and asked, Where? Asleep already, in the wagon beds. The thought of them not waking to the morning sun The man tried to pull at our sympathies, and it worked. Granvich looked at me pleadingly, and when I sighed, he smiled. We agreed to join the wagoneers and shared our bread and wine with them as the sun finished setting and the holy twinkling settled in the cloudless sky above. Fear fought against tingling drunkenness as the men and women of the wagons joined their children and fell asleep. Granvich had whispered his commitment to staying awake for the nightly watch to me hours earlier but had forgotten his age and, expectedly, fell asleep curved up like a hound by the fire. I nervously fuddled with the sheath of the silver sword, both a reminder of its existence and my inexperience with using it. Inevitably, the exhaustion of the days forced march caught up with me and I dozed off. I woke slowly sometime later as something rolled into my foot. I wiped my eyes and looked at what I initially believed was a ball, only to find the bleeding, freshly severed head of the caravan master. Luckily, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, leaving me as the direct witness to the gruesome games of a team of impish fiends. The body of the caravan master had been butchered quietly; the imps hushed as they fought and squabbled over the arms and legs they pulled from his torso. I weighed my options in the few precise seconds before they would realize I had woken up. My hand stalled on the pommel of my sword, and I looked around as best I could without moving my head. Granvich was still asleep next to me, but I could see the rustling shadows of the imps behind the heavy tarp of one of the wagons the children were in and watched as dark splatterings seeped through the canvas. The only art known to demons is that of the medium of blood and death, and the children were made to be paints for the brushes of impish claws. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. I prayed for the first time in my life at that moment, and then my desperate pleas were answered under the gaze of the Saintly. The St. Olovf himself spoke soothing words between my ears and called forth a blinding retribution. When the flash had passed, the imps were left stunned, and when I drew my blade, I found that great vines and a bark carapace stronger than any human metal had enveloped it. Wildly, I swung my blade as I charged against the imps. I screamed like a madman, and the blade redefined the laws of possibility. The vines whipped forth, bladed with flat sheets of the razor-sharp carapace, and the imps that once consumed the caravan master were minced and diced before my very eyes. Granvich awoke and began shouting in a panic as the imps in the wagon tore through the canvas, their claws and maws drenched and clambering with the blood of innocence. He ducked, and I turned my heel toward the advancing demons, swinging my sword again as the wrath of St. Olovf guided my arm. Granvich and I were soaked in the torrent of blood that dispensed from the impish mound of flesh just created, and the sulfuric smell and chunks of fiendish flesh that hit us were so overwhelming that neither of us could keep our dinners down. The few straggling imps that remained retreated into the woods at my successful routing, and we set about calming our nerves and searching for any survivors of the raid. Buried under the slag of corpses in the tent was one: a girl of 12 years, Lubina, who survived by feigning death and digging under the mutilated bodies of her younger siblings. I hurriedly rescued her from the familial carnage she drowned in and tried my best to clean away the innards of her family that smeared her face and knotted her hair. Her eyes never blinked, but I tried to hide her haunted stares from seeing the camp. She demanded to be shown the imps and when Granvich and I both protested, she sank her teeth into my thumb until I released her. Lubina pushed past us and cried a guttural and primal shriek as she kicked the fragments of the imps that remained recognizable. She reached into the fire, gripped a burning log with her bare hands, and set about torching the demons. She sneered and cried as she watched their ashes sweep away with the wind. When her rage subsided, she lost consciousness. Granvich cared for her wounds and cleaned her with what spare fresh water we could find. When he had finished, we lashed the girl to my back, took what supplies we needed from the wreckage of the camp, and made the decision to begin traveling. Fearing that the imps would return with more significant numbers, we risked traversing the road at night, assuming being mobile was better than being still. The hours passed slowly before the rising sun gave us great relief from our terror, and by the early afternoon, we had reached the famed reliquary of old. The orphan girl woke up as we set camp and began preparing lunch. She was hesitant and frightened of us, screaming and crying as whatever horrifying nightmare that came in her dreams faded. We gave her space and kept our hands visible to show her we meant no threat, and I was so committed to ensuring a healthy adjustment back to reality that I had purposefully left my sword next to her bedroll. She grabbed it as she scrambled away, and all my fears and unfathomable worries mounted in anticipation. She turned the blade to us, begging to wake from her torment. Then, she turned the blade on herself and cried out for her mother and father. The tip pushed against her belly with the heavy rising and falling of her breaths, but she hesitated to complete the deed. I never would have blamed her had she chosen to end her life, but such a choice would be heavy to watch a child make. Fortune favors the bold, as they say, and my choice to subtly arm her paid off in the form of a tiny droplet of trust that would begin the foundations of a lake. She shared her name with gentle pryingLubina, as I saidand eventually reached stability. Granvich shared with her a bowl of the stew he had prepared and broke bread for her in prayer. When asked if the lighting of candles in honor of the deceased would be appropriate, Lubina responded positively, and together, they prepared the wax and wicks, and the names of her family were entrenched within the finished molds. I stayed my distance during the ceremony but found comfort in their repentance of sins and calls for saintly embracement. I could see in her eyes that she blamed the Saints for what had happened. Granvich could, too. But her conviction and faith only hardened as she processed the disconcerting things she saw and was forced to do. Her anger knew no limitations; our mutual enemy did not realize the enemy they made that day, but I did. We must delve now. The sooner we can be on the road again, the better. I said. I must go with you, and the girl cannot stay here alone, Granvich replied. Ill come, Rubina interjected. Let me come with you. I can help. I can be useful. No doubt of you exists within me, Lubina. You are a strong girl, a resilient girl. But we do not know what well face below. The reliquary has been left untouched for decadesthe last anyone delved into it was before even our friend was born. Granvich said, looking at me. The Leper isnt that oldthough remarkably old for his condition. She said. Granvich and I looked at each other in confusion, and I asked, Leper? Youre a Leper, arent you? Her words hesitated as she began to doubt the manners of what she was saying. She gently pointed toward her face and then to mine. OhLubina, no. No, its not Granvich began before I interrupted him. Demons assaulted the Monastery of St. Olovf two days ago. When I cut through one of their legs, it tipped over, and an acid sloshed from its mouth. RightFalse Leper, then. I thought about telling the girl my name at that moment. To give her some excuse not to call me such a hurtful thing. But she had been through so much already. If I gave her my name, she may become attached. I had no way of knowing how long I would survive, and truthfully, I did not believe I would last much longer at the rate by which demons seemed to flock to me. If she intended to insult me with the name, perhaps I deserved the dishonor of it. It was me who, inadvertently, led to the demise of everything she loved. She was stuck with us. I could do her this one favor. False Leper, then, I repeated, to Granvichs surprise. The girl comes with us. I will take the lead and a torch. Lubina will stay in the middle, and Granvich, you take the rear with a torch as well. Does that sound agreeable? Lubina and Granvich nodded. We collected what supplies we needed and spread them between our backpacks in case we were separated. The entrance to the reliquary was relatively hidden. It was carved into the natural cliff face of the mountainside and allowed to become overgrown with vegetation. The stone slab door had several indentations, each in the shape of a flame, hovering above the 27 Candles. Granvich reached for his head and carefully tore a small bundle of hairs from it, ensuring the roots came with them before dipping them into the small trickle of blood they created. He dabbed the makeshift brush and his bodily paint into each indentation before lighting the bundle of hair on his torch. A sacrifice of blood from the faithful, embellished by the flame of the righteous, opened the ancient door before us. Episode 4, On The Ill Fate Of Caravans, Pt. 2 The following is authored by Lubina, who wished to reflect on the portions of her life I missed until our meeting all those years ago. My father always said I was a resilient girl. I would often fall and scrape my knees, bump my head, run through thorned branchesany hazard that existed around me, I was sure to find. My brothers, of whom there were five, would claim I was cursed. And in their post-humorous defense, perhaps they were not wrong. I was often told that wherever I was, trouble found fertile fields to grow, that I was some sort of poison to the luck of the land and all who traversed it. I believe now that this fact of my existence truly brought me and the False Leper together all of those years ago. It was not his bad luck, nor mine, but a swirling, uncontrollable collision of the two. I grew up in the rugged pine-forest-covered hillocks of Vaastok, north of the Valley of the Vanbatar and thus far north of that old mining town where the False Leper grew up. Not just that, but far too was it from the dark and creeping whispers and crawling monsters of the ancient western forests. Even further from the dark shores beyond them, from which all manner of evil things spawn. When I was a girl, these things were more fairytales than truth, even if the old Delm''ri claimed otherwise. Their history of times beyond human understanding was our superstition in modernity. But none of this mattered much to our daily lives. My father was a carpenter, and my mother was a washwoman. Both were raised in the pine forests, the newest generation in a line stretching its roots deep into the Vaastok''s glades. We loved our home, maybe more than any other folk ever have. When the Heretical Migration started, my parents told me they were welcomed with open arms. Arms were so open that with their aid, my father erected a suitable barrack on our property just for them to have a place while they tried to build a new life in the region. When I was born, many still lived with us, but their numbers fell as time passed, and they built their steads out in the wild. I grew my first girlhood crush on one of the Elder Gods'' worshipping boys my age; I had my first kiss with him as well, the tiny and icky little thing that it was for kids our age. But he was a sweet boy, and our parents raised us righteously. I feared not him, and he feared not me; it was an understanding beyond tolerance. But many among the old kingdoms were not so tolerant as we. When strange rumors began traveling from the west, darkness and fear grew in the hearts of the weak-willed folk of Vaastok. One evening, Torda and I played in the forestforaging mushrooms, picking up little creepy chitinous critters, and pretending to play warriors and sorcerers. "Do your people still do magick?" I asked him, much to his surprise. His tiny, round face squeezed together as he thought. "Well... sometimes. But you can''t tell anyone, Lubina! You have to promise, okay?" So enamored with the wondrous possibility, I shook my head violently and profusely agreed, "I won''t! I promise! Do you know someone who does it? Have you seen them do it?" He responded shyly, "My mama does. All mama''s from our homeland do... but she doesn''t like to do it in front of me. She says it isn''t safe for children to see." I slapped my hands against my cheeks in surprise and awe before disappointment set in, and I looked to my make-believe wand fashioned from a duck''s feathers and a stick, "So you don''t think she would show me then, huh?" "I don''t think so. I''m sorry." The boy replied earnestly. I was disappointed and disgruntled beyond measure, not at him, but at its unfairness. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Later that evening, as my father and I walked to the bathhouse, I told him about it quite loudly. I had been sworn to secrecy, and I took only a few hours to break that oath. My father quickly hushed me, pulled me near one of the great stone fences that lined the exterior road, and scolded me quietly. "I''m aware, Lubina. But you cannot tell anyone that. Torda should not have told you to begin with. Forget you even know it." I nodded, watching his eyes shift to the dimming village''s homes, trees, and shadowy corners. On the night of the next new moon, when the Vanbatar was brightest in the sky, our household was awoken to echoing screams. My parents scrambled awake and told us to remain indoors. With their crossbows in hand, they left the home, and we, against their wishes, followed. Cries came from all directions, and great fires roared at the homesteads nearest us. Through the trees, shadowed figures lurked about, barking scared commands and sightings to each other, like bloodhounds barking to communicate the presence of their prey. My parents rushed to the barracks built on our property, where Torda and his parents lived, when they noticed the jar was left ajar and axed upon. My brothers hurried after them, and a young, frightened me followed. I heard my father''s crossbow string thumping as he left my sight and heard him yellingthe second thumping of a crossbow muffled behind the doors just as I rounded them. Two folks from the village lay dead, two that I knew. That we all knew, their son, a grown man, was being held down by my brothers as my father reloaded his crossbow. As I looked around the horrid scene, I found Torda''s father lying just a few feet from me with his skull split; clear that he had tried as well as he could to hold the door shut while the intruders pushed in. Further back, laid across a hale bale, was the decapitated body of my sweet, beautiful young friend. His arms are down by his sides, his body locked in place, his knees bent, and his feet crossed. His barely conscious mother coddled the head of her son, his eyes turned inward toward her bosom as she silently drowned the world in her tears. "Get him up," my father demanded with a fit of anger and power in his voice none of us had ever heard. My brothers obliged, lifting the intruder''s son and pushing him against a support beam. "Why in the name of the Saintly have you done this? Have you gone mad?" He screamed, spittle and droplets of blood sprayed onto the young man. "You lot were harboring evil! We only came to cleanse the sorcerers from the" Before he could finish, my father pinned the man''s head to the beam with a bolt through the mouth. He turned around with determined eyes to find me while motioning for my brothers to follow their mother outside and ready the horses and wagons. I had wandered away, dropping to my knees before the grieving mother of Torda. "I''m so sorryI, he told me not to tell anyone, and I told my dad, and someone must have" "It''s not your fault, girl. I promise." She wheezed, taking my hand, "They would have come for us eventually. We always knew that risk." I swore an oath to the dying woman, "I promise I won''t let this stand... I won''t let this happen ever again." "Stick out your tongue, girl. Let me give you something. Something that will let you protect others." I hesitated but did as she requested for her final wish. She dipped two of her fingers into her wound, spread the blood across my tongue like butter on bread, and then closed my mouth. The taste was repulsive, and I was shocked by the strangeness of the act. "Now give it time. And hope. And let itgrow." She sputtered out before her eyes closed. I did not speak for nearly two weeks. Not until the night my family was slaughtered and the False Leper and Brother Granvich became my guardians. My father pulled me from the woman, looked upon her with a depth of sadness surpassing that of any ocean, and silently wept in guilt, and as his tears touched my face and tender hands, his guilt became my own. We loaded into the wagons with another family, though it was only the mother and her daughter we could save as they poured out onto the forest road with the Saintly in pursuit like a pack of wild dogs. That night, I saw the worst humanity had to offerthe worst that the Saintly had to offer. Now, every night, I lay awake and wonder why the Vanbatar did nothing as the Saintess Fraust, their sister under the Dead God, exacted her final, trivial, meaningless revenge on innocents. But my faith in the martyrs never waivered because I knew that some of those bright stars above would dim with regret at their inability to act upon the world. Episode 5, The Scythe of Saint Olovf We descended into the catacombs of the reliquary, with me leading the group as planned. Lubina stayed close to Brother Granvich, but neither of them strayed more than five feet from me. The great, spiraling stairs plunged deep into the earth, proving exhausting and endless. Pressure built in my ears and nose every twenty feet or so, and the air quickly turned cool and stagnant. But toward the end of the staircase, the air shifted. First, it warmed, then it became thick. I wasn''t the only one who felt the corruption of the profane. "This is not merely air now, False Leper. It is a miasma," Granvich said. "I noticed it as well. Your reliquary has been desecrated; the very air is polluted and rotten." "It smells like a swamp has leaked inside," Lubina added, pinching her nose. I stopped suddenly as I stepped forward, expecting another stone step, but found water instead. Lubina was not entirely wrong, it seemed. As we passed into the entry of the catacombs, the walls were covered in lichen and roots, and sad-looking trees, resembling willows, sprouted through the collapsing stones above. Lilypads and cattails littered the water, rippling under my intrusive foot. It did not just smell like a swamp; it was one. "How could all of this have grown? There''s no sunlight," Lubina asked, glancing at Granvich. I, too, sought his wisdom, as any brother of Saint Olovf would surely understand the botanical workings of this place better than anyone else. "This is beyond my expertise. The girl is right. Even in the western swamps, where the canopy reduces sunlight, the plants succumb to entropy in a totality of darkness." That was not the explanation Inor Lubinahad hoped for. It left only one possibility, one that Granvich and I instinctively understood but refrained from voicing to spare the child. We had no choice but to lead her into danger; without her nearby, we could not protect her, and children make easy targets for the vile creatures that slither and lurk in our world. We continued onward, the water wading halfway up our calves. "Where is this relic supposed to be?" I inquired. Granvich paused as we reached an intersection of overgrown hallways, calmly swiveling his torch to regain his bearings. "The layout seems unchanged... for now. We must go right through to the treasury. It was built to confuse and deflect the truth of this place, should robbers gain entrya diversion to satisfy their greed and keep them from searching for the false door to the reliquary." "Then right we shall go. Clever thinking, indeed," I complimented. Granvich smiled, "On behalf of the order, I thank you, my old friend." Just as we began trudging down the halls, Lubina grew curious, "What''s down the left, then?" "Down the left?" Granvich parroted, "I... hm. I haven''t any idea, truthfully. As I said, it has been some decades since last I checked on the relic with my own eyes. At the time, I wished not to sour this holy place with my presence, so I made quick work of my task and did not loiter." "But what if whatever is making the swamp is living down there? Maybe it''s been there since the beginning, and no one ever noticed." I raised a brow and stopped, looking back to Lubina. I was admittedly impressed with her thoughts, especially compared to the traumatized silence and vengeful fits of violence. Perhaps, I thought, this was good for her. To be engaged. To keep her mind away from what was undoubtedly the real horrorher family''s fate. For Lubina, the horror creeping into this holy place was nothing, not after being forced to use the gore of your loved ones to hide from growling, slobbering imps. "Now that I think of it, the False Leper''s blade matches quite well with the scenery, doesn''t it?" Granvich admitted. I looked down at my scabbard, the strange vines on its hilt, and the fragmented eruptions of bark that now smothered the glimpses of gilded iron underneath it. I felt that Saint Olovf willed the weapon into existence in my moment of desperation, and he is oft associated with the wilds, greenery, herbology, and the like. With a thumb green enough, perhaps a man could turn metal into bark so robust it shames even Delm''ri steel. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. "We should continue. The entry to the reliquary must be closed by now." Granvich and Lubina nodded in agreement, and we continued along the path. Not long thereafter, we arrived in the treasury, where the old chests and piles of gold had been overcome with mud and stuck together to form an eerie mound. The water deepened as we approached, and I motioned for Granvich and Lubina to stay and be silent. I drew my sword and waded deeper into the water, and as it reached my stomach, I felt something beneath in the dark, murky depths graze the back of my thigh. "Run!" I yelled before some unknown monstrosity wrapped tightly around my legs and pulled me suddenly and with great force into the water. I hadn''t even had the chance to breathe nor gauge what direction the monster had come from. My head hit the stone at the bottom, and I gripped my sword tightly while desperately scratching at the floor with my free hand as I was dragged away. I could see the water shimmering and waving as Granvich plunged into the deeper water in search of me. Too disoriented to determine where the main body of my assailant was, I decided to harm myself, hoping for a release. I knew some sort of tendril or tail was wrapped about my thighs and squeezing them, so I aimed my sword as best I could and stabbed. The first stab missed, pushing the tip of the blade just an inch deep into my thigh. On the second attempt, my aim was true, and I felt the tautness of the restricting appendage lax. I erupted from the surface as its horrid squealing radiated through the water. When I emerged, Granvich grabbed tightly onto my shoulders to settle me. "Above!" Lubina yelled. Her finger stretched out toward the mound, where a two-headed beaver stalked us from atop it. The beaver''s fur was interlaced with scales, and its sickly, vibrant yellow teeth were grown in jagged, spiked arrangements no longer designed for the felling of trees but for the severing of limbs. The flat tail had been hacked to its base, creating a flailing mess of leathery tendrils that whipped furiously without cause. "Your blood will consecrate this place," the creature burbled out as I moved between it and my companions. "What knows a demon of consecration? What greater god could you ever serve?" I demanded. "A new god, born from the eviscerated innards of a mother and made from the seed of her unwanted communion. You know her well more than I." I howled in anger, knowing well the answer to my question that followed, "What is her name?" It slobbered the words manically to me, "Azrealiya, our queen; our wet nurse; our purpose." I slowly waded closer to the creature as I stalled to divert its attention, "Where is she? Where is my sister?" "She is where you seek, festering our righteous brood in Garivansk. That drunkard, ignorant fool leading the city has no clue he''s created the perfect nest for us." "Bishop Rysk? A drunkard? You speak vile lies." Granvich declared. "It matters not what words may mean now, monk," the creature hissed as it slowly began climbing down the slope of the mound toward us. "You will be feces in this water in a few hours." The fierce tails of the creature whipped forward as it lept upon us with all the strength its withered, webbed feet could manage. One of the tips caught Granvich and pierced through his upper arm, severing the muscle and tearing cleanly through to the other side. I swung my blade down against it, and once it was separated from him, I pushed him down into the water. "Lubina, run! I said run!" I shouted as my sword and the creature engaged. In all the terror of the combat, I could not hear anything but our duel. I had to know the girl was okay, and so when an opening presented itself, I looked just for a moment over my shoulder to see her paralyzed in fear. The creature took advantage of my concern and rapidly closed the gap between us before overtaking me and forcing me beneath the water. I struggled against it, each blow forcing my lungs to blow out, only for the release of its paws to force water into my lungs. I began to drown, stabbing and slashing unwieldy against the monster. Luck had been on my side, and one of my wild strikes struck the fatty sack protecting its throat. The monster recoiled, giving me only a few seconds to stand and continue my advance. But it was not needed, for when I stood and readied my blade, a great beam of light passed through the neck of the beast without resistance. I looked to the left where it came from. Lubina stood, her eyes blackened with the fluids of sorcery, her fingertips burnt, and her nails cracked and peeled away. She began to fall over, and Granvich hurried through the water to catch her. Heaving through my exhaustion, I demanded of my monastic friend, "Where is the door, Granvich?" He gave no response, his mind focused intently on the unconscious girl who had just saved my lifeand undoubtedly his as well. He only pointed toward a series of loose stones: twice left, once forward, once right, once forward. I followed this pattern as ordained, and the false door promised by Brother Granvich slid back from the wall and vanished. Inside the hidden space was only one thing. There was no relic staff, no blessed scythe, no great holy trinket. There was only shattered glass, its contents replaced with a single piece of silver lovok minted by the Gilded Iron Company. Episode 6, Self-Loathing and the Delm鈥檙i Gates Getting out of the reliquary took far longer than getting in. Granvichs wound was far worse than expected, irritated and infected with the unclean water of the subterranean swamp mixed with some foul fluid the demon produced from glands beneath its fur. Lubina would not gain consciousness for several hours, though we worried she wouldnt ever. That evening, we camped in the reliquary''s shadow, its stone facade an anchor for the tarps I used to fashion a large tent. Outside the confines of this most humble abode, I started a fire and encircled us in shavings of iron and sulfur. Granvich helped prepare defensive sigils known by scholars to displease the undead and the unholy, some associated with the Vanbatar and some with the Elder Gods. The act surprised me. Is this not some form of blasphemy for you? I wondered, afraid that his fear had compromised some foundational belief. The order does not recognize the Saintess Fraust, dear friend, no matter what the Church declares. We are an enclave, and Saint Olovf was a friend to all. He revered the Elder Gods for the magnificence of their creation in the Valley of the Vanbatar. No ill will existed, as far as he might be concerned, between the old ways and the new. My ancestral gods killed yoursOlovfs. How could anyone ever truly forgive such an act? What has happened in our past need not define us. This is true for a person as much as it is true for a god or a society. Our tragedies do not define us, False Leper, just as the scars on your face do not define your spirit or pleasant nature. Did you not hear the ramblings of that beast below? I asked angrily. I heard them. What of them? Do you expect I should believe it? And let us pretend I did. What do your sister''s nefarious deeds and deals have to do with you? No one can hold you responsible for every sin your ancestors committed. The sins of your sister are no different. I did not like his words, and I still do not, even after so much time has passed. Yet I remember them like branding, pressed upon my weak flesh or etched into the stone of my heart. Granvich was a fair man, an honest man. His fairness and honesty, unfortunately, did not help him make friends and allies. Not powerful friends anyway, as we could come to find. Irritated by his honesty, I regrettably snapped, Quiet now, I cannot stand your ramblings on morality any longer. I will not hear it. Tend the fire and mind the girl. His understanding of my outburst was only further aggravating. His simple, gentle responsea smile, nod, and gentle, Be well, my friend. Rest best this evening. Youve more than earned it.left me with a guilt so intense I could taste it in my mouth and feel it like sand between my teeth. He resembled my father?. Never willing to permit another misfortune or misery, even when needed and deserved. People often want to feel the dread of their lives; it''s a natural part of grief. How any creature could learn without facing the consequences of their actions or the world is beyond me. But my fatherand Granvichfirmly believed that guilt and shame were weights best dropped from the yoke of ones burden. As a child, I was told I was responsible for my little sister. My sworn duty was to ensure my little sister''s well-being in my father''s absence, but that duty ended when she committed a wrongdoing. All this despite knowing that I had helped shape, raise, and make her who she would become. I went to bed that night seething over Granvichs magnanimous nature, upset over Lubina''s condition, and confused by all I had learned. I contemplated the very reasons for my journey and why I had set out on it. In truth, most of all, my travels began because I am a vagrant: a respectable enough man, but a vagrant, interloper, drifter. I had no discernable skills to speak of. No valuable working experience or trade. I had no friend in a prominent place to help me find an apprenticeship in the city. I could barely hunt, hardly farm, and perform no carpentry or stonework. Indeed, the only thing I knew I could do was walk, and talk, though I was and still am not an expert conversationalist. Most of all, I thought about Azrealiya, whom I had searched for over the last two years. Had she been in Garivansk all this time, digging her malformed roots deep into the city? I don''t know what happened to her during that time, but I now know it''s best that I remain ignorant. Another restless night passed, and when I awoke the next morning, Lubina was stable and conscious. I used the more expensive and tasteful of our rations to prepare a minor breakfast for the girl, and as she scarfed down the eggs and ham on toast, we spoke. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Lubina began her tale. A few weeks ago, the people of Vaastok lost their minds. Fear, I mean, not something demonic. Something distinctly human. People like you settled in the hills alongside us, and my father helped welcome them in. But fear stirred many people, and something angered them. The villagers came in the night, raided and burned down homesteads, and killed any who held onto the ways of the Elder Gods. As she struggled to tell the story, I offered a gentle touch. Take your time, girl. A boy, Torda, and his family took up on our property. They didnt survive, but the mother lived only long enough after the assault to speak with me. She recounted the Elder woman, drawing blood from her fatal wound and spreading it across her tongue. I understood what she meant, as all the Elder worshippers would. A gift passed from mother to daughter since the beginning of time, created by the Willow Mother. It is said her weeping drooped the branches of her divine form, and as its leaves touched the earth, they encountered a pregnant woman, bestowing her with magic. This gift transmits only through one medium and men cannot receive it. But before Lubina, I had heard no tale of a girl outside of the Elder receiving its bestowment. It was a gift, I told Lubina, A loving, passionate, trusting gift. I know not how to use it, Lubina admitted. Nor do I, little one. Perhaps, my friend, I turned my attention to Granvich now, We might find an Elder woman who understands it? You wish to consort with a sorceress? Arent such magicks outlawed by the Church? That much is true, even amongst my order. But I fear the girl will need it. She is now marked with the blood of evil after slaying that creature. We both know the truth we havent told her. What? Lubina asked. They will come for you now, we fear. Just as they come for me. I answered. Finding a woman to teach Lubina the Elder Ways would have to wait. My sisters presence in Garivansk demanded our immediate attention more urgently. Our journey''s continuation, at its usual pace, would require seven more days, not accounting for our altered circumstances. The winds had changed, just as Granvich said. That year, the fall shortened by several weeks, and a great snowfall started the day after we left the reliquary. As the sudden storm overtook us, we hurried off the road and into the protection of the forest. We wont reach Garivansk until the thaw at this rate. Granvich said. Unfortunately, as much is true as it seems. We dont have the supplies to make it through, nor do we have the clothing to keep warm. I responded. There is only one choice, son. I snapped a bundle of twigs and tossed them onto some kindling I had prepared. While Granvich and I talked, I showed the basics of starting a fire to Lubina. She watched along curiously, absorbing the information with a dedicated focus I would not have expected. And what choice is that? I asked. Granvich pointed off toward our south. There is an ancient Delmri gate. I stopped blowing on the fledgling fire and looked at him, and Lubina did the same. Our expressions were less than amused. Is now really the time for fairytales? Lubina asked. It is no fairytale, Lubina. Though the essence of those stories is true. The worlds beyond the Delmri gates are less than hospitable. Dangerous things lurk within those causeways these days, now that no one exists to oversee them. Why exactly do you know the location of a Delmri gate? I asked, looking back on it, far too accusatorially. After you and I had met, a rumor spread of Delmri woman who had taken refuge in the forests closest to the mountains ridge. I was younger then, and more curious, so I made a summer hike intending to find her. But she found me first, while I washed my hands and took a small moment of leisure by a brook. She made no threat to me, but I was stunned by her sudden appearance. I heard none of her movement and knew not how long she had stalked me through the woods. But she called out to me gentle, curious why I sought her. Admittedly, I had no answer, and I told her as much. The Delmri have all right to suspicion of humans, but she had little of me, and believed my words for the truth they offered. We spoke for some time, during which she confessed to me she was seeking the western shoresthe same as you, son. He motioned toward me with a smile, You and her may have found much joy in speaking, I think. But, regardless, when I asked her how she had traveled so far from the lands of Delmri, she told me that long ago her family helped in the construction of a gate that led out to the Valley of the Vanbatar, though it was different in those days. The mountain''s shifting soil and rock have buried the gate, but it should emerge somewhere just beyond Garivansk. An interesting story, certainly. I was skeptical. I did not hide as much. But Granvich had no reason to lie, and we had no other option to explore. I removed what extra layers I had and wrapped Lubina in them. Let us warm by the fire for a few moments, and well set out. Can you get us there? Granvich sat next to us as the babe of a fire burned properly. I can get us there. I suppressed my suspicion and caution at that moment, focusing instead on little Lubina. Our little mage hadn''t mentioned her desires since becoming our companion, and I knew I had to address them. Delicately, I asked her, Are you fine with this? With what? The Delmri road? She asked. With all of this, I responded, motioning out toward the world at large. Her words came like a barrage of arrows. Where else do I have to go, False Leper? Do you plan on abandoning me to an orphanage? Is that why youve asked now that were nearing Garivansk? The memory of my uncontrollable grin, a mixture of fear and admiration, remains. The girls tongue was sharper than any demons talon that had crossed my skin. She later admitted to purposefully making me uncomfortable in that moment, wanting to throw me off my stoic understanding and see how I behaved when I was being like other simple folk. She made it clear that she wanted to remain through everything. This pleased both Granvich and me, as it did the girl. Episode 7, The Roads Beyond Our Eyes Lubina and I know from everything we have experienced that the Delmri road was the first genuine test of our resolution. By the time we reached the gate, demons had assailed me thrice, both greater and lesser, but even these encounters pale compared to what lay beyond our eyes in the Delmri road. Granvich negotiated the terrain expertly, much to my surprise. He was confident in his claim that he could reach the gate, and he had all rights to such confidence. A trip I had expected to take several hours through the piling snow took only one. Again, to my surprise, the ancient gate was not what I had expected. Perhaps because so many stories portray the Delm''ri as a people of offensive grandeur and showmanship stemming from their hundreds of years of existence, or perhaps because no one ever read me a fairytale as a child, I had no expectations. The structure was humble and small, formed from rough stones and supported by wood that seemed impervious to the usual rot of such organic things, the keystone chiseled with the form of a flea amidst a bed of oak leaves and surrounded by various runes. The structure was no taller than seven feet and no wider than five. By some magical means, the surrounding blizzard could not affect a radius around the gate, the snowflakes vanishing from reality at the barrier between the warm interior and the frigid environment. The gate existed in a world of its own, refusing to be touched by the natural order of our realm. The warmth was a pleasant relief for us all. With that bodily need resolved, we turned our attention to a different one. We focused on figuring out exactly how the gate should be operated. Neither Granvich nor I knew any Delmrian, and we were at a loss about their culture. After fifteen minutes of Granvich and I blundering about like idiotic fools, theorizing and positing various methods based outside the confines of reality and understanding, Lubina spoke up. Lift me, she asked, Just up to the keystone, could you? I cannot reach. Curious, Granvich and I engaged in the exercise and did as instructed. Lubina gazed upon the runes for some time before putting her hands on the stone and hesitantly putting her lips on the ancient writing. Some sort of opaque essence pulled forth from the rock and swallowed into her lungs, and with a deep breath, she spoke words beyond our comprehension. We lowered her down carefully as her gentle eyes shimmered with some profound understanding. Lubina, are you Granvich asked before she cut him off. Shhh, Lubina whispered. She explored the gate''s frame, her instincts bringing her to handholds and hidden places no person of normal ability could identify. It was simply beyond human understanding. Carefully, she engaged with these invisible spaces, and the air within the structure rippled and waved like the ocean, reflecting a barren desert landscape at us. Granvich recited something foreign to me, Like sands of shifting dreams and pavers formed of broken paths through life, travel with the reverent knowledge that all things die but know they never truly vanish. Where did you hear such a thing? Is that from your scriptures? I asked. No. From Arzmais. The Delmri woman. He muttered back, amazed and awed by the magic of the gate. Lubina stood before the gate and said, We should hurry. My understanding of the runes and the magick of their activation are fading. I nodded, looked at a worried Granvich, and assured him, All will be well. Garivansk is just on the other side. The city needs you now, brother. He nodded to me, and after surpassing the hesitation of his first step, we followed behind Lubina as she phased into the otherworldly tear in our reality. Her body and soul distorted like a mirage in waves of midday heat. On the other side, we stood upon a monolith of sandstone thirty feet high, with stairs descending into the sand. The pleasant warmth from before became a brutal heat that immediately soaked the water from our skin. Like the gateway, the tower''s stones seemed immortal despite their purposefully rough cuts. The Delmri, it would seem, were more concerned about efficiency than appearance. Or, at the very least, the family of Arzmais was. Perhaps it was wrong of me to assume that the Delmri were as much a monolith as the one we stood upon that day; humans are not; why might the Delmri be any different after all? Is everyone alright? I asked, gaining the approval of Granvich and Lubina, who looked upon the sands of the distant east like it were a sea of diamonds. Such a reaction to sand was common for folks of the interior who had never seen a beach. This, however, was no beach. There was no water to be seen on the horizon. What is this? Lubina asked. An imitation, I believe. Of the lands of the Delmri. Granvich replied. Looking up at the blazing sun overhead, I enviously lamented, "No wonder people say their clothes reached beneath the soil." We hurried down the steps. Shifting dunes from the realm beyond the gate nearly entirely covered what one might call a road. The winds and sand never wholly covered or uncovered the road, however strong they blew. The strange realm of the Delmri seemed to exist in a state of equilibrium unseen in the realms of man. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. A straightforward truth predicated such an equilibrium: that the sun never sets over the lands of the Delmri. So much was evident when the sky''s brightness had not faded in the slightest degree after nearly six hours of travel. How could anyone live like this? Lubina groaned, desperately tapping the bottom of her waterskin to force free the final, tiniest water droplets. Well, I wondered, Legend has it the Delmri have no desire for water. Or, if they do desire water, they only need to satisfy that desire once or twice in a human lifetime. Could you imagine? I slugged behind her, trying to keep the mood light and joke with her to hide my desperation. Two hundred years, give or take? I had a friend whose gran seemed as old, but surely she had just aged rather poorly. Be it genuine or a symptom of delirium, Lubina giggled. She expressed an emotion not steeped in skepticism, fear, or anger for the first time since we met. It lasted less than a second, but I will never forget it. Even Brother Granvich, notorious for his absent sense of humor, could not help but cast his gaze toward me, shocked at the expression but ?pleased. Looking back at Lubina, I saw a strong, resilient woman who could lead an army. She was taller than I, and her dark hair grayed far beyond her reasonable age. Scars marred her face like mine, but she proudly wore the brand of the False Leper. I saw a daughter I had never known. With her hands, she conjured magick in the shape of water and drank from the infinite well she commanded. She offered me this water, and I fell to my knees. The weariness of our journey finally ground away at my joints. Drink, I heard from a raspy voice in the direction Granvich once stood. A bleached skeleton replaced him, picked clean and gnawed away by the vultures that circled overhead. When I looked back forward, the older Lubina stood before me, offering her cupped hands. Drink, she suggested, pushing her hands against my lips. I felt the water dribble down the sides of my mouth, and as I blinked, I saw her in the distance, thrashing left and right along the road. Some winged thing the size of me screamed sporadically. Drink, she demanded as I blinked again, Drink. Her hands peeled my mouth apart and forced down my throat, the strange ichor disguised as water leaking into my lungs. I coughed, desperately trying to stop her. But she continued her demands and assured me it was for the best. Another blink, and I saw the grainy vision of a creature standing before me, the front of its skull broken and exposing its soft, pink brain. Its eyes bulged and wiggled on the end of optical tendrils, and as I accepted its gifts, a boomerang whirled past, severing the cords that bound me to an illusion. A womans voice called out to me, Get up! I stumbled to my feet and drew my blade, unsure of what was real and what was not. An enormous bird screeched and towered over a prone Lubina who, with great resolve and fear, brought forth a magick barrier with each strike made by its sharpened beak. The boomerang that saved me sliced across the surface of the creatures left wing but diverted on its return and embedded in the sand. I swept the desert for the source and saw a figure sprinting with unnatural agility across the sand as if it were simple dirt or clay. Whatever struggle we three had navigating this terrain, the figure did not. The barrier built by Lubina shattered, allowing the bird to grip her with its mouth and fly away. I struggled through the sand, and the figure called out to me. Throw me! She said, sprinting toward me as I closed the distance on the monster. I halved the sword out of confusion and dropped to one knee, and the woman climbed with grace before pushing off from my forearms and grabbing ahold of the birds imposing talon. Her steps weighed almost nothing, and I hardly felt her push, but she sprung nearly ten feet ahead. She fumbled with a dagger strapped to her thigh and stabbed into the meat of the creatures legs violently. Do something, you dimwit! She yelled. Just as I had done with the imps, I reared back and sliced the blade forward, extruding the bark from the metal and casting the vines outward. As they wrapped about the creatures other leg, I dug my feet downward, and with each mighty push of its wings, I shuffled to entrench like a ships anchor in the sea of sand. The woman used her dagger like a piton, scaling up the creature and under its wings, where she dug a second dagger deeper and sliced like a butcher preparing cuts. The monster wailed out as it lost control of its wing and tumbled from the sky. They had landed near to me, and with Lubina absent from the beaks deadly potential, I slogged to my feet and forward before driving my blade downward between its eyes. I surveyed the battlefield, finding the corpse of the strange creature that had trapped me in a false reality, but I could not find Granvich. Lubina was getting to her feet some yards away, and a muffled voice called out from under the bird. A bit of help? She asked, prompting me to lift the massive bird as best I could to free her. Beneath her unwrapped turban were permanently sunburned skin and severe, squinted light brown eyes framing a crooked nose. She wore her hair cut short and pulled back with several ornate clips. I noticed then that the woman was nearly a foot taller than me. This was the first time I had ever seen a Delmri in any form, physical or painted. The girl? She huffed exhaustedly. Shes alright, with much thanks to you, I responded. Where is the old man? She asked. I dont know. I fear a creature similar to the one that assailed me may have grabbed him. If it werent for you, its illusion would have consumed me. The Delmri woman moved to the corpse of the illusory creature, and I ensured Lubina was well. There were a few cuts and bruises, but with all considered, it was fortune alone that kept her alive. Lubina explained the attack. Granvich wandered off when the creatures emerged from the sand. There were two of them beneath our feet as we walked, the bird hiding off until they called for it. Granvich? The Delmri woman asked. Our missing companion, yes. A brother of an order from the human realms. I responded. A reflective expression passed over the womans red face before she spoke. Yes, I know of him. My, how he has aged. Wait, then you must be Arzmais? At least his memory hasnt faded. Thats right, but who are you? The girl beat me to a response, Im Lubina, and this man is the False Leper. Well, Lubina. False Leper, my nom de guerre sounding suspect in her tone, We have no time to lose. The shakeer have a hive in the nearby ruins, and I''m certain they took Granvich there. I nodded. Take us there as fast as you can. Well keep up as best we can. Episode 8, The Sha鈥檏eer Prison Hive The tracks were unclear to me, but following them was second nature to Arzmais, who was humble in acknowledging that she had known the shakeer for longer than humans had possessed the knowledge of making the great carracks of the Six Cities. In the 130s of the Times After Death, Sangrin the Builder constructed the carrack. She was then at least four hundred years old. The first of Sangrins carracks left the ports of the Six Cities in 143 TAD, and I was born into this world well after in 552 TAD. All of that noted, she mentioned that the death of God proved an unnatural force upon the shakeer, who she had known to be once a kind and manageable people like the humans or the Delmri. If this were the case, not just the espousing of second-hand knowledge as fact, then she was born in the Times Before Death. Arzmais possessed refined and respectable knowledge of the sha''keer. She did not track them the way a hunter tracks deer, or a hound rouses a duck, but the way a friend would track another of sweet import to them had they gone missing. I could not help but feel she was looking for something beyond the simplicity of its physical form. Instead, she was subtly looking for any evidence that perhaps this one particular shakeer was capable of more than the others of its kind. This evidence never came, and disappointment mounted in the atmosphere around our Delmri companion. When we arrived at the outskirts of the ancient prison, the sands piled so high along the nearly smooth sandstone brick walls that one might have mistaken it for a lonely hill. Last I saw it, the entire structure was above ground. But the sands of this land shift beneath our feet, and all things but the imbued roads move where the current of the desert carries it. Granvich was a fool to have brought you here, though I am sure you thought whatever cause you have was so urgent as to warrant this extreme an exercise. Arzmais fixated on the approaching ruins. Thereafter, my attempts to delve into her mind for more information met with silence. We took cover along the buried perimeter wall and sat in that silence, hearing only the vicious wind, which cut our faces with tiny grains of sand. She took a deep breath and centered herself. I can hear it in the sands. Granvich is below. Alive, but far from conscious. The shakeer will gather food for their babies from his memories for as long as possible. We will lose him if we are slow. Not his body, but his mind. Lubinas frustration and anger came to the forefront, Then why are we sitting here, talking? Arzmais replied with a simple Delmri proverb, To be eager is to be dead. Have we not cause for eagerness? I asked. These ruins have developed their unique ecosystems, False Leper. They are microcosms of the life that occupied these once-verdant lands. We must proceed with caution. With her warning taken in earnest, we followed her through to what would have been the prisons roof long ago. The staircase leading further into its guts had collapsed, which was of no particular concern for the agile Arzmais but required about twenty feet of rope for Lubina and me to scale down. A large mound of sand that had blown in over time softened our descent. A struck two torches and passed one along to Arzmais. She took the leading position, and I was at the rear, keeping Lubina safely between us and her hands free to perform her sorcery. Unlike many times before, I did not hesitate to keep my blade drawn and readied. I had learned from my mistakes and sought not to make them again. As we moved into the first chamber, the air became moist and the ground squished under our feet. Under our torchlight, Arzmais concerns came to fruition. An untold number of plant species had called this first chamber home, and it was not until we reached the center of the room that they acted. Their vines slithered subtly into a cross-knit pattern beneath our feet, forming a net that quickly pulled us from the ground into the air. Beautiful purples and reds pulsed rhythmically from large bloomed flowers as a gas sprayed from them. To this day, I have no clue what the gas would have done if it had reached our lungs. Lubina was sharp with her reaction and used some sort of barrier to push it and keep it at bay. When I fumbled through my companions and hefted my sword upward, the vines seemed to wince, and the flower petals folded in on themselves. I yelled, waving the sword and touching the organic net around us. Saint Olovf has blessed me, you vile things! Submit! Submit to his divinity! With my declaration, the plants listened and waned in fear or deference. Whichever the cause, the vegetation released us without hesitation, and our way forward was clear. Shortly thereafter, we reached what appeared to be a chapel for the inmates. In the center of the room, a prominent and imposing statue carved from dark rock stood out. Is that..? I asked. God. Yes. Long before His death, anyway. Lubina and I could not believe our eyes. The realms of man, both the Elder and the Saintly lands, strictly forbade depicting such things. The Dead God did not look as one would expect. Where I had imagined a strong and towering figure, wrought with muscle and divine in beauty, there was instead a man of only 20 years in age and of average height and slender build, wrapped in loose-fitting robes, holding a book and squinting to keep reading glasses from riding the bridge of his nose. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Surely this is a mockery, I said to her. This is how the Delmri encountered God. Artisans carved it with great respect and reverence, honoring the truth of the man. What do you mean presented? Have you seen him yourself? Me? No. But my grandmother had. "A mason," she said, pointing to the statue''s base where a mason had carved a cauldron emblem. Frasiko. A dear friend of hers and perhaps even a lover. It was he who sat with God and made his form in our art. Granvich would die if he heard all of this, I told her. Arzmais smiled at me. He is well aware of it. He is perhaps the only person in any of those many clerical orders to know it as fact. After all, I told him many years ago. Showed him, even. And he handled that well? Well? She laughed. No, I wouldnt say well. But he came around. Arzmais paused, and we decided it would be best to keep moving. Not that the conversation bothered me particularly, but young Lubina was in no condition to hear such things. Tolerant as she was, she was still a Saintly girl, with all the installed fears and expectations that come from the Churchs teachings. Perhaps part of me worried as well that such mockery of the Saintly and the Dead God would come to haunt us in our search for Granvich. My doubts persisted; as we entered the next hall, Lubina triggered an ancient pressure plate, causing a wrought-iron gate to fall behind us. With our way out no longer viable, we could only hope some alternative exit existed further within the ruins. As we delved deeper and closed in on our quarry, Arzmais insisted on our guarded silence. The final chamber lay before us, carved out from the ancient ruins and the surrounding sandstone. The ceiling was not high, perhaps only ten feet, but the tight sliver expanded outward a great distance to create a large floor space. We laid down at the entrance, and Arzmais pointed upward toward the pocketed ceiling. Tunnels, used by the adult shakeer. Well be at a distinct disadvantage. When invaders attack their hives, the sha''keer will fight to disorient them. First, theyll sunder your mind, and then theyll drag you off into the winding labyrinth above. How are we supposed to keep our wits about us? I asked. Pain or deflection. Their telekinesis will fail if you experience pain while they burrow into your mind. You can avoid it altogether if you can keep their focus drawn elsewhere. Once youve engaged one, do not relent. Do not let it flee from you. Arzmais looked to Lubina. All of this applies to you as well. If your magick fails, sweet girl. Lubina nodded succinctly. It wont. But Ill be sure to keep it in mind. I sighed and patted the girl on the shoulder. Through the thick armor of her confidence, we knew she always listened. She craved knowledge, and she carefully stored every piece of information she received in her memory. Perhaps this information was only used to displace the horrid memories of her youth. Perhaps it shored them up, giving her more and more with which to exact her vengeance. The eggs lie buried beneath us. The shakeer will know the moment we move within their nest. They almost certainly already know were here. Then we must press our advance, as youve said. Where should Granvich be held? I asked. Somewhere near the center of the hive, buried beneath the sand in a spherical chamber. The eggs are feeding from his memories. I looked to Lubina, who shared no glance in my direction. She was intent, focused, drawn toward our goal. No one would reduce Granvich to a husk. She was sure of that truth. And she was driven toward ensuring that truth was reality. Arzmais and I shared one last look, and we began. As quietly as we could, we spread out and moved across the sand shavings and jagged rock of the cavern. Lubina took center, with me on the left and Arzmais on the right. I found him! Lubina called. Only she was standing still, her muscles twitching desperately despite the locking of her joints. Her eyes twitched and looked far past the material world and into the realm of dreams and lies. Peeking from one of the many holes above us was the head of a shakeer. Arzmais! Above! I yelled to her, pointing toward the pimple of camouflaged flesh. A knife spun dexterously from Arzmais''s palm and clipped through the upper portion of the creatures head. It lost whatever grip was keeping it hanging and collapsed to the floor, writhing and pulsing as its body failed to control its muscles and organs. While it sputtered out a blue bile and leaked its liquid membrane into the sand, Lubina regained her faculties and smiled at me. Her smile twisted into the crooked, unnatural teeth of my sister when she was just a babe. Mom tastes good, she said to me, fanning her sickly, clawed fingers. I felt a surge of angry resentment, realizing my sister had lied and tricked me. I raised my blade and charged into the morphing Lubina. Fortune favored our circumstance, and my grip was loose. Loose enough that Lubina, who recognized the vacant stare upon my face, could use her magick to push the sword free from my hands and slam it against my nose. The bone broke, and I felt the bridge veer from its proper track. The pain brought me back to our reality. Lubinas hands had tracked toward a second shakeer and, with her vengeance and anger toward it fueling her potent abilities, she crushed the innards of the creatures ears and popped its eyes like tiny eggs. It screeched as the three of us closed in on it, and I pleaded with Lubina to consider her actions. It is just a creature defending its offspring. It must eat, same as us, and it must breed, same as us. Different as it may seem, I assure you, it is hardly different. It means us no harm, only its own preservation. But Arzmais intervened, When your God died, the shakeer lost their nature. The shakeer contorted into evil, senseless, thoughtless things. And no attempt by the Delmri to restore their sanity brought positive results. Lubina, the sha''keer are lost. Their whole species. There is no hope for them. To end them is to show a blessed mercy. I I couldnt find any argument. Such things were beyond my understanding. I knew that. But it felt wrong. Yet I could not bring myself to argue, and instead left the choice to Lubina. Her survival in our world demands such decisions. It dies. Not to slake my thirst, but to quell its suffering. She tapped her hand against its skull and its ragged breathing ceased. The eggs must go as well. We followed as she instructed, not wishing to undermine such a formative choice. We found Granvich and the eggs. He was unconscious but stable, his wrinkled nose popping snot bubbles and the corners of his eyes crusting, and we spared an hour to clear the nest in its entirety. When I asked Lubina how she felt, she replied simply: This may not be our realm, but it is part of our world. The rules apply equally.