Earth Mother’s Grace

By Anthony Baus

Dedicated to friends lost but still remembered.

Please visit http://xilu.co.uk to see more art like the cover.

Chapter One: Rebels

An apostate herald from Lord Irikiti’s Hell of Burning Tears named Hassaket rode a balmy breeze on her leathery wings. She reflected on the blessings enjoyed by humans as the wind played with her hair. A sight of impending bloodshed down below, however, reminded her that these blessings did not stop humans from behaving as if they belonged in a hell. This lack of ethics also explained why her old world was always so crowded.

A column of dark cavalry led one of the warring factions. Hassaket knew that the riders were Lazrah soldiers, servants of Lord Irikiti. She could also see that the cavalry preceded a company of foot soldiers and a wagon that held a dacadam ghoul. They all bore the signs of a people blessed with resources and a will to kill: peaked helmets, hauberks, tall spears, and crimson banners glorifying their hellish deity.

The other faction crouched low like hunting cats and waited in ambush. Hassaket could only see shields of cured hide and duckbill axes. Beyond that they wore animal-skin tunics and smears of some green pigment on their exposed skin. All of these things she associated with primitives. The sweet hum of an invocation, however, also filled the air. Someone was calling upon the Earth Mother Goddess for intercession. Hassaket dropped lower to take another look.

She spotted a spirit rider among the primitives, confirming her suspicions. This human shaman was a youthful, blond woman with admirable musculature and red tattoos that whirled down from her face to her wrists. Here was the one who called to Earth Mother. Intrigued, Hassaket decided to circle and watch the struggle commence.

The primitives sprung up as one with a bellicose roar, and then their youngest braves launched a hail of leaden sling bullets made bloodthirsty by the blonde’s talent for summoning Earth Mother’s wrath. The attack caught the Lazrah flat-footed. Riders fell and horses panicked.

The surviving cavalry, though, did not flee. They leveled their spears and charged even as the sling missiles continued to shatter bones. The older braves had to meet Irikiti’s soldiers at close quarters, axes against spears, while the youths fell back. The clash gave birth to a choir of screams, human and equine.

Hassaket watched with satisfaction as the Lazrah recoiled. Their numbers were too few to overwhelm the primitives after the slings had taken their toll. The female shaman then caught the renegade herald’s attention again by running to a fallen brave. The man, bigger and thicker than most, had suffered a spear through one of his arms. The spirit rider removed it with one strong pull before crouching down and wailing out a song. Blood spurted in gouts from the opened wound and stained the grass red.

After a long moment, the shaman stood and held her hands high, beckoning the stricken to stand. The man did just that, pushing himself up. Hassaket felt a pang of envy for the woman’s display of power. No one from the hells, herself included, had any gift for preserving another’s life. Some of her ilk recovered from most wounds almost instantly, but that was not the same as a healing touch.

Hassaket saw next that the Lazrah foot soldiers and the wagon had drawn near, providing a safe place for their routing cavalry to rally. Now Hassaket would see just what the spirit rider could do in the way of death. A dacadam ghoul would not be an easy opponent for any mortal.

The ghoul emerged from the wagon with a jerking walk, clad in mail from neck to foot. A helmet covered its head and face completely. The Lazrah smiths had no reason to pretend that this possessed corpse needed to see or breath. Unsure of its ability to detect her presence, Hassaket decided it would be best to climb higher into the sky. Many years of fighting had taught her the value of caution.

Despite her new vista, Hassaket could still see the shaman at work. The human had kept the Lazrah spear and was tracing angular glyphs on the ground with the blood spilled from her healed brave. She then stood and began a jog forward before throwing the weapon with a lazy flick. The spear still flew with a blur and slammed into the dacadam with enough force to carry the hellish puppet back to crash among the enemy soldiers. The primitive braves began a song of victory next, but Hassaket had doubts. The attack shouldn’t have broken any enchantments.

The ghoul did indeed stand back up, killing the braves’ song. It pushed the spear completely through its body, pulled a strait sword free of its scabbard, and charged. The primitives showed no signs of bolting. They formed a hedge around their spirit rider even as the ghoul waded through a new storm of sling projectiles. The Lazrah foot soldiers, meanwhile, had formed a shield wall and marched perhaps twenty paces behind their dacadam.

Hassaket knew that she was about to witness the waste of pure lives. It was intolerable. She swept down to intervene before the ghoul could strike at any of the primitives. Guessing that the dacadam would perceive her approach from behind, she flared her wings out at the last moment to pause just short of the sword’s reach. The ghoul did indeed spin around toward her and deliver a swing of its blade, but it connected with nothing.

The force of the failed strike threw Hassaket’s enemy off-balance. She responded by launching into a tackle that slammed the dacadam flat on its back. As her weight kept its sword arm trapped up against its chest, she reached for its helmeted head with both hands and twisted.

After a satisfying series of grating snaps, the ghoul’s head came free of its neck. That was one thing its enchantment could not tolerate. Hassaket knew that the Lazrah sorcery emanated from the helmet. It had thick barbs inside that bit into the skull of the still-living sacrificial victim during the dacadam ritual, securing it in place. The Lazrah had even fitted this ghoul with an iron collar to frustrate beheadings, but they failed to anticipate an enemy with her raw strength.

The stomp of Lazrah boots closed in behind Hassaket as she stood, threw the head over her shoulder, and rushed through memories of languages that might be understood by the primitives. The spirit rider stepped out from the phalanx of braves next, so Hassaket addressed her: “We have reason to speak together, but let’s end this first.”

The young woman met the words with a glitter of recognition and nodded. Hassaket then took up the dacadam’s sword and flew towards the still-closing shield wall. The braves followed her, and the Lazrah soldiers fled after a brief struggle. They had no stomach for fighting when deprived of their ghoul.

Hassaket returned to the shaman and found her standing next to the man that had taken the spear through his arm. He was apparently still too weak to fight along side his comrades. The first thing she did was to hold out the now-bloodied sword and let out a low whistle of appreciation. The humans winced at the sound. Hassaket spoke to the man while plunging the blade deep into the ground: “It is fine work by your creation’s standards. Warrior, you may have it.”

He made no effort to take the weapon and only glared. She saw both lust and repulsion in his eyes. Hassaket knew herself to be both beautiful and alien to humans: a long wave of black hair but silver irises, seductive curves but maroon skin, and wide wings sprouting from her back. There was no guessing how he would ultimately react. She switched her attention to the primitive woman and decided to keep an audacious demeanor: “Spirit Rider, I have a proposal for you.”

The woman started with a stutter. “I . . . I will happily talk with you. Thank you for your help. My name is Fire Shrike.”

The winged woman could see no repulsion in the shaman’s eyes. “You may call me Hassaket,” she said. The back of her mind, meanwhile, wondered why the two primitives were responding so differently.

Fire Shrike’s gaze shifted nervously between her and their surroundings. “Many of my people,” the shaman noted, “are bleeding even now.”

Hassaket squinted and judged the sun’s place in the sky. It was now late afternoon: “Then can we meet again in the evening?”

“Yes, I will be here and ready.”

The big, wounded brave broke into the conversation with a growl. “Fire Shrike, she is not Skiras. She is not even human.”

“She dared her life on our behalf.”

“So? Cook her steaks from Lazrah haunch and send her away with Earth Mother’s blessing. She is not Skiras. You don’t know what she really wants.”

The little spirit rider, perhaps half the man’s weight, refused to bend: “Flint Ox, she saved us. My magic didn’t stop the ghoul. The Lazrah could have driven us away from our fields before the wandering time. I’d be dead. By winter, our people would be starving or with me beyond the Veil.”

“I will not allow this! That harpy will be coming for our children in the night if we start trusting her!”

“What you will allow,” insisted the young woman with icy words, “means nothing. I decide how the Tagat tribe of the Skiras nation deals with those from beyond the Veil.”

The big man’s jaw tightened. “Shrike, you remember what happened to Mud Lion. The men of the Tagat tribe will do what is necessary to protect their families from evil spirits.”

Flint Ox then turned and walked off. Hassaket shrugged and looked back at Shrike with a bemused smile. “He doesn’t like me, does he?”

The human’s one-word answer came through a knot of fury: “No.”

“Say, do you want that sword?”

“No. Take it. So, until this evening?”

“Yes, until then.”

The spirit rider returned to her people. Hassaket reclaimed the weapon, sauntered back to the fallen ghoul, and took the sword’s sheath. She then found herself at the center of the primitive braves’ attention and decided to lift into the air. With some effort she was high enough to ride the winds and observe again.

The braves busied themselves with burying their honored dead, caring for their wounded, and dragging their fallen enemies into a pile. Fire Shrike stayed true to her word and led the efforts to heal. Hassaket watched as the shaman brought hemorrhaging men back to their feet in a manner similar to what she had done for Flint Ox. One, however, was halfway through death’s gate. Hassaket heard Fire Shrike sing to the man’s departing spirit in words suffused with compassion:

“Brother, be at peace, All is well, Earth Mother beckons, The Festival of the Hunt is waiting, The kill is over the fire, Your ancestors wait with joy, The women sing of plenty, The children play with the dogs, Brother, be at peace, All is well, Earth Mother beckons.”

Hassaket considered how lucky these people were to have someone so dedicated to their spirits’ repose. It was a luxury she found foreign. She had lost much in the process of minding after her own spark of life.

The spirit rider remained dutiful after finishing the songs for the wounded and the dead. First she invoked some sort of magic over the enemy bodies. It felt like a ward against vengeful ghosts to Hassaket.

The shaman then walked back to the place where they had first met. The sun had become a red orb on the horizon and eager vultures circled near the Lazrah fallen. Hassaket noted that her own flight was clumsy compared to the carrion birds’ elegant gliding before dropping down to another meeting with Fire Shrike.

Hassaket found smiling natural as she addressed the human: “You have a beautiful voice, and it serves your people so well.”

“Why,” the shaman asked, “did we have the honor of your help, Hassaket?”

“Anything that hurts Irikiti pleases me, and I need allies. Actually, so do your people.”

“The Lazrah raid sometimes. Besides the ghoul, why is this time different?”

“I get to see much of this creation,” said Hassaket as she gestured at her own wings. “Maybe I can show you?”

“How? Is it far?”

“Yes, over the ridge that separates you from the Lazrah, but it is important.”

“How can I be sure that Flint Ox isn’t right to fear you?”

“I have only my actions from today to prove my sincerity. Still, if I wanted you dead or captured, can’t you think of easier ways for me to manage?”

The primitive woman looked at the avian forms flying over the heap of Lazrah dead for a long stretch before deciding. “Very well. Let’s see what Lord Vulture’s children are willing to do. This might not take that long after all.”

Hassaket stood at a respectful distance while Fire Shrike sat down cross-legged and began tracing another glyph in the dirt. It was a long, looping mark that reminded her of a high cloud. The spirit rider’s eyes rolled back in her head. Only the sound of the dusk’s buzzing cicadas marked the next length of time.

Soon, though, the human interrupted the calm moment, speaking with a quavering voice that addressed no visible conversant: “Thank you, Lord Vulture. May Sky Father always favor your flight.”

Shrike’s lithe body began to transform, sloughing away her deerskin tunic to free black-feathered wings; human became vulture. Hassaket expressed her gratitude before rising into the air and leading the shaman away from the day’s last light: “I am flattered to be taken so seriously, Fire Shrike.”

The moon rose as they flew together across the wide plains of the Skiras nation, and it did not take long afterwards to come across one of the sights Hassaket intended. Paralleling their eastward course, they spotted a Lazrah column. Along with soldiers and a wagon, it included a long line of captives tied together at their necks. It turned out to be the first of several such encounters before they reached the line of jagged hills that separated the Skrias from the Lazrah.

On the Lazrah side of those cliffs, a cluster of flickering, yellow lights waited. Amongst the illumination something tall and jagged reached into the sky. Before the vulture that was Fire Shrike could drop lower, however, Hassaket flew close: “Wait. The Bone Render set a ward. Stay with me. The Lazrah are building a new temple, and they intend to soak the altar at the top with the blood of your people. Let’s go back to your braves now and see if they have any more fight in them.”

Fire Shrike signaled her consent by banking back towards the ridge.

Chapter Two: Assassins

The morning light was only an orange smudge in the dark when the pair returned to the primitive’s encampment. A sentry saw them swoop down from the sky and roused everyone. Fire Shrike barely had time to pull her tunic back over her head before a gang of bleary-eyed braves gathered. “Fire Shrike,” challenged Flint Ox as he pushed through the crowd, “why did you bring that harpy back here?”

The spirit rider squared her shoulders and faced the angry man yet again: “Hassaket showed me what the Lazrah plan. They must be stopped. Their soldiers have captured Darkeen Skiras to the north and Samas Skiras the south, but we can still save many of our brethren from a sacrificial knife.”

Flint Ox dismissed the warning with a wave: “I will send runners to summon all the Skiras. But again, why have you brought it back to this camp? It is evil. We all know this.”

“We have no answer to their ghouls. Didn’t the battle make that clear to you? She is willing to fight, and we need her.”

“You need her, Shrike. I am sure some other tribe’s shaman will have the answer all of us need.”

“This is hard to believe!” said an irate Shrike. “You have braves at the ready and you still won’t fight an enemy of the Skiras? Flint Ox, what is wrong with you?”

“Careful! I will not be called a coward by anyone!”

“You owe me a Life Debt from yesterday, and you would challenge me to a duel today? Your ancestors are shamed, Flint Ox!”

“I’ve had enough of this,” declared the incredulous Skiras headman. “That thing is just a damned rival to the Lazrah’s diabolic God! Look at it! For the sake of the Earth Mother, it has the wings of a giant bat! Its skin is red!”

He turned to their audience next and put his hands on his hips: “The rest of you can do what you will, but I will not cry for your fates if you leave with those two! I am going to join the rest of our braves. Blood has been spilled, so we will form many ingawasi. We will make the Lazrah suffer without surrendering our spirits to that monster!”

The shaman lashed back: “Tagat braves of the Skiras nation, if this winged woman meant us harm, do you think I’d still be alive? I was alone with her over the night. She only showed me the Lazrah’s growing reach! She hates Irikiti! We don’t have to wait to strike back! Now is the time! Would you wait if your wives were being led to their deaths?”

Hassaket listened to a rumble of discontent work through the gathering. Some shouted at each other, arguing the point apart from their leaders. In the end, though, they all melted back to their shelters. Sadness shaded Flint Ox’s last angry words. “Shrike, please don’t be a fool. We do need you. What would your father and mother say?”

“Flint Ox,” said Fire Shrike, “They would say that only a fool does nothing when he could do something.”

The spirit rider stalked away from the encampment, quivering with frustration, and Hassaket followed. After covering a fair distance, Fire Shrike turned with a frown. “Winged woman, you are from one of the hells, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How did you come here? It is no small feat.”

“After my last Elevation, I served Irikiti eagerly in all things. I assassinated, deceived, and seduced beyond expectations for 100 years. Lord Irikiti heaped nothing but abuse upon me for that same time. Incompetents received further Elevation while I languished. For the next 100 years I served Irikiti and visited the Pleasure Pits only often enough to deflect suspicion. I studied the sorcery of the fetters that tied me to Lord Irikiti and to the Hell of Burning Tears itself. I leaned a powerful spell not so long ago, and now I am free.”

“Free to pursue your vengeance against Irikiti?”

“Exactly.”

“My teacher,” said Fire Shrike as she sat and splayed out her legs in the dirt, “would have said that you are no longer a diabolist. Freedom is something they do not have. What are you, then?”

Hassaket sat down next to her. “I don’t know what I am. I don’t care.”

Fire Shrike smirked. “Not caring is the only reason I can imagine that you would be here. The Skiras peoples live close to the earth. We are content, but most outsiders stay away. Only Lazrah slavers harass us.”

“You have a broad view of your world. This is commendable.”

“I was taught well.”

“By whom?”

The human’s arid mirth disappeared and her shoulders sagged: “Mud Lion.”

“Flint Ox spoke of him. What happened?”

“I failed. My exorcism failed. Wendigo took him. The braves had to kill Mud Lion’s body.”

“Lord Wendigo? I know the Cannibal Spirit. You should not feel guilt. I could not defeat him. You were Mud Lion’s student, though, so you can still honor him. All you need is a weapon. Then, you will be ready.”

“Ready to keep fighting Irikiti?”

“Yes,” Hassaket confirmed, “and the Lazrah. They are now worse than slavers, and regardless of what I am, I am from a hell. Hate pumps through my heart, and you still wish to fight for your people. We belong together. You know I am your answer, and I will prove you right. Hurry and give me your dagger. This will not work when the sun is free of the horizon.”

Fire Shrike pulled her weapon from its sheath. Shaped like a willow leaf, it had a double-edged blade of dark obsidian as long as three index fingers. The handle was of carved bones bound by bronze fittings. Secured by a rawhide strip, a pair of banded feathers hung from its pommel. The spirit rider passed the weapon over to her after hesitating.

This reluctant acquiescence, Hassaket noted, was the shaman’s way with her. Most humans would have found Flint Ox’s argument persuasive. They distrusted anything that looked strange. Shrike’s odd malleability, however, was only good fortune. She could do much more damage to Irikiti with a powerful ally, and the spirit rider also pleased her eyes.

Hassaket looked closely at the weapon. The edges of the blade were mercilessly acute. The bronze fittings were sculpted to look like little ferrets. The artisan had scored the bone handle with crosshatching for a sure grip. “Where,” she asked Shrike, “did you get this?”

“It was a gift from my father and mother when I apprenticed to Mud Lion. I finally had won honor for my family.”

“Finally?”

“I was a difficult child. I gave them more than a little trouble.”

“I am sorry for your regret. You are outspoken. If that was your trouble, be proud. Bravery should be a good thing among humans. My sort, though, regularly embraces quiet duplicity. It has its place. I learned more than just how to break Irikiti’s fetters during my 100 years of treason. I am more of a sorceress than many denizens of the hells. This blade is already a fine show of craft, but I am going to make it into a weapon worthy of any creation.”

Hassaket pressed both of her hands together with the flat of the blade between them. There was a shear of churning pride around the cold, black glass. The inhuman renegade realized that she could use the dagger to make the young woman into a happy slave with this object and sorcery. It had strong fetters wrapped around Fire Shrike’s spirit.

But it wouldn’t last forever, and coercion was the way of Irikiti.

She instead began a spell in line with her promise. The bass, mumbling sound of her diabolic sorcery spooked the dogs back at the primitive encampment into a long spasm of howling. Hassaket felt the burning essence of the hells saturate the weapon, and then she returned it to Fire Shrike.

The feathers had turned a glittering black. The obsidian now looked as if it were a single shard of ruby. Hassaket commented on her work: “You can now test that against any metal to be found in this creation and come away the winner. It will drop the Lazrah ghouls, too. It would drop me if it were not enchanted by my own spell.”

“So,” said Shrike, “we are going to free the captives ourselves?”

“I have a better idea. I have been watching the Lazrah since the beginning of summer. They have always organized much like the lords and ladies of the hells. They are efficient until someone important dies. A power struggle then takes place between subordinates, and the whole becomes vulnerable. There is a Bone Render, their high priest, at the new temple. We can assassinate him. They will fall apart.”

Fire Shrike stared into the ground. “I have little to loose.”

“Come back with the Bone Render’s head as a trophy and your people will welcome you again. Even Flint Ox will not resist.”

“Maybe.”

Hassaket held on to silence for a moment but then found something else to say: “Perhaps you should rest for the morning. How long do you have Lord Vulture’s gift?”

“Until sunset. We should go now. I have my own plan. I want to do this tonight.”

“Tonight indeed,” laughed Hassaket at the shaman’s recovering resolve. “I hate waiting.”

The human handed the dagger back before becoming a vulture and flying east again. Hassaket scooped up Fire Shrike’s tunic before following. On the Lazrah side of the ridge they stayed close to the ground. It was still day, and it would not do to be seen.

They landed on the sandy bottom of a dry creek bed barely within sight of the new temple’s pinnacle. A singular oak grew nearby, and they sat in its shade. Fire Shrike curled up on a tuft of grass and slept. Hassaket watched her comrade take deep breaths as the darkness advanced. The quiet felt magnificent. The Hell of Burning Tears was a noisy place.

When nightfall was complete, the spirit rider stirred: “Hassaket, how will we find this Bone Render?”

“Lazrah ghouls stand guard around him always. At the base of the temple you will find his tent. It is large, black, and separate from those of the common soldiery. The Bone Render spends long stretches of time there, immersed in the contemplation of Irikiti’s will.”

“You really have been watching these people all summer, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I know my enemies.”

“You mentioned a ward,” said Fire Shrike, eyes narrowing with doubt. “How do we defeat it? I cannot even sense it.”

“We will not defeat the ward. I will trigger it. You will make use of the distraction to reach the Bone Render and kill him with your dagger. There won’t be much time. Then go back to the ridgeline. I will find you. I can sense the dagger’s place. Can you do it?”

“Yes,” said Fire Shrike as she stiffened at the challenge, “and I’ll be unseen.”

Hassaket laughed a snort. “Surely. Show me.”

Fire Shrike looked at the moon. It was to the west and just above the ridge. The spirit rider then held her palms open to the sky and murmured a song:

“Oh, sublime Ixchel, Mistress of the Star-Jeweled Night, Hear me, Sheltering Dark, Here me, Hunting Jaguar, I promise you the blood and spirit of a Tainted One, Hear me, Sheltering Dark, I promise you the blood and spirit of a Tainted One, Here me, Hunting Jaguar, I promise you the blood and spirit of a tainted one.”

The renegade from the Hell of Burning Tears listened as the song became a chant and marveled at the shaman. Hassaket knew of Princess Ixchel like she also knew of Lord Wendigo. Shrike would forfeit her own spirit tonight if she could not offer the Bone Render’s instead. Invoking the Moon Spirit was a last resort for any human.

Fire Shrike’s chanting choked to a stop. The young woman arched her back and clawed at the air as she levitated off of the ground. The void of the sunless sky engulfed her, and for a moment she disappeared.

As if stepping through a curtain, the spirit rider then reappeared just as suddenly. Her hair was now the grey-silver of iron instead of golden. Her skin was the black of charcoal, and her tattoos had changed to a deep violet. Her eyes were pools of ink. She remained a whole pace off the ground, her feet dangling down to touch nothing. She clutched the dagger in her right hand. “Princess Ixchel,” said Fire Shrike with a new voice as shrill as a cricket song, “has agreed to help. Are you ready to trigger the ward?”

Hassaket took a step back as she pulled free the Lazrah sword from its scabbard: “Oh yes, and you will be our assassin. I’ll put on a show for everyone, and you will finish the Bone Render.”

Fire Shrike dissolved into the shadowed world, and Hassaket flew straight for the encampment. The winged woman encountered a pair of sentries first, standing in a pool of yellow light thrown up by a campfire. One never had time to ready his spear, losing his head to a stroke from the captured sword. The second lunged, intent on punching his weapon through one of her wings. She anticipated him and snapped both of her broad appendages closed. Suddenly deprived of any lift, Hassaket plummeted down past the spear point. Her extended blade impaled the soldier from his clavicle down into his gut.

A rift of crimson light opened above the temple as Hassaket kicked the second soldier’s corpse off of her weapon. Something issued forth from the luminescence into the night. It was a mass of ropy, pink tendrils floating in the air, and it called out with hooting noises from a hooked beak. Hassaket let out an enraged shriek and rose to meet the khat’laba, a favorite servant of Irikiti’s. It was not for assassination, deception, or seduction. It was for destruction.

Two of the khat’laba’s countless appendages coiled and lashed downward. Hassaket banked to avoid one and swung her sword out at the other. She snarled as the blade severed a pink cord, but her triumph became a cry as the second one brushed her forearm. The mere touch made her flesh feel as if it were burning, but there was no fire. Hassaket let herself drop like a fluttering leaf to avoid the next pair of tentacles and then fought back upwards with the sword ready.

The struggle became a duel of feints. Hassaket claimed two more tentacles, letting them plummet down to the tents below. She also caught a glance of Lazrah soldiers transfixed by the spectacle of her fight. This was good. Fire Shrike would have her chance.

Irikiti’s monstrous slave then careened downward at her, hissing with frustration and flagellating the air with its multitude of limbs. Hassaket shot out and away but found herself snared around the midsection. She felt a myriad of tiny spikes punch through her tunic and into her torso. Agony followed. Hassaket lashed out with the sword but lost her grip. Her flight became only a frenzied effort to escape. The khat’laba’s beak snapped eagerly. Her whole body burned with the thing’s venom. It was only a matter of time.

Through the tightening noose of suffering, Hassaket then felt the fabric of human creation convulse. Something new had transpired. The khat’laba released her with a wail. Hassaket fought for her bearings as the red light trickled out of the sky, and she perceived Fire Shrike’s dagger next. Strength fading, she let the enchanted weapon become her destination.

Hassaket realized too late that the ground was rushing up at her. She hit a stretch of dirt and rolled to a stop. There was only the sense of concussion. Her body could not register any new pain. The dagger, though, was nearby.

A new crimson light ignited in her field of vision. It was like the light of her old home and the one that had ushered in the khat’laba. She heard Irikiti calling to reclaim her spirit like a human parent calling to its child: “Come home, Little Herald!”

She would be His plaything forever. The light flickered, died, and then lived again. The crimson changed into violet and then amber. Wordless singing echoed all around. She knew the voice was Fire Shrike’s. Hassaket felt as if she were again clawing her way to the surface of the drowning pool that Irikiti used for the punishment of wayward heralds. She saw the shaman next, now free of Ixchel’s touch and looking down at her. Hassaket grabbed her shoulders: “Stop! Please don’t sing my spirit away! Don’t let Him have me again! Please don’t let Him take me back!”

The human smiled and reached down to brush back her disheveled locks: “No, no, be at peace. I have you. You are free. You are well. Peace.”

Hassaket had never seen the young woman fully happy until now. The sight eased her churning panic. She took a deep breath, smelled scorched flesh, and saw a severed head tied by its long hair to Fire Shrike’s belt. “You killed the Bone Render?”

“Yes. Princess Ixchel has him now. Your enchantment made my dagger strike like a talon of Lord Agni’s, and that thing you fought in the sky could not stay among us with the Bone Render dead, not after I asked Earth Mother to dismiss it.”

“Where are we?”

“You made it some ways from the Lazrah before your wings failed.”

“You purged the khat’laba’s poison from my body?”

“Yes.”

“Why? If I were dead, your men would forget about me soon enough, and you have the trophy.”

“I still don’t know what you are,” said Fire Shrike with a softening smile, “but I do know that I could not leave you. Your heart carries much more honor than hate.”

Hassaket kissed each of Fire Shrike’s palms: “Thank you. You are a rare and beautiful human.”

In return the spirit rider kissed her forehead. Fire Shrike’s lips were soft. “I found you a glory from the very beginning, Hassaket.”

Chapter Three: Supplicants

Fire Shrike, shaman to the Skiras nation and the Tagat tribe, looked down into Dawn Pass. Stagnant heat claimed the afternoon, but she could still sense boiling disquiet. The anguish of perished lives echoed over this rocky land. Skiras braves and Lazrah slavers had hunted each other here since before her birth. She had guided the spirits of several braves to peace from here by herself. The dead may have moved on, but no amount of proper funerary rites could dismiss all the pain.

The Skiras braves would come this way soon to retaliate for the recent Lazrah raids, and she would be waiting with the Bone Render’s head. It would prove her value. It would also prove Hassaket’s. Flint Ox’s carping would stop, and the winged woman could stay in her life. Or so she hoped.

She picked her way through the maze of brush and rocks that led back to their camp. The scrub oaks around their sheltering place had grown larger than most because a little brook gurgled along nearby and kept the soil wet. She decided to sit, soak her feet in the water, and listen to the hypnotic chatter of the stream. This island of green shade had already possessed her with its beauty, and now it deepened its hold.

An abundance of smooth stones that had been strewn about by the current kept her out of the mud of the streambed. She reached down and hefted one. The shaman felt Earth Mother’s strength in its damp bulk. The Goddess was calling to her from beyond the Veil.

She pulled her dagger free of its sheath and cut the tip of her left index finger. The red, crystalline blade left a straight cut only deep enough to draw blood. Used in a ritual like this one, the weapon was a delicate tool. Used in anger, it left behind piles of smoking corpses.

Next the shaman used her blood to draw Earth Mother’s sigil on the rock: a small circle inside of an oval. The act inflicted only minor discomfort, and this new talisman would be useful for calling upon the Goddess for help if Lazrah warriors appeared.

Finished with her rite, Fire Shrike sang a little tune of thanksgiving. Dreams of Earth Mother gave her the first clue that she differed from the typical girl, so showing the proper homage was a pleasure. The pain in the lacerated finger disappeared as soon as she ended the song.

A shadow passed over nearby boulders, signaling the return of Hassaket. The renegade diabolist landed with a breaking flap of her wings and smiled. “Shrike!” she called while brandishing the severed head of the Bone Render by its long, black hair, “I could smell this even though it was buried!”

The sight of the head pushed Shrike’s thoughts into the past. The high priest deserved his fate, but her memory of the killing was an ugly one. She had also killed two Lazrah soldiers during battles last summer, and those memories were ugly, too. Earth Mother accepted the dance between predator and prey as part of life, but actually being one of the dancers still haunted her for some while after the blood had been spilled.

Hassaket’s brilliant grin, though, didn’t allow for wallowing in memory. Shrike instead found herself in the mood to tease: “So, you decided that it would smell even better in your hand?”

“No, silly human. We can’t have some carrion pest digging it up and eating it.”

“Yes, I know, but now what? Are you going to stay up and fight the wolves for it every night?”

“No, let me show you.”

Fire Shrike’s new blood companion cradled the severed head as if it were a child and whispered inaudible words to it. Hassaket then stretched out her wings again, held the head before her, and began grumbling a chant at odds with her musical speaking voice. Fire Shrike had heard Hassaket’s sorcery before, but it still made a shiver scuttle up her backbone.

The head began to sputter and pop as its eye sockets sank inward. The whole thing shrank. Soon it was like a big, dried plum. The winged woman spun the head by its remaining tuft of hair as if it were a child’s play thing and laughed some more:

“Now we have the proof your people need and no wolves to fight. It is as if it has been baked by an oven.”

Shrike could not help but join Hassaket in a good laugh. Brutality ruled the struggle for survival, but that was no reason to live without joy. She looked out next at the grasslands that stretched westward from the ridge where they had camped. Still no sign of Skiras braves disturbed the rippling heat shadows on the horizon.

The wait, she realized, was annoying her like a swarm of midges. The shaman needed to know that the Bone Render’s head would confer acceptance upon her and Hassaket. Everything else that had happened with the winged woman was not the concern of her people, and nothing else had happened except for displays of reckless valor.

A gentle wind, though, finally interrupted the stillness and caressed Shrike’s body as she thought. It made her wonder what it would be like to experience Hassaket.

* * *

The pair napped together on their bed of reeds for a break from the afternoon sun. Shrike awoke to find herself intertwined with Hassaket’s maroon curves and long, black hair. Every fiber in her frame rallied to a vibrant awareness. Returning to sleep seemed an impossibility, but then she found herself rising and falling with the rhythm of Hassaket’s deep breathing. Her eyelids grew luxuriously heavy again, and sleep took Shrike to a dream.

It was an unusual dream in which Fire Shrike confronted a dark immensity like the night sky without stars. She knew this to be Hassaket’s dream, but it paradoxically was the lack of any dream at all.

Shrike had shared dreams with family members. It was another of the clues that she was a born shaman. Perhaps inviting Earth Mother’s power to pull her friend from the grip of the khat’laba’s venom had created an intimate bond with Hassaket like blood ties. The sense of communion felt like standing in the calm of a summer evening when everything had just stopped moving, but it disturbed her that Hassaket had no dreams to share.

Shrike reached her hand into the darkness and understood that she was seeing something like a wall. Her blood companion did not want intrusions. Dreams had to have been a weakness for someone existing in the Hell of Burning Tears, so Hassaket allowed herself none. Shrike, however, wanted her to have dreams. The winged woman’s escape from the Hell of Burning Tears had converted this denial into useless suffering, and a good shaman would not tolerate anything like it for a blood companion.

The shaman walked into the darkness. It consumed her. It was frigid, featureless, and infinite. Fire Shrike beat back panic, though, and began to dream her own dream. She would fill this space. She would make her friend complete.

A warm day in autumn manifested around Fire Shrike. She remembered it from when she was nine years old. She was standing on a hill overlooking Doe Thicket. Wedges of geese passed overhead, announcing themselves with earthy honking made ethereal by their place high in the sky.

Hassaket stood with her. The winged woman appeared in her seductive form, but Fire Shrike had become a little girl again. Grass yellowed by the first frosts and gilded by the evening sun surrounded them. She took Hassaket’s hand in her own and started a rambling talk about her family. When Fire Shrike was little, after all, life had not yet taught her the value of secrets. Hassaket laughed and asked questions in return.

Clouds rolled in as the sun set around them, making for an evening of profound dark. Shrike blinked and awoke on the reeds back in Hassaket’s arms. The refugee from the Hell of Burning Tears opened her eyes a moment later and propped herself up on one elbow. The shaman paused, fascinated still by Hassaket’s silver irises, before speaking: “Did I wake you?”

“When,” asked the winged woman in return, “will you tire of giving me such extravagant gifts?”

“Everyone should have dreams, and giving to you is easy. You accept me.”

“I will repay your kindness. I just need to find the proper way. Would you like to learn the language of our enemy? Perhaps that can be a start.” Shrike smiled and nodded her interest.

Hassaket began describing the surrounding objects with Lazrah words, and Shrike found excitement in all of it. She drank in every nuanced inflection of each sound even as it occurred to her that no one had taught her anything since Mud Lion. No one, in fact, had much to say to her unless there was a bad fever, no rain, or a new war.

Shrike then noticed that the scrub oak shadows had begun to stretch out across the rocks. The day was fading. She tried a Lazrah exclamation of surprise: “Sah tak! The rabbits will have bled out. We still have to eat!”

Hassaket deliberately stretched out her wings. “I will look for anyone hunting us, but I’ll be back soon.” The former herald caressed her cheek before lifting into the evening sky. By the time Hassaket landed again, Shrike had the rabbits, mushrooms, and a few leeks roasting over a fire. Camping close to a stream definitely came with good meals.

They sat together and ate. “What,” asked Fire Shrike between mouthfuls, “do you think Irikiti will do next?”

“Well, He lost a Bone Render. He’ll have to wait until His slaves get their affairs back in order, and that will take a spate of imprisonments and assassinations among the mortals. It will be a temporary setback, though. The flow of doomed spirits will be mostly unbroken since murdered Lazrah loyalists also are fair game. Some of the more powerful among the damned, in fact, like the taste of a loyalist best of all. The Hell of Burning Tears will remain placated. Irikiti is more powerful than anyone else there, so his rule would only be challenged if the flow of spirits stopped for long enough. Stopping that, however, is beyond our reach.”

“For now, right?” asked Shrike.

Hassaket laughed. “You are ambitious, aren’t you? You are a spirit rider determined to change the very foundations of the cosmos, and I love it. Yes, Fire Shrike, Irikiti is safe only for now. When you find him, He ought to tremble.”

* * *

The next morning started with what was by now Shrike’s customary bath in the stream. She pulled off her tunic and hung the garment from an oak branch. The Bone Render’s shrunken head caught her eye as she did so. Hassaket had hung it from a higher branch in the same tree. If it still had eyes, it would be looking at her.

The memory of the assassination returned again, unwanted. Ixchel had almost fulfilled Her promise too well; Shrike had actually made it inside the Bone Render’s tent unseen. He was up and striding to the exit when she punched her dagger into his back. The resulting flash of fire burned a wound the width of a fist completely through his body. The ghouls outside cut their way into the tent in an effort to avenge the high priest, but even their eyeless sight could not penetrate Ixchel’s potent dark, and the closeness in the tent hindered their long swords. Their bodies burned without the intensity that took the Bone Render, but they fell all the same.

She then severed the priest’s head and offered the man’s spirit to Ixchel. The Moon Goddess took the boon without hesitation. Shrike wondered if his ultimate fate was painful as she reached for the stone talisman from the brook and offered up her fear to Earth Mother.

The smooth rock drank her anxiety and allowed the truth to flow around her spirit. She was the predator. The Bone Render was the prey. She had killed him like lightening splitting a tree out on the plains. This was the way of enemies and rivals. No space for doubt survived the grace of this truth.

Shrike genuflected her thanks to Earth Mother for the absolution and slipped into the water. It was fed by a spring some ways higher in the ridgeline, so this was always an act of defiance against cold water, but she still submerged herself. It was pleasant to start the day with a full bath.

The shaman surfaced only to be splashed by a playful Hassaket wading out to join her. “I think you have no idea how beautiful your world is,” the former diabolist said after swimming a few strokes.

“Not true,” Shrike contested with a blush. “Earth Mother will not let me forget.” She knew that wouldn’t need her Goddess’s guidance, however, to remember the beautiful lines of Hassaket’s body. That would stay in her mind forever.

They climbed out of the brook and shared the panshi apples that were their regular breakfast. The tree had ripened fruit early due to its closeness to the stream, but Shrike still reminded herself that they would need to move soon. The land around them offered only so much. She hoped that this problem would be solved when her people welcomed her back.

Almost as if she had summoned them, Shrike felt the tread of many feet through the earth next. It was the same way she had known that the Lazrah cavalry were coming a few days ago. It was another example of why it was good to be sworn to Earth Mother. “Someone is coming,” she said to Hassaket.

“How many? From what direction?”

“From the west,” Shrike said after a pause. “There are many. They should be my Skiras braves. There are no horses.”

They dressed quickly, and Shrike grabbed her fear-saturated talisman as well as her dagger. Next they ran to a stone outcropping and peered westward. Fire Shrike could not perceive much, but the rebel spoke: “Yes, they are yours. I’ll get the Bone Render. He has been waiting patiently to serve our purpose.” Hassaket, the shaman then realized, had eyes that could cut through a morning’s shadows.

Shrike turned back to the shade oaks as Hassaket flew towards them. The shaman could still see the head, hanging from its branch, and it was looking at her again. Before Hassaket could reach it, the skull’s eye sockets lit with crimson light. Fire Shrike screamed: “HASSAKET, NO!”

Her friend reacted without hesitation and flew up as the head exploded with a flare of red light and a long, low howl. Shrike saw that the light consisted of writhing forms. They were alive and rushing at her. She felt brutal heat pulsing out in front of the leering, hissing wave of destruction. There was nothing to do. There was nowhere to go. The drop off the rock outcropping was too far to jump, but perhaps it would be better than immolation. She saw Hassaket, though, swooping over the fire creatures and heading straight for her.

Fire Shrike held up her arms, and the winged woman grabbed them, yanking her off the boulder and into the air. Shrike bit down on a wail as pain shot through her shoulders. The shaman, however, still managed to clutch the rock that held Earth Mother’s blessing.

As they flew together, Shrike could see that the avalanche of fire creatures had not stopped. The living flames instead plummeted downward in what had to be the direction of the Skrias braves. “Put me down!” she shouted. “I have to stop them from burning my people!”

Hassaket looked at her with a disbelieving grimace and then dropped lower, placing her on the ground with the care reserved for fragile pottery before landing nearby. Shrike touched the soil with her free hand at once and silently pleaded to her Goddess: Earth Mother, please spare us, spare us, please don’t let power from a hell scar Your flesh and kill Your people. Next she stood and put all her strength into throwing the talisman.

It flew and punched a neat hole into the earth before the approaching wall of squirming light. The things kept coming. A roar then shook everything standing, and a circle of ground fell away from under Irikiti’s fire monsters. Darkness devoured half of them before the pit snapped closed again.

Everything heaved with a second shock. The surviving creatures scattered like red ants boiling out of a shattered nest. Boulders the size of men bounded outward at Shrike from the cliff face. She felt a push from behind, and then there was a glimpse of Hassaket’s shielding wings encasing her as they both fell. For a few moments longer the impact of falling debris kept sounding. When quiet resumed, Hassaket stood up and folded her wings back.

Shrike held out her hand. Hassaket picked her whole body up off the ground instead, one arm behind her knees and the other just below her shoulder blades. “We can’t stay here for long,” said the renegade herald, and her wings extended again as she readied to flee upward.

A hard rain began to fall out of the clear sky. It became impossible for Shrike to see as the morning sun caught in the water drops and created a dazzling veil all around. Hassaket cursed. “I can’t fly in this, but-”

“What?”

“But the carcadas aren’t surviving it at all.”

The shaman felt Hassaket’s muscles relax. “Good. Could you please put me down?”

The renegade herald pretended not to hear the request and spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Fire Shrike, are you hurt?”

“No,” said the shaman, “I’m not. Why are you sorry? You saved me.”

“I should never have used that sorcery on the Bone Render’s head. It was arrogance. I am so sorry. Irikiti found us because of me.”

“That does not matter. We are safe. Please put me down.”

“No,” Hassaket replied. “I would like to keep you close.” Shrike couldn’t help but smile, sigh, and drape her arms around her companion’s neck.

“Why didn’t you entomb the Lazrah ghoul like what you just did with that pack of carcadas?” asked the renegade herald.

“I don’t think I could have,” she replied. “Being with you has made me a better vessel for Earth Mother’s blessings.”

“I am from a hell,” objected Hassaket. “The Earth Mother sees me as an enemy. That makes no sense.”

“Of course it does,” Fire Shrike said. “I don’t think that the Hell of Burning Tears tells the story of your whole being any more. You are reborn.”

The statement left Hassaket without words. The shaman next saw her friend’s silver eyes registered something and start to track it. The rebel herald let her stand on her own feet and pointed. At first, the shaman saw nothing through the persistent downpour, but then she spotted something looming out of the brilliant rain: a hedge of tall, rectangular shields and glittering axes. Her people had arrived.

A wrinkled, bald man in a long tunic preceded the Skiras braves by a few strides. The same red tattoos that marked all Skiras shamans marked his soaked face and arms. Dyed sigils for various spirits covered his garment. Shrike recognized him. “Hello, Mist Stag.”

“Hello, my child,” the Samas tribe shaman answered as he held up his hand. The braves behind him stopped their march. He moved his hand in a different gesture next, and the rain began to slacken immediately.

“And who is your companion?” he asked.

“This is Hassaket. We have been fighting the Lazrah together.”

“Good,” he said. “They have many Skiras dead to pay for.”

A big man stepped forward from the ranks of the braves, interrupting the niceties. Fire Shrike frowned at recognizing Flint Ox. He addressed Mist Stag as if she and Hassaket were not present at all. “See what Fire Shrike has taken up with? I did not exaggerate when I called it an abomination.”

“The abomination,” said Mist Stag, “seems deeply concerned for Fire Shrike’s well-being. And Fire Shrike, you can’t help but have noticed, is deeply concerned for ours. I think that is sufficient grounds for us to tolerate both of them. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” muttered Flint Ox.

The rain stopped completely. Fire Shrike looked over at Hassaket and noted that she was fighting hard to restrain her amusement with Mist Stag’s observations. The aged shaman had a question next: “Child, may we walk together for a moment?”

“Hassaket,” Shrike answered, “can hear anything you have to say.” The man shrugged his acceptance and they headed for a new drift of sharp rocks created by Shrike’s invocation.

“Child,” Mist Stage said, “you have the heart of a she-bear protecting her cubs. That was quite an act of piety.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “I protect my people.”

Stag frowned. “Yes, protect your people, but Fire Shrike, your people will never accept Hassaket. You both need to understand this.”

“I refuse,” said Shrike, “to believe that Flint Ox speaks for the whole Skiras nation.”

“No,” he agreed, “Flint Ox does not. He wants to bed you and becomes angrier as that becomes less likely. But he does play on the belief that anyone from beyond the Veil is dangerous. This is a belief many share. It is also usually true. I foresee only strife if you fight this belief. And then there is Hassaket’s womanhood. No one knows why you have picked such a difficult path, Child.”

Shrike forced out words even as her muscles tensed. “Her womanhood should mean nothing. Hassaket is a friend to all of the Skiras and braver than many of our number. Do you want me to choose between my people and my worthy friend?”

“Want? No. I would never wish that on you.”

“But,” Hassaket interjected, “it is how you understand our problem. What do you think Shrike should do, Mist Stag?”

“I think that she should say goodbye to you, Hassaket. But I am selfish, and I don’t understand Shrike’s passions. Also, I think this dear child sees herself as the Skiras’s only protector. That is not true. As she was asking Earth Mother to bury those fire things, I was asking Sky Father to drown them with His rain. We would have won, no matter what.”

Mist Stag turned his attention back to Shrike with a smile. “So do what you think is best. There will be a tomorrow for the Skiras, no matter what you decide. Be at peace.”

With those last words the old man turned and began walking back to the braves. Hassaket regarded her for a long moment before speaking: “I believe he counseled you from his heart, and I am not sure you could be happy as an outcast from the Skiras nation. I will also have a tomorrow if you stay. I will remember you, though, for a long time.” To punctuate her statement, she spread her wings and angled them to the breeze.

Fire Shrike heard a pleading whine in her own objection. “Hassaket, I don’t want to stay here without you.”

“But these are your people. You serve them well. What’s wrong?”

“Did you know that Mud Lion called me Lone Wolf? He saw that I was by myself. Only he found me completely worthy. He didn’t care that I refused to marry, but he’s been dead five seasons. I see a new world opening with you.”

Hassaket grew contemplative. “How strange. I can’t imagine rejecting you. Will Earth Mother forsake you for abandoning the Skiras?”

“No, Earth Mother is everywhere, and She has no favorite people. Many worship her under different names.”

“I hope you are not surprised when I say that I am not done with Irikiti and the Lazrah yet. Do you still want to come with me?”

“You just destroyed all of my doubt. I am still sure to be fighting the enemy of my people if I stay with you, and that is what I want. I will have you and the war. Is this what you want?”

Hassaket reached out and caressed her cheek. The gentle touch was becoming a habitual gesture. “Yes. I don’t want to be alone, either.”

* * *

The Skiras war party took up a jog and loped to the east, straight into the teeth of the ridge that marked the beginning of Lazrah territory. Fire Shrike stood with Hassaket under the sun’s mounting heat and looked down at the provisions Mist Stag had insisted on leaving behind. The winged woman picked up a duckbill axe and regarded it with curiosity. “What an odd weapon. Is it unique to the Skiras?”

“I don’t know,” Shrike answered, “but the narrow blade bites through the mail that many Lazrah wear.”

“This will take the place of the sword. I could enchant it,” Hassaket proposed.

“But you won’t, right?”

“That was a mistake with the Bone Render’s head. The spell I used on your dagger has not been a problem.”

“I think,” said Fire Shrike, “that it might be a matter of timing. Before you fought the khat’laba, you hadn’t done anything to anger Irikiti, yes?”

“After my escape from the Hell of Burning Tears, I only watched and learned through the spring and into the summer.”

“Could it be that the Bone Render’s death and the khat’laba’s defeat called you to His attention again?”

Hassaket raised her hands as if to contest the point further but stopped before speaking. Then, after a deep breath, she resumed. “Very well, Spirit Rider. Irikiti may be watching for chances to strike. I must accept this.”

“Thanks. I think it will be the safest. So tell me your plan.”

The renegade herald looked up after pushing the axe into her belt. “We will march south for, say, ten days, but then we have to climb to the east. It will be difficult. The land becomes mountainous. On the far side of the heights, though, there is a Lazrah province called Tamoz. It is removed from their main city by a considerable distance. The people there were unhappy when last I looked. Having Irikiti as their ultimate ruler has inflicted great pains. After your Skiras braves go into battle, I think that the Lazrah will have few soldiers and priests left to compel the province’s loyalty. I think we can win their rebellion with your beautiful face to represent us.”

“Will they accept me at all? I’m Skiras.”

“There is a risk, but raw desperation fills Tamoz’s air. The odds are in our favor. Besides, your people will not let me fight for them.”

“I know,” admitted Shrike. “Mist Stag saw the truth about you, but he didn’t even try to lead anyone else to an understanding. I am so tired of my people’s blindness. Does your plan mean that you will be teaching me more of the Lazrah tongue?”

“The Lazrah tongue? Yes, I will. I have never had such an enjoyable student.”

As Hassaket took to the air to collect the last apples from their tree, Fire Shrike inventoried the remainder of the supplies. She found a generous helping of smoked venison strips, several full water skins, a pair of boot moccasins, a leather tunic, two wool blankets, a hide scraper, and a fire-starting bow.

There was also a sling and a bag of lead slugs to go with it. This simple weapon made Shrike smile. When she was young, she learned to use it with the Tagat boys and, much to their annoyance, became skilled. It wouldn’t take long to refresh her memory.

Hassaket returned. “Well, a few of our shade oaks fell with the boulders. The course of the stream has changed. Earth Mother spared the apple tree, though, and I have the last ripe ones.”

The pair began their southward march, paralleling the ridgeline. When they rested at midday, Fire Shrike killed a rabbit with her new sling. She sang a song to the Hunt Lord, Cennern, before skinning it.

Insisting that it was only a cantrip and shunning the bow, Hassaket started a fire with a flash of crimson light from her open palm. They roasted the animal immediately. Fire Shrike kept the rabbit sinews for thread but sacrificed the other remains to Lord Agni in the red coals. They were moving on in the morning and had no time for tanning.

The setting sun ushered in a warm summer night. They camped under the open skies. Fire Shrike fell asleep and dreamed with a purpose. She had to say her farewell. The shaman was still not too far from home and found her parents’ dreams with just a little difficulty as they twinkled like paired stars.

She pulled them into her own dream star. She dreamed them both young and strong, denying the truth of their real ages. She dreamed her mother draped in thick garlands of buttercups and she dreamed her father with an axe and a shield.

They both smiled at seeing her. Mother spoke first. “Fire Shrike, we are so happy to see that you are safe. There is word about so many Lazrah.”

“Mother, it is true,” said Fire Shrike, “but I am safe and fighting hard.”

“That is no surprise,” said Father.

Shrike saw no choice but to blurt out her next words. “I’ve met someone.”

“And so?” questioned her mother.

“And so I will be leaving for a long time.”

Both of her parents turned grim, and Father spoke. “Is it wise to leave now? Is it safe?”

“I don’t want to be safe. I am no coward. I am pursuing the Lazrah.”

“With this other person?” asked Mother.

“Yes. She is an enemy of the Lazrah, too. We are of one mind. We have killed together. She is my blood companion.”

Father’s eyes hardened. “She? No. This is wrong. You belong with your people. You’ve won your family honor by following Mud Lion. You shouldn’t spit on us now.”

Shrike struggled to stop any anger from coloring her words and succeeded. “I’m spitting on nothing. I’m taking the war to the Lazrah. I know that I have hurt my family in the past, but I am not failing any of my people in this.”

“We disagree,” said Father. “Your place is here.”

“And the time for that hurt has passed,” added Mother. “Don’t bring it back.”

Now the anger couldn’t be stopped. “I’m not a little girl anymore! I’ve already taken the head of a high priest! I’ve already done more than any Skiras alive to protect my people in this war, and I will keep fighting! I promise! Why do you refuse to let me go in peace?”

Her parents’ faces turned down, and Father’s hands batted the air in a dismissive gesture. “Go, but don’t expect peace from us.”

Her next words came out whispery and sharp. “You’ve never understood me, so I need to say goodbye. I hope to see you and my siblings again.”

Her pain then extinguished the dream. She awoke and cursed before looking over to see her blood companion. The winged woman’s silver eyes caught the white moonlight. “What is wrong?” Hassaket asked.

“I told Mother and Father. They did not understand like Mist Stag. They’ve never understood how I’ve tried to make them happy. They’ll never understand how unhappy I am.”

Tears came to her eyes. Hassaket hugged her until they had dried.

Chapter Four: Explorers

The sun stayed hot for three full days, inspiring the pair to take long breaks at midday and to continue moving after nightfall. The third day brought a hard rain that Hassaket recognized as a taste of human creation’s autumn. When the clouds cleared, the weather became like spring. It was purely marvelous. The cool air was so different from the Hell of Burning Tears.

Hassaket nibbled on smoked venison during their midday break, enjoying her friend’s presence. Fire Shrike looked up from her own portion. “You aren’t eating much. Are you well?”

“Yes,” Hassaket answered. “My kind does not need much, and now we don’t have much. I’ll eat only what I need.”

“You ate like me when we first met.”

“We had plenty, and I didn’t want to seem any stranger. I have found that even small things make a difference.”

“Almost all of my people are too closed to see something so subtle. The rest of the world is very different from my home, isn’t it?”

“It varies. Don’t be too harsh. Your people are stern, but I’ve known much worse. Some places, however, are full of adventuresome spirits. You are one of them. Why could you look past my wings?”

“I am a shaman. I know that human creation is just a little part of the whole, so your wings are a curiosity for me, not a threat. I might even be jealous.”

Hassaket stood square to Shrike, set her hands on her hips, and cocked her head to one side. “If you can tell someone about being jealous, it isn’t the real thing. In my hell it was a prelude to killing and kept unspoken.”

The shaman rolled her eyes. “Stop it. I can be a little jealous without wanting to hurt you. You have wings, and then there’s your figure. You must never want for a lover.”

“A lover? I do want for a lover, though.”

“Oh?”

“Sex was very much part of the Hell of Burning Tears. Love was not. The same denizens of the Pleasure Pits that served to gratify us would also murder us at the command of Lord Irikiti. I saw it happen more than once, so I do want love. It is unique to humans even though they often fail to honor the ideal.”

The shaman went speechless at her words, and Hassaket winced at the grim vein of memories she had revealed. She felt her heart sink as if it had become granite. It was too much, so she flapped into the sky, looking for any surprises in their path. To the south there was no sign of any ambush. Pine-studded highlands vaulted up to Hassaket’s left and grassy flatlands stretched out to her right. Wheeling back north, however, she spotted something flying that was no bird. Hassaket gasped at the sight of another herald from the Hell of Burning Tears.

She never had time to dive back to the ground. A bolt of green light jumped out from the other herald and splashed into Hassaket. She expected the sorcery to burn, but instead it was cold, sticky, and bitter. Her wings did not fold, but they could no longer flex to give lift. The slop weighed heavily on all of her limbs.

Hassaket spiraled down slowly enough to avoid breaking any bones with her crash. She growled as she stood, shaking off as much of the luminescent slime as she could and pulling her Skiras axe free. Hassaket could not see Shrike at all. A shouted warning would surely give the human’s presence away, so she quashed the impulse. There was a chance that Fire Shrike had not been spotted by the enemy herald yet, and this could mean the survival of one or both of them.

The intruder was closing fast. Hassaket knew her. It was Dalmirae. They shared the same long, dark hair but little else. She had eyes like orange citrine and skin as grey as slate. Her body radiated a sinuous, delicate beauty.

Dalmirae dropped two objects, white and spherical, as she swooped towards Hassaket. Each bloomed to a size larger than a bear and sprouted many legs. They landed at the same time as Dalmirae, revealing bodies with two segments: a bulbous abdomen and a head dominated by a jagged maw. Hassaket had never seen slaves of Irikiti’s that looked anything like these, but it was no surprise that her former master kept secrets.

“Don’t try to fly away, Hassaket,” said Dalmirae in her husky voice. “You can’t, and these two will be on you in a blink of an eye.”

Hassaket gripped her axe with two hands. Numbness was beginning to creep into her body. “You care?”

“Not really, but your antics with the khat’laba and the carcadas impressed our Lord. After a decade in a drowning pool, He plans to take you into His graces again. We can be on our way when you drop your weapon.”

“Never.”

Dalmirae looked around. “How predictable. Speaking of predictable, did you get tired of that little human’s charms already and eat her heart? And yes, our Lord knows about her.”

Hassaket saw what appeared to be a clump of grass spring upwards and drive a dagger into the side of one of Dalmirae’s insect-like servants. A red flash detonated, and then the thing pushed away from the source of its pain with a staccato yelp, plowing into the other one. Dalmirae anticipated, though, and with a deft flap lifted free of the collision. The clump of grass, meanwhile, had disappeared again.

Hassaket swung and drove the axe blade into the head of the second servant. It was a clumsy strike and far from fatal. The weapon embedded in the thing’s thick carapace. She only just managed to pull it back out.

It was irrelevant. The first creature, its abdomen blackening from blazing heat, had frenzied and bit into its comrade. They joined in a rending embrace, oblivious to any other objective. In time they tore each other to shreds.

Dalmirae remained aloft, and Hassaket addressed her. “Irikiti’s order to capture me will be His undoing. If this had been left to you, I would be dead already. I can free you from His will forever, though. Imagine what that would be like.” The loyalist herald only scowled and offered back the sharp salute used by all of their Elevation before flying away at a rapid pace.

Another clump of grass rose up from the earth. The greens and browns bled out of it to reveal Fire Shrike. “Is she done with us?”

“No,” answered Hassaket. “Quitting means returning to Irikiti and explaining her failure. Her next plan is anyone’s guess. I don’t think that she will try a direct attack again. I have you to watch over me.”

“Yes,” smiled Fire Shrike. “You do. Did you know your enchanted dagger likes to kill diabolists? It’s a cannibal.”

“Well, we fought each other to the death regularly, so it is no surprise to me. You could add to our power even more by enchanting another river stone. You could use your sling. If we could kill her in the air, things might be easier.”

“Hassaket,” she said, “I wish it were so easy. Earth Mother’s power is not like a sword you choose to pull from its scabbard. Instead I live within the flow of Her Grace. As things come and go, I ask for help. Earth Mother often answers. I know that I am following Her path with you because She has been so generous to me, but pride is fatal for a shaman.”

“Your world is full of subtle power. Mine is more overt.”

“I suppose, but let’s get you washed off. Is that muck poison?”

“Yes, but not the fatal sort. Irikiti wants me alive.”

“I will ask Her to purge it like I did with the khat’laba’s.”

Shrike cut off her contaminated tunic with the dagger, emptied two water skins over her head, and then began a healing song. Hassaket conceived of questions as her feet and toes began to tingle pleasantly: “What of Ixchel? What of Lord Vulture? Those displays of power seemed like swords.”

Fire Shrike held up a hand and sang a few more measures before answering. “Those were pacts. You are right. They are different compared to Earth Mother’s blessings. Ixchel had to be appeased with the Bone Render’s spirit, or Her Hunting Jaguar aspect would have taken mine, and Lord Vulture never would have helped without the offering of all those Lazrah bodies.”

The shaman handed her the spare tunic and continued. “We should go back to the stream that we crossed yesterday. You need a full bath to be sure that muck is gone, and I don’t know when we will find more water.”

“I have been this way before. It will be about five days,” said Hassaket, “so you are right. Besides, anyone trying to catch us will not guess that we would turn around.”

“How do you think she found us?”

“A tracking divination. I left possessions in the Hell of Burning Tears. That would be all Dalmirae needed.”

“Dalmirae? You know her? I could not understand your conversation. What did she say?”

“We used the language of diabolists. She demanded my surrender and asked if I had murdered you. You answered that question for me. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

The rebel herald made certain that her next words were as clear as the air between them. “Make no mistake, Fire Shrike. I have been a creature of malevolence. I will not leave my past hidden. You are worthy of the truth.”

* * *

Hassaket looked up at a wall of granite boulders before them as a stiff wind whipped all around. “Enough,” she said to Shrike. “We are done with climbing. You are strong and agile for a human, but you could still fall. I can fly you and our provisions over this.”

The spirit rider was breathing hard. “I had not thought . . . to argue.”

“Good. Give me your satchel bags.”

Fire Shrike dutifully handed them over. Once encumbered, Hassaket faced into the breeze, spread her wings, and waited for the right moment. They stood on a strip of ground flat enough for a short running start, and Hassaket used it when she jumped off into the void.

The wind tried to push her back into the rocky bones of the earth, but she harnessed it instead to streak along the cliff face. A laugh bubbled up through her as she reveled in a sense of velocity and daring.

A plateau covered in pines beckoned to Hassaket as a good place to drop their provisions, but first she flew higher and looked for any hint of Dalmirae. She saw only a few high-flying vultures. Her big wings had already frightened them into fleeing.

After leaving the supplies at the lip of the plateau, she returned to her companion. “So, can you wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist? I’ll hold you at the same time. My wings are all I need to fly.”

Fire Shrike, now rested, followed the suggestion with a smile. Hassaket could not resist commenting at the tight hug. “Maybe I should carry you places more often.”

“Here we go!” the winged woman yelled when the wind was again right. She ran and jumped a second time. They dropped more than she anticipated but not enough to inflict a disaster. They laughed together this time in the air. Still, Hassaket did not tempt fate too much. Flight was clumsy with another person hanging on to her body. She made her way directly to the place she had left their supplies and landed with all of the care her passenger deserved.

The grass at the edge of the plateau waved in the breeze. The view below was emerald-green with recent rain and blotched with shadows cast by puffy clouds. The pine forest’s shade waited in the other direction. Hassaket could smell the needles. She looked all around and then gave Fire Shrike a kiss on her lips.

The woman didn’t shy away. Instead Shrike’s arms wrapped around the small of her back and pulled her closer. Their kiss lingered, and then they separated by only a hand’s width. Hassaket whispered into the shaman’s ear: “I know it must be strange, but would you be my lover?”

“The only thing strange,” said Shrike, “is that I didn’t ask you first.” They then embraced again and indulged in another long, insistent kiss. As their tongues met, the shaman’s hands slid down and began teasing up her tunic.

* * *

Hassaket made her way through the pine forest side-by-side with Fire Shrike. As they walked, the rebel diabolist saw a clearing ahead and tugged on the spirit rider’s tunic to stop her without speaking. The watchful part of Hassaket’s mind always associated openness with vulnerability, and there was something hulking and incongruous ahead. Fire Shrike looked at her and whispered. “Earth Mother would tell me if something were moving ahead of us.”

“Some things,” answered Hassaket, “remain motionless for eons before striking. I can fly. Let me go and see. I can escape easier than you. If something gives chase, I’ll come back this way. You’ll be waiting with the dagger.”

Hassaket pulled free her axe and crept forward. The object, as tall as three of her, remained motionless. She reached the edge of the clearing and saw something with a massive spider’s head, a male torso that sprouted wings like her own, claws like a scorpion’s for arms, and legs replaced with a snake’s coils. It was Irikiti.

The rebel herald corrected herself as bile filled her mouth. It was a statue of Irikiti. Lichen and moss covered it. A sacrificial altar stood before the representation. Only thin tufts of grass struggled around the stonework. The ground here, no doubt, was sour.

She had flown over these mountains before but always missed this atrocity in stone. Now, though, she called Fire Shrike to join her. Her lover ought to know what Irikiti looked like.

Shrike materialized from out of the tree line and regained the coloration of a human. “Behold,” Hassaket said with a curt flourish, “a statue of my former master.”

“Is Irikiti really that big?”

“Actually, His true form is larger.”

“How did it get here? Who made it?”

“That would be before your time, wouldn’t it?” said Hassaket. “A people lived here in these mountains. They were much like the Skiras nation. ‘Close to the earth’ is how you put it, but instead of glorifying a benevolent spirit, they choose Irikiti as their patron. They made their choice in the course of a civil war; they were not all corrupt, not at the beginning. Once Irikiti’s followers eliminated the dissenters, they proceeded to wage war on the Lazrah.”

“Why not wage war on my people?” asked Fire Shrike.

“The Lazrah were not so close to the earth. They had a city, towns, and writing. Irikiti wanted these things, too, so that He could spread suffering.”

“These mountain people defeated the Lazrah?”

“No, not exactly. The struggle was fierce. I was part of it. The Lazrah at that time had their own God: Merkeses, the All-Seeing. Merkeses was a trickster and a knowledge-bringer. His servants fought well. We almost lost the war. The All-Seeing’s priesthood, though, proved vulnerable to temptations of the flesh. Some turned out to be very adventuresome spirits. The common Lazrah followed the orders from their priesthood, so we came to rule all of them by corrupting a handful of important hearts with our bodies.”

“What of the mountain people?”

“They called themselves the Satae. Irikiti turned on them. Godless, they found themselves defeated by the corrupted Lazrah and forced into a servant caste. If you see someone in Tamoz with pale skin, their parents were Satae.”

“So, on top of being horrible, Irikiti is treacherous? Why?”

“Remember, it is all about keeping a steady flow of sacrifices into the Hell of Burning Tears. The Satae were no longer very useful for waging war, and many were quite damned, so they should have expected their own purge. After we corrupted the Lazrah’s priesthood, the Satae’s greatest value to Irikiti was as fuel for the fires of His hell. He reacted consistently.”

“What of Merkeses?”

“I have seen hints that someone is still giving homage to the All-Seeing among the Lazrah in Tamoz. That was a surprise. Irikiti directed us with cruelty exceeding the usual when we suppressed the die-hards of Merkeses’s cult. We sacrificed many in the dacadam ghoul rite.”

Fire Shrike took her by the hand and began pulling her back towards the tree line. “Let’s go.”

Hassaket balked after a few steps. “Wait. I was going to piss on the altar.”

The shaman stopped and gave her a seditious grin. “I suppose it has been a long time since anyone offered a sacrifice here. This place is forgotten . . . .”

And then she was off like an arrow, giggling and racing back into the center of the clearing: “Me first! Me first!”

Chapter Five: Insurgents

The setting sun lit the faces of Fire Shrike and Hassaket as they peered down at Tamoz. The horizon loomed mountainous, but the middle distance held the ribbon of a river that meandered through cornfields. The pair could also distinguish the cluster of buildings that constituted the province’s one town. A ziggurat dominated all of these structures. Fire Shrike already knew it was a temple dedicated to Irikiti.

The rising smoke from the cook fires of many homes caught the sun’s light, suggesting a glowing fog to the Skiras shaman. A chill breeze blew, and she stepped close enough to slip her arm around her blood companion’s waist:

“Autumn is coming in a hurry. It is good that we are finished with our journey. I am thankful you were there to fly me over the worst of those crags.”

“I can imagine doing nothing else,” said Hassaket. “I like the cold, but even I’m not sure about trying to live in those peaks when it starts snowing. So, what do you think of Tamoz Province?”

“Mostly, I’m just happy to see some flat ground, but there are so many living so close. Will it stink when we get closer?”

“Yes. Living stacked on top of each other is also not my favorite. Crowds filled the Hell of Burning Tears.”

“Somehow I expected more. The Lazrah slavers have been harrying us for a long time, but Irikiti’s temple is the only thing here that seems worthy of their reputation.”

“I know. The Lazrah capital city would impress you, but Tamoz is on the very edge of their territory, and the Bone Render here must consider this place to be a punishment assignment. It shows.”

“Now what?” asked Fire Shrike.

“I will show you the place where I saw a hint of Merkeses. If we can find who left it, we can begin our insurgency.”

“Show me.”

The pair made their way down the steep slope. Rocky footing shifted under their steps. At least the thick cover eliminated any concerns about being spotted by a Lazrah sentry, so they took their time.

The ground leveled, and then they stopped at a small clearing lit by the deep blue light of the day’s end. Someone had placed a rough triangle of three logs on the forest floor. A bush with dark, glossy leaves grew as tall as Fire Shrike in the center of the three-sided space. Flower blossoms, closed against the coming dark, hung on its branches.

Hassaket pointed at the ground. “I don’t think that this is an accident. A symbol for Merkeses is a triangle with a flame in its center. Can you sense if someone has used this place as a shrine?”

Fire Shrike sat cross-legged on the cold, damp ground. “I will learn what I can.” She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and opened her mind to the world beyond the Veil.

The stench of Irikiti’s corruption was the first thing Shrike became aware of, and it nearly made her gag. The shaman ground her teeth together, however, and focused. A feeble counter-current pulsed through the putrefaction like a desperate heartbeat. Fire Shrike swam towards it.

A reality bled into being before her. Gentle notes wafted from some stringed instrument. There was a triangle of iron bars resting on a flat surface, and in it a figure danced like a flickering flame.

A sky-blue tunic draped over the dancer’s body, and it wore a quiver of darts at its waist. It was thin and androgynous with six arms waving out from its torso. The lowest pair held a harp and played it. The middle arm on the right held a bundle of wheat, and its left counterpart held a sort of brush or stylus. The top arm on the right supported a bright star, and the last held what had to be some sort of weapon; it was a short bow mounted on a staff. Shrike had no name for it.

A blank dacadam helmet covered its head, but cerulean light from a pair of sharp eyes burned through the metal. Fire Shrike knew that the illumination meant that this spirit had not surrendered to Irikiti.

She opened her eyes. “You are right, Hassaket. There must be someone coming here to worship. Merkeses lives.”

“Great news, Fire Shrike. It is late, though. Let’s make camp and consider a plan.”

They walked to the edge of the forest and spent the night without a fire. The warmth of their embrace and the two Skiras blankets provided their only defenses against the cold. Shrike found this more than sufficient, but she also knew that it was destined to become much colder.

They rose with the sun, stretching and eating together in the pale light before continuing to plot against Irikiti. “I don’t think we can stay here,” said Fire Shrike as she looked around. The open land next to the forest was a cornfield, but tall weeds fought for space amongst the food crop. “This ground is tired,” she continued. “The Lazrah are using it too hard. Someone is bound to wander by and harvest what did manage to grow, though. They might discover our presence.”

“True,” agreed Hassaket, “but we need to watch this place for when our Merkites visit. Can you ask Earth Mother for help?”

“I like that question. Earth Mother may like that question, too.”

Fire Shrike walked back into the woods, careful not to disturb the undergrowth. Merkeses needed to stay hidden for now. At the shrine she knelt, scooped up some damp earth, and used it to streak her face. Shrike became one with the dirt and asked her Goddess for a signal when the Merkites touched this place again. She then sang a song that gave thanks for her good fortune and begged for its continuation.

Earth Mother, however, gave no answer, and there was nothing else to do. Faith in the Goddess was her path to power. Hassaket had renewed her faith after the loss of Mud Lion, and she had been allowed to do great things since, but now there was silence again. Why? Would she fail her blood companion just like she failed her mentor?

She shook her head and made her way back, concentrating again on leaving no tracks in the carpet of pine needles under her feet and no broken limbs in her path. Attention to the little things, she had noticed, kept fear at bay. Her mind would then become ready for the big things.

“Hassaket,” she said upon emerging from the woods, “I haven’t told you how much I love you, have I? I love you very much.”

The winged woman smiled. “What did I do?”

“What haven’t you done? You have cut yourself free from a hell. You are risking your spirit to repair the evil that came with your old life. You are amazing. I have never had the honor of meeting anyone like you, but you choose me to be your lover.”

“I think you had something to do with that last part, Spirit Rider. I do not remember a time when I was this happy. Once you told me that I was reborn, and now I agree. Our lives together transcend mere happiness.”

“You deserve even more.”

They enjoyed a deep kiss, and then Shrike scanned the field again for the sight of any Lazrah. She saw no one. “I can’t say if Earth Mother will help us. She gave no sign, but we should still go back to the hills now.”

“I agree,” said Hassaket. “There is work to be done. We need to get ready for the winter. After we tell the Merkites that we are here to save them from Irikiti, we cannot ask them for food and blankets. Who wants a weak ally?”

Fire Shrike nodded. “It is as if you know my thoughts.”

They turned and marched back among the pines, trying to find a site for their new camp far enough away from Tamoz. When the sun was at its zenith, they happened across a clear brook, and that inspired Shrike to speak: “Flowing water. We should find a place nearby.”

“Yes,” agreed her lover, “but where, exactly? I still feel exposed.”

The shaman pointed at a hulking hill that marked the start of the really rugged terrain to the west. There the presence of Earth Mother brooded like a growing thunderstorm. “That way. I sense something. Come, come.”

What Shrike had thought was a hill turned out to be more of a cliff face. A crack marred the full height of the rock, resulting in an opening wide enough for perhaps a Lazrah warhorse.

No enthusiasm at all colored Hassaket’s next comment. “In there?”

“It’s not exposed.”

“It is the other extreme.”

“True, but Earth Mother has warned me of nothing moving inside,” said Shrike.

Hassaket readied her axe and led the way into the cave. Shrike followed and then noted light filtering down to them from above. Looking up, she saw that the fissure had no roof. The opening to the sky was perhaps seventy paces above their heads. The relentless rain and wind had consequently smoothed the walls of this stone channel into graceful curves.

The passage broadened to a sun-bathed chamber before they walked too far. It was oval and big enough to contain a Skiras long house. Little birds had nested high up in the sides of the surrounding stone. They flew about, chirping and squawking.

Shrike corrected herself. “Well, nothing dangerous is moving. My failings sometimes limit my sensitivity to Earth Mother’s blessings.”

Hassaket looked up and held her hands open to the sky. “I think this will be a wonderful home. I can even fly you up and out if someone corners us in here.”

The shaman looked lower. “There’s an overhang of rock along this stretch that’ll shelter us fairly well without even putting up a lean-to, and the ground slopes down towards the passage. We won’t wake up one morning laying in a puddle after a night of rain.”

Something more then caught her attention. Markings decorated the deeper recesses of the stone. She stepped closer and saw the picture of a cornfield painted with yellow clay. Someone had also sketched a herd of deer, including two fawns, with charcoal. Beneath that was Earth Mother’s sigil, the circle within the oval.

“Hassaket,” she said, “these people knew my Goddess. Could this be a forgotten Satae shrine from before Irikiti?”

“I suppose so. I only came to visit the Satae after they had been corrupted. Nobody talked about what came before, or maybe I just didn’t give it any attention.”

“What were you doing before then?”

Hassaket’s expression turned quizzical. “Matters internal to the Hell of Burning Tears kept me busy. I took part in several sordid, violent purges. I sent beings back down into my hell’s deepest pits to be remade by thousands of years of suffering. Why do you want to know? My past has no good stories.”

Shrike’s words for any easy answer disappeared like a little rain shower falling on thirsty land. Why, indeed, did she want to know? She knew that the past made her lover anxious, so she dug deep for a true answer before speaking:

“I like hearing about what you once were. You had the life of a being feared on both sides of the Veil. Earth Mother has shown me a great many things even though I am young, but you have seen even more. Now you are here, happy just loving me. Do you know how powerful that makes me feel?”

“You are a shaman, and you are telling me that you didn’t feel powerful before we met?”

“I felt like a rabbit choking in a snare before I met you.”

Hassaket’s smile flared to life before the rebel herald leaned forward and gave her a kiss. This intimacy started as gently as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings and ended as passionately as the plains of the Skrias homeland blooming in the spring. “Fire Shrike,” she said after they parted, “you have actually found something good to say about my old life. When I think I cannot feel more loved, you always manage to surprise me. I need to be sure this place is completely safe for you, so let me take a look from up there.”

Shrike nodded her agreement, and Hassaket then flew to the lip of the opening above. For a moment the shaman watched her vigilant lover survey the land. She could glimpse the lines of her thighs typically concealed by a tunic, and a fierce joy in being alive warmed her spirit.

She then decided to sit and examine the pictures further. The people who had venerated this place with their imagery selected subjects from daily life: tribe members, animals, crops, and the markings of deities. All of it suggested a community much like the Skiras’s, and that made her shudder for a moment. It had to be blind fate that Irikiti took the Satae instead of her people.

* * *

Surrounded by a world of maples turned red by the first touch of autumn, Fire Shrike jumped over the stream near the camp. She sank into some mud on the far bank but kept her footing. The shaman clutched a freshly killed pheasant by its tail feathers, so it was good to avoid falling into the muck

Something interesting caught her attention next at the water’s edge. There was a vein of yellow clay in the earth, and it reminded her of the pictures in the cave. The artists from long ago, she realized, came here for pigment.

Inspiration took root in her spirit, so she shoveled up a lump of the ochre dirt with a length of bark before continuing on her way. Safely back at the cave, she then hung up the bird to bleed out and mixed that fluid in the clay. The color wasn’t a perfect match for Hassaket’s skin, but it was close.

Then, using her fingers, she set about adding her lover to the rock wall. The renegade herald’s image flew high over the cornfield. She took a blackened stick from their smoldering fire next and ground it into a charcoal paste. It allowed her to add flowing hair. Hassaket’s bright eyes, though, were beyond her resources as of yet. Still, it was a good start.

Earth Mother alerted her to someone’s approach. There was only one, so it had to be her lover. Who else would be here alone? She jogged down the passage to meet Hassaket.

The rebel diabolist was walking through pine shadows with a dead stag slung over her shoulders. Shrike had to suppress a laugh at what should have been impossible. Hassaket did not have a small frame, but she was still within the limits of what could be expected for a strong woman. The stag, on the other hand, was huge. It looked as if the animal had climbed an inexplicably resilient sapling and decided to go to sleep.

“What’s wrong?” asked a laboring Hassaket.

Shrike forced a straight face. “Incredible. My hunt yielded a pheasant and yours yielded meat for the whole winter. Did you get the kill from above?”

Pride shaped Hassaket’s features. “I threw the spear because of the antlers, but it still broke his back.”

“Good. Cennern will be pleased with a quick kill. We have to free the stag’s spirit, or the meat will spoil too fast.” Fire Shrike pointed to some sloping ground that eventually led to the stream. “Can you hold him there by the front legs while I cut him open?”

The winged woman dropped her burden as directed. The shaman pulled the knife that Hassaket had enchanted and began cutting downward from the top of the kill’s neck. The obsidian blade fashioned by her father now never dulled and cut through the animal’s thick sternum as if it were fat, not bone. The trick was to keep the incision to the center as much as possible. Heat rose to engulf her, and stag blood flowed. She proceeded with caution at the rear quarters. There was a lot of good meat at the thighs, but a lacerated stag bladder would ruin it all.

With the animal opened completely, Shrike made an announcement. “Let’s commend the spirit to Hunt Lord.” She sat with Hassaket in a patch of forest moss before beginning:

“Brother Stag, thank you for your sacrifice. Brother Stag, it will not be in vain. We need you so that Wendigo will never visit. Find Cennern and be born again. Find Cennern and be born again. Creation awaits your return. Creation awaits your return. Come back to the circle. And find a new mate. Sire more young. Creation awaits your return.”

Shrike looked over at Hassaket with the prayer’s end. Her blood companion smiled back, the epitome of tranquility. At the very next moment a splatter of golden sunlight improbably penetrated all of the branches above and illuminated her lover’s already bright eyes. Shrike trembled in anticipation for their time together at the day’s end.

She then watched as a pitch-black wolf the size of the dead stag padded into the clearing behind Hassaket. The shaman forced herself to remain seated despite the surprise. Cennern did not visit her often. Shrike was not much of a huntress, but her hymn must have been potent. Or rude.

Hunt Lord sat on His haunches. The shaman looked into His yellow eyes and received a vision. She blinked and saw the hidden shrine of Merkeses. The desperate spirit’s worshippers, cloaked and hooded to match the forest, crept through the pines to offer their piety. Some carried the odd weapon brandished by their God in the dance beyond the Veil.

Shrike blinked again, and Cennern was gone. She was alone with Hassaket. Her lover cocked her head with concern. “Fire Shrike?”

“The Merkites have just arrived at their shrine. I have to meet them.”

Hassaket did not ask for any sort of verification and instead stood, beckoning her to hold on. “It’s getting late. I’ll fly you.”

“Yes, but we also have to protect your kill. Cennern showed me the Merkites, but He will not be pleased if we waste this animal. Can you carry it to the camp? I’ll cut some boughs to cover it. Birds don’t like to perch inside tight spaces.”

“Won’t Cennern be angry if we fail to visit the Merkites?”

“We can do both if we hurry.”

Hassaket, muttering about the chore of everything being sacred, shouldered her burden again and left in a rush. Fire Shrike began slicing branches with her dagger and kept a lookout for swallow’s tail vine. By the time Hassaket returned, Shrike had found the vine and also finished cutting branches. She knew that she was lucky; swallow’s tail grew everywhere back home but only in a few clearings here.

Both of them carried an armload of boughs back to their cave and covered the stag. Shrike then rubbed the swallow’s tail between her hands and sprinkled the shredded leaves over the kill. “Flies don’t like swallow’s tail,” she explained.

“Ready?” asked Hassaket next.

Fire Shrike spoke as she hugged her blood companion tight. “Get me as close as you can, but stay out of sight. They will recognize you as one of Irikiti’s heralds.”

“What if they kill you?”

“This is a risk we have to take if you really hope to win this place away from Irikiti. We must have their trust.”

Hassaket wrapped her arms around Shrike and whispered in her ear. “I know, I know. But if they even hurt you, I will kill everyone in Tamoz.”

With several flaps of Hassaket’s wings they ascended together out of the cave and over the treetops. It did not take long for the rebel herald to deliver Shrike to the edge of the bluff from where they had originally surveyed the town together. Hassaket gave her a quick kiss and some final advice: “Remember your Lazrah words.”

“Dah tal,” affirmed Fire Shrike, “and I’ll yell if things go badly.” She then began a hasty descent. There was no need for stealth. Surprise, in fact, was the opposite of her intent.

Fire Shrike jogged for a while after reaching flat ground, but she slowed to a walk when the distance to the shrine became short. A few moments later, she spotted the first of the cloaked Merkites. The figure had the odd weapon leveled at her. Shrike stopped before the crouched figure had her in clear sight and made a request. “Please don’t hurt me. I am not here in Irikiti’s name.”

The worshipper of the defeated God paused. Fire Shrike had time to realize that it would be her end if she failed to make herself understood. Hassaket’s lessons would be her savior or her undoing now. The Merkite spoke. “If you move, I will kill you. Wait. Draw no weapons.”

“I understand,” said Shrike. “Come closer. I wish to speak.”

Several cloaked figures came out of the forest gloom, short swords drawn, and surrounded her. Shrike waited with open hands. A tall figure pulled off his hood to reveal a head of grey, thick hair. He had a nose like the blade on a wood axe, but the evening’s encroaching dark hid any other features.

“Why are you here?” the man asked with a voice almost as deep as a bullfrog’s croak.

“I am an enemy of Irikiti,” said Fire Shrike, “and I am looking for allies.”

“Why should we trust you?”

Fire Shrike and Hassaket already had discussed how to present their position, and now she was thankful for the guidance. “Do you have any choice? Do you think that Irikiti will never find you? I think you need allies more than I do. I think you must trust me. Besides, if I were Irikiti’s, would we be talking? Would I be standing here by myself with only a dagger?”

“True,” agreed the man, “but you are one girl. What kind of ally can you be?”

Fire Shrike stood tall. “I am a shaman of the Skiras nation and the Tagat tribe. It would be a mistake to judge me weak.”

“I wondered about your accent. You are an enemy of the Lazrah people, my people. Your warriors have killed many of us this autumn. Why should we show mercy now?”

“My people never cared about the Lazrah before Irikiti. If we get rid of Irikiti, we will stop caring again.”

Shrike watched as the man could not stop from offering a slit of a smile at these words. She smiled back. He sheathed his sword, and the other Merkites followed his example a few moments later. The aged man came closer and, after a short bow, introduced himself. “I am Raveed, young lady. Who are you?”

She copied the bow. “I am called Fire Shrike.”

“I hope we can look back at this meeting and say that today was fortunate. We all want Irikiti banished from our land, and you may be a force to be reckoned with, but you are still only one person. We, on the other hand, are ordinary. Even if you are a great power, I remain unsure that we have the strength to act.”

“I am not alone. My ally is also a great power.”

“Where is he?”

“Would you like meet . . . her?”

“Her? Pardon, I assumed, but there is a reason she is not here. What might that be?”

“Raveed, come with me and I will introduce you.”

“Separate from my brethren? Why should I trust you that much more, Fire Shrike?”

“I know where your shrine is. You have already trusted me more than you would admit.”

Someone broke into the conversation. “Don’t go, Raveed. It is too dangerous.” Murmurs of approval followed from the others.

The apparent leader of the Merkites turned to face his compatriots. “The truth is that I have no special claim to Merkeses’s favor. Without me all of you would still keep our faith alive. Without a risk, though, that is the best any of us can hope for. I have lived a long time. My remaining days are not too much to risk for something better.”

Raveed then turned back to Shrike. “Lead on, young lady.”

She did so without comment. The encroaching dark made the climb dangerous, but Earth Mother guided her steps, and she in turn kept her new associate safe. When they reached the top of the ridge, a trace of light persisted. Raveed’s hand dropped down to his sword’s hit, and he hissed at the sight of the waiting Hassaket. “A herald!”

Fire Shrike was ready. She stepped in close behind the man and pressed her dagger into his back. She could hear the weapon’s silent cry for a taste of boiling blood but ignored it. “Raveed, take your hand from your sword.”

The man cursed but did as he was told. Shrike cut the weapon, sheath and all, from Raveed’s belt and tossed it over to Hassaket. The rebel herald caught it in midair and spoke next. “Good. Please sit down.”

Hassaket then sat, and the man followed with a stumble. Shrike sat last of all, close to their visitor, with her dagger still drawn. The shaman initiated the new conversation. “Raveed, take a breath. I did not lie to you. You are safe unless you decide to fight.”

“How can I do anything else with one of Irikiti’s heralds?” he sputtered.

“Creation is a place full of surprises,” Shrike answered. “I have been with this herald for many days. When I met her, she saved many of my tribe by ripping the head off a dacadam ghoul. I owe her my life. I have given her my love. Her name is Hassaket.”

“I have never known one of Irikiti’s own to turn,” spat a petulant Raveed.

Hassaket joined the talk next. “Actually, it is more common that you know, but very few of Irikiti’s unhappy slaves survive to rebel. In that way I am special. I suffered one hundred years of abuse at His command without betraying my anger. Now I live to inflict ruin on His plans.”

“And you came here to do that? How stupid.”

“No, not really that stupid,” continued the apostate herald. “I hope not. We came here because I thought some faith in Merkeses still persisted in Tamoz. We also came here because I know this is a backwater of the Lazrah people. Irikiti’s servants are thin here. We crippled His plan to exterminate Shrike’s people by assassinating a Bone Render and then made our way here.”

“Aye, you accomplished the crippling part,” admitted Raveed. “Our levies are just back from fighting the Skiras. One in three of our young men died fighting them. Word is that Fire Shrike’s people sacked Kodan before returning to their own lands.”

Shrike had to push down on both her anger and her pride to keep a polite voice with this man: “Like I said, you can thank Irikiti for your slain. My people don’t look for wars, but we will fight them.”

Hassaket and Raveed fell silent at her words. There were no expressions for Shrike to read. Full dark had fallen. The man then spoke with a hint of desperation. “Now Irikiti’s servants plan a dacadam sacrifice to be held as a punishment for our failure. The families and slaves of the ten victims are to be burned at the stake five days hence, and next there will be the sacrifice itself. We came tonight to offer our prayers. That is all we can do.”

“I see,” said Hassaket, “that nothing has changed about the dacadam sacrament. Raveed, don’t you think that it is time to turn on Irikiti’s slaves openly?”

“Perhaps” said the man, “but what type of rule will you two impose? Hassaket, how demanding is your taste for blood? What do your Gods demand, Fire Shrike? Would anything be different for my sons and daughters if you two ruled?”

Shrike pondered the question. She hadn’t discussed it with Hassaket. It seemed that it would be best to answer with a question. “Raveed, what sort of rule do you want?”

“I remember my parent’s stories of what it was like when we had Merkeses, a proper God. The priests studied the Revelations of the All-Seeing and helped in every way: better river barges, better weapons, better ploughs, better music. We grew crops and sold them down the river. We mined ore and made wonderful things of iron. We fought mountain bandits to keep everyone safe. We renovated the temple in thanksgiving. Everything was as it should be. I want a priesthood of Merkeses to rule again. That is what we all want. How we were so foolish in the past I cannot say.”

Shrike persisted. “There are no priests or priestesses among your number now?”

“No. All of them have been murdered, sacrificed. Irikiti seduces any youths that might have been touched by Merkeses. If we had someone who could channel the All-Seeing’s blessings, we would have rebelled years ago.”

“Well, I am sworn to Earth Mother. That is not changing. Hassaket, on the other hand, is not sworn to any God. Neither of us needs or wants any sacrifices.”

“It sounds like you want nothing,” said Raveed. “I know that is not true. Are you saying that you want to rule Tamoz?”

“What,” Hassaket challenged, “would be wrong with that? If we destroy Irikiti’s power, isn’t that what we deserve? Tamoz needs our power to be free. We are offering it, and we won’t drink your children’s blood. Good enough?”

“No,” said Raveed. “You are giving me only words. That is not good enough.”

“Amazing,” said Hassaket. “Soon, the people of Tamoz will suffer a scourging like the ones I helped to inflict when I was still Irikiti’s loyal dog, but you can’t see past my wings. So many people can’t see past my wings.”

The Merkeses loyalist did not let emotion tinge his rejoinder. “My life has taught me that things are usually not complicated. You, Hassaket, are a herald. You cannot be trusted. To me it is obvious, but you are not resorting to torture, so I will offer a compromise: I will put this proposal to my friends. Maybe I am too old to see your wisdom. Is this acceptable?”

Shrike spoke while Hassaket’s wings twitched: “Yes.”

“I will see you both back at the shrine in three days. Come at dusk. That will leave time to act before the dacadam ritual. Goodbye.” Raveed stood next and began climbing back down into the valley.

“Goodbye,” responded Fire Shrike, but then she waited for the sound of Raveed’s descent to fade before speaking again. “Hassaket, has this all been a waste?”

“No. This is not over. We will give Tamoz what they need. They will accept our rule.”

“What do you mean? How will we do that?”

“Please be patient with me. It is not safe to stay here and talk, and the idea is not fully formed in my head.”

Hassaket flew Shrike back to their camp next. The shaman was pleased that the pine limbs and swallow’s tail had worked. Little evidence showed of scavengers like jays or blue flies taking a share of the kill.

“The smoke from our fire tonight should also help keep the flies away,” said Shrike. “I’ll cook my pheasant now, and tomorrow morning I’ll start cutting the stag meat into strips for smoking.”

They settled into an embrace after the evening meal, and then Hassaket shifted to look at her. “I see that I’m on the rock wall now.”

“Yes. Sorry. I had hoped to show it to you with some ceremony, but the day has been too full. Don’t you dare say something about not being worthy.”

“No, no. You’ve convinced me that I am sacred.”

“Yes, you are. Is it a good likeness?”

“You bring a gift to everything you touch. That includes me

“Do I get to draw you, too?”

“Of course. I can’t wait. What will I be doing?”

“That’s a surprise.”

They laughed together, and then Hassaket continued: “Do you want to meet the Merkites again?”

“I am unsure,” Shrike said. “What do you think?”

“It will be dangerous. If I were Irikiti, I would have a sleeper among them. Raveed already admitted that they are powerless without a priesthood, so that little group would be useful bait.”

“For people like us?”

“For people like us,” confirmed Hassaket.

“What if we were to ambush those watching the Merkites?”

Hassaket snuggled closer and kissed Fire Shrike on her lips. “I love you, Spirit Rider. No one has to tell you to go for the throat.”

* * *

Shrike awoke in the morning to see Hassaket, wrapped in her own wings and pondering the embers of their fire. “What are you thinking?” asked the shaman. “Are your half-formed ideas now whole?”

“I was thinking about Merkeses. What sort of spirit is the All-Seeing?”

“I communed with that God for only a short while, but I think Raveed did a good job of explaining Merkeses. It rejoices in ingenuity and cunning. Its dark side is pride. You heard the man: better, better, better, but never asking to what end. It has none of the evil, though, of a diabolic power. It is a spirit tied to this creation like Earth Mother.”

“I know about pride. Remember the Bone Render’s head?”

“The Goddess knows we all fail sometimes, Hassaket. What are you getting at?”

“I think I would be a good priestess for Merkeses. I can watch for my own pride. Can you help me pledge my spirit to the All-Seeing?”

Words flew from Fire Shrike without thought. “Yes, but are you saying this out of your hatred for Irikiti? That is not the right reason to pledge yourself to Merkeses or any other spirit.”

“I thought I had more honor than hate. I thought I was sacred.”

The pit of her stomach went frigid. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, Earth Mother, I’m sorry.”

Hassaket continued with level conversation, but a dead shadow weighted her expression. “Well, hatred is not the only reason I want this, but Merkeses does surely hate Irikiti.”

“Please stop explaining! Please forgive me for what I said!”

The renegade herald managed a wan smile. “What are you afraid of, Fire Shrike?”

“I feel too sad to know.”

“Stop thinking. Look. There are still a few stars out.”

“They,” said Shrike, “are the White Wolves of Princess Ixchel. They are the spirits of Her loyal shamans, and they keep watch on the dark after the moon has set. Ixchel’s shamans are more intimidating than Earth Mother’s ever could be. I imagine they are marking me for punishment now.”

A new storm of words then blew out of her mouth: “I don’t want you to change! You are lovely to me just as you are!”

Hassaket’s smile grew more robust. “Thank you, and I apologize. This thought has been growing since the night you saved me from the khat’laba. I should have told you sooner. I thought I lost nothing when I left the Hell of Burning Tears, but I was wrong. I feel hollow. I exist to serve a greater power in a way someone more human cannot understand. I crave to serve.”

A mischievous light sparkled in the winged woman’s silver eyes next. “How do you think Merkeses regards sex?”

Shrike related her own understanding with leaden words: “Merkeses is neither man nor woman, or maybe it is both. It has no concern about sex.”

Hassaket stretched such that her cleavage pushed up against her tunic. “So I will be free to couple as I choose?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then,” continued the rebel herald, “we have nothing to fear. You are farthest from the hollow part of my life, Fire Shrike.”

The shaman blinked away a few tears before smiling. “We will offer your pledge to Merkeses tomorrow. Finishing with the stag is this day’s work, Hassaket. An angry Cennern might interfere with the ritual.”

“As you wish, Spirit Rider.”

Sunlight had begun to color the sky, so Fire Shrike dove into the task of cutting long strips of stag meat and draping them over Hassaket’s outstretched arms. Irikiti’s apostate then walked them over to their thatched smokehouse, hung the strips from the boughs that held up the roof, and made sure the fire stayed constant.

The shaman sang the whole time to Merkeses, trying to reveal herself to the crippled God and learn more in turn. She had no success, but she never stopped. Hassaket was depending on her to be a bridge across the Veil.

After the meat, there was sinew to harvest and an amazing pelt that needed drying and scraping, but the pair also took a mid-day break to eat some fresh venison. By the time the sun’s light was fading, the risk of spoilage or carrion pests had past. The lovers went to the nearby stream, washed away the day’s labor, and then rested together as a second round of venison hissed over the fire.

Hassaket had a question. “Shrike, you said that Merkeses has a dark side. It that also true of Earth Mother?”

“It is true of all spirits. Earth Mother requires faith and mostly rewards it.”

“Mostly?”

“Sometimes She falls silent for no reason. Sometimes children grow sick in the winter and no shamans can help despite the perfection of their rituals. Cennern showed me the Merkites yesterday, not Earth Mother. Mud Lion said that She wanted us to know how to be resourceful, no matter what.”

“Oh, I can appreciate that. Irikiti wanted me to be helpless without His power. I showed that bastard.”

Fire Shrike frowned. “I did not appreciate it when I failed to save Mud Lion. I made no mistakes. I gave everything I had. I think my faith did not really return until after I met you. I buried Irikiti’s burning monsters afterwards. I faded into the land and ambushed Dalmirae’s white slaves after that. Only after you came to me.”

“That is another reason why you have nothing to fear when I take Merkeses as my God, Spirit Rider. Your Goddess won’t let anything take me away now. You’ve suffered enough. Are you going to reward me for healing your faith?”

Shrike all but sprang on Hassaket, pulling off her lover’s tunic while raining kisses all over the wonderful cures of her body.

Chapter Six: Soldiers, Part I

Hassaket awoke to another kiss from Fire Shrike that was as soft as a feather and as warm as sunlight. The shaman whispered to her. “You need to get up and eat. We should reach Merkeses’s shrine just before full sunrise. It is a favorable time for new beginnings.”

The sun had just ushered in the new day. Fog, in fact, had rendered everything a soggy blur of the deepest grey. The fire, already revived by what must have been Fire Shrike’s attention, lit only the smallest globe of space. Hassaket wondered how this morning’s creation looked to someone with merely human eyes.

Fire Shrike brooded next to her for a moment before speaking. “The fog should be in our favor.”

“Yes, if we can find the shrine.”

“I can,” confirmed the Skiras shaman. “I communed with Merkeses there once. I can find it again.”

“Good. And I don’t have to worry about a storm of arrows killing us both. No one can see us in this.”

Hassaket stood and held out her arms when she was ready to go. It was now a familiar gesture for signaling that it was time to fly. Fire Shrike embraced her, and they lifted through the gloom together.

It did not take long to punch through the clouds. The winged woman could see the top of Irikiti’s ziggurat to the south. Sparks glowed on that edifice. Activity there was not a good portent for the coming day, but she flew towards it. Merkeses’s hidden shrine was in the same direction as the temple but not as far.

Dropping through the fog again, the pair landed in the same cornfield they had surveyed when it was still summer. Fire Shrike pressed her hand to the ground and concentrated. “Someone is at the shrine,” she said, “but only one. It does not seem like a trap.”

As they walked into the pine forest, a little wail sounded in the distance. The pair stopped. “What,” whispered Hassaket, “was that?”

“I don’t know,” said Shrike, “but it was animal, not human. We should go slow.”

Bereft of any landmarks, the shaman led with her clairvoyance. Hassaket was not surprised, though, when they stepped into the clearing that held Merkeses’s shrine. Her lover had many gifts.

There was indeed someone present, dressed in a Merkite cloak. A pale face of probable Satae heritage looked up at them from some task on the ground. Candles glimmered from inside the shrine’s triangular space. Fire Shrike stepped forward with a question before Hassaket could reach out a hand to stop her. “Why are you here by yourself?”

The cloaked one darted out at the shaman as fast as a striking viper with blades in both hands. There never was a gesture of drawing anything from a sheath; the weapons just appeared. A swipe caught Shrike in the midsection, and she collapsed with a splash of blood. The renegade herald found herself bawling like a wounded animal as she pulled her axe to meet the next strike.

For several long moments Hassaket only parried blade swipes and gave ground, but Fire Shrike needed her. She countered the next strike from the assassin’s left arm and stepped in with a kick to his left knee. Her blow made a crunching sound as it forced the joint to bend contrary to a human body’s natural manner. The kick gave her momentum backwards that she used to push away, aided by a flap of her wings, so that the inevitable strike from the false Merkite’s right might miss.

She felt a stinging cut from the second blade despite everything, but the pain could not match her rage. The assassin, on the other hand, had crumpled to the forest floor. Hassaket feinted a blow with her axe next. The assailant offered a clumsy parry from his supine position, and then she made her real attack: a kick to her enemy’s face.

Hassaket felt the vicious satisfaction of landing a solid blow and saw the man’s head snap back on his neck as it hemorrhaged. Inexplicably, he did not drop his blades, but he did collapse. Hassaket jumped over the now motionless body and ran for Fire Shrike.

Her lover was curled into a ball on the ground, both arms wrapped around her midsection and soaked in blood. She was singing a tiny song to Earth Mother between gasps for breath. Hassaket lay down next to the stricken shaman and then stretched out a wing to cover her. There was nothing else she knew to do except hope that Earth Mother did not pick this moment to turn a deaf ear. “Keep singing,” she told Fire Shrike. “She saved me, so there should be no doubt about you.”

They waited and sang and hoped together in the fog-shrouded silence. Shrike’s breathing became shallower and shallower, her voice fainter and fainter. Hassaket felt tears begin to course down her own face.

Warmth like the noontime sun then surrounded her body, and Shrike’s song to Earth Mother swelled with power. The renegade herald startled and pulled away to see her lover stretching out and probing her slashed midsection. “May I see the wound?” asked Hassaket.

The shaman slowly pulled up her sliced, bloody tunic to reveal a pink scar across her stomach. “Earth Mother and your embrace saved me,” Shrike said. Hassaket slumped to the ground, sobbing in relief.

A moaning sound brought the renegade herald back to her surroundings. The assassin was stirring again. She gave two flaps of her wings to hurtle back towards the quarry. Hassaket’s axe was out when she landed on top of the false Merkite, and then she hacked, and hacked, and hacked. Blood dripped like red rain from the boughs above her when she was done.

Something caught Hassaket’s attention in the wreckage of flesh and bone. The man’s arms had curved blades extending out from his wrists. The weapons had waited, sheathed and concealed in his living flesh. He had been an agent of Irikiti’s, no doubt anxious to use his diabolic gifts, and she had been the same kind of entity until one hundred years ago. Then she found the ironic blessing of doubt.

Hassaket returned to Fire Shrike. The shaman managed a wry smile. “Is he dead?”

The apostate barked a laugh. “Very. But why was he the only one here?”

“I don’t know. He was doing something, but that does not matter. He did not finish. You are hurt.” Shrike pointed at her waist while still laying on the ground.

Hassaket looked. Irikiti’s assassin had cut a notch in her left wing and a slash in her thigh, but the blood had already begun to thicken. “That is nothing. I can still fly. For once there isn’t even venom.”

Fire Shrike’s expression grew placid again. “Are you still ready to pledge yourself to Merkeses?”

“I am not ready to let you do your part,” said Hassaket. “You can’t be strong enough. We will come back another time.”

She turned away next and walked over to the center of the shrine, crouching down where they had first seen the assassin. Aided by the flicker of the candles, she could see the nature of the ritual that the false Merkite had been enacting. There was a piglet, dead from having been impaled into the ground with an iron spike, staring up at her in mid-scream. The man had been making a series of intricate cuts like little flowers on the carcass, and then they interrupted him.

“He was preparing a ward,” said Hassaket. “If we had visited according to Raveed’s plans, a gate to the Hell of Burning Tears would have unleashed another of Irikiti’s servants tomorrow evening. It would have been a disaster.”

Shrike pushed herself upright but did not try to stand. “You then have to forget this idea or make your pledge. Irikiti knows we are here. His slave came within moments of defiling this place. I am not sworn to Merkeses. Without a shrine I cannot make your pledge possible, and with all this sacrificed blood - the man’s, mine, yours - the path to walk will be easy. You are the one Merkeses will test. Worry about yourself.”

Hassaket sighed. “Very well. What do I need to do?”

Fire Shrike sat completely up, crossing her legs. “Sit with me. Take my hands in yours.”

She followed directions and looked into the shaman’s azure eyes. Enough beauty sparkled there for an eternity. She felt the same eternity bathe her in its purifying truth.

Tamoz before Irikiti’s reign stretched out before Hassaket in the time it took her heart to beat. The sun was setting, but its golden illumination still filled the valley. Barges kept up a stately pace on the river and terracing lined the hills. Fallow fields and pasture lands alternated with plots full of tall corn. The faint sound of stringed instruments came from a town missing Irikiti’s ziggurat. A columned structure painted in gaudy blues stood in its place.

A giant figure stood on an overlooking hill, the sun at its back. Hassaket could not discern any details through the relentless flare of light. A voice, though, boomed out from it. “You helped destroy all of this! Why did you come?”

She knelt and pressed her forehead to the ground while answering. “I was an ignorant slave. Now I have tasted both love and freedom. Now I understand the magnitude of my crime, All-Seeing Merkeses. I want to make amends. I want to serve You.”

The earth shook around Hassaket for a brief, violent jolt. The booming voice then sounded again. This time it hurt her ears. “LOOK AT ME!”

She tilted her face upwards. There was a welter of arms before her, radiating out from a central point. Each of them ended in a fist ready to strike. Everything around her was burning in a blue light that emanated from a pair of feral eyes centered at the nexus of the limbs.

“WHY ARE YOU WORTHY?” asked Merkeses.

Hassaket did not flinch. She had faced furious spirits before. “Who better to be the priestess of a God that celebrates cunning? I plotted against Irikiti for one hundred years and kept him ignorant in the meanwhile. I demonstrated my power when I was ready to escape the Hell of Burning Tears. I inflicted only harm on my former master afterwards. Even now I wear the blood of one of His assassins proudly. But blood is not enough for me. I want to create something good.”

The God’s tone changed to an alto leavened with calculation. “Everyone wants something. Why are you special?”

“I am from a hell, but my heart carries more honor than hate.”

“I have no use for honor.”

“Prowess without honor is Irikiti,” said Hassaket.

Merkeses laughed. It felt like how new snow in morning’s first light looked. It sounded like little wind chimes. The God’s voice changed to a feminine purr. “I like you. What is your name?”

“Hassaket.”

“How did you come to present yourself to me? It is not by your own arts.”

“My lover helps me. Her people also suffer because of Irikiti. I want her to be safe more than anything. Her name is Fire Shrike, but she is my Starlight Sparrow.”

“You are worthy of my attention, Hassaket. I had thought to forget the Lazrah and wait for a stronger people to appreciate my blessings, but you can be their last chance. Will you fight in the name of the All-Seeing?”

“Yes.”

Merkeses gestured. The spirit’s arms waved like branches in a gentle breeze. “I will show you what transpires on the other side of the Veil.”

The stark blue light of Merkeses’s aura dissolved into tatters of grey fog and shreds of pink dawn. The town of Tamoz and Irikiti’s ziggurat loomed into sight. An unnatural and complete silence embraced all; this was a vision within the vision channeled by Fire Shrike, not a journey into human creation.

Crowds clogged the plaza before the ziggurat. Most of the men there were either young or old; Irikiti’s reign was apparently hard on those in their prime. Distress gripped everyone. Hassaket saw makeshift weapons concealed by the masses: cobblestones, staves, or knives. Both despair and fury gripped the Lazrah in Tamoz.

A line of figures in red robes stood on the temple’s bottom stairs, preventing access to that structure’s heights. These Hassaket recognized as Blood Drinkers, lesser priests of Irikiti and subservient to a Bone Render. They held pairs of short swords revealed and ready. The blades were so jagged with serrations that they bordered on the absurd.

Her perspective climbed progressively up the levels of the temple. Irikiti’s faithful had prisoners bound to stakes along the lower terraces. Grey-clad acolytes were finishing the process of piling brush around each restrained victim. The activity reminded Hassaket that making burnt offerings of the living pleased Irikiti like precious little else.

At the temple’s highest level, there was only one staked man: Raveed. His chin jutted out with pride as he waited to burn. Blood and bruises marred his face, but his eyes glittered with defiance. Perhaps he had not revealed all under questioning. Ten other men, heads shorn of any hair and bodies wrapped in chains, knelt behind his stake. A dacadam’s helmet waited on the floor before each of these captives and flagged their probable destiny.

Behind the waiting sacrifices a shaded opening in the floor revealed a stairwell leading down into the temple. On either side a Blood Drinker and an acolyte waited. The acolytes pounded on big kettledrums with heads of human skin. That was diabolist tradition. Eerie silence still covered everything Hassaket saw.

“When the Bone Render emerges from the temple,” commented Merkeses, “the final rituals will begin. For now, though, Irikiti’s dogs are all in nice, little lines. Kill enough of them to allow the people of Tamoz to overcome their fear, and they will also start killing Irikiti’s servants.”

“What of my lover?”

“Your Starlight Sparrow is a priestess of the Earth Mother. That is of no consequence to me. I am not a jealous God. I am a generous God. Go and bleed Irikiti’s slaves with My gifts.”

With those words the world of the woods and the shrine faded back. Hassaket now found herself standing, a weapon in her right hand. It was a Lazrah crossbow, one of Merkeses’s sacred symbols. This one was made entirely of some silvery metal. A box of its quarrels hung on her left hip.

“Hello,” said the shaman from her place on the ground. “Remember me?”

Hassaket placed the weapon down and fell to her knees, hugging Fire Shrike. “Silly girl!” she said with a laugh. After a kiss, however, the renegade herald pulled back and grasped the crossbow again. “I have to go and fight for Merkeses. Tamoz’s Bone Render has prepared a sacrifice for Irikiti earlier than what Raveed said. If it goes forward, all of our efforts will be for nothing.”

Shrike held out her dagger, still sheathed. “Take it. I am too weak, and there will be many of Irikiti’s slaves waiting.”

“No. You will be here alone. You might need it. I will be back well before the sun is at its zenith. If not, return to our camp and know that I loved you.”

Shrike nodded and then looked down. Hassaket stood but could see crying begin to shake her lover’s body. The renegade herald reached down to run her fingers through the human’s blond locks. “Don’t worry, Spirit Rider. I have too much to live for not to carry this day.”

She punctuated her statement by pulling back the crossbow’s lever to cock the bow. Then she snapped a broad-headed quarrel into its trigger catch. The Bone Render was not wearing any armor in Merkeses’s vision, so she knew that this projectile would inflict great harm. A broad head sometimes failed against hauberks but shredded unprotected flesh. That consideration, in turn, brought back memories of learning this weapon when she had been waging war in the name of Irikiti. The word ‘travesty’ described so much of her existence, but there was no good in mourning that loss now.

Now a chance to make things right presented itself.

Hassaket climbed up through the fog. After cresting the trees, she leveled her flight in order to remain masked by the clouds. They would be ideal for her approach to the town if she stayed low enough.

In a few moments she could hear the kettledrums. She angled upward to get a look over the murk and saw that she would be in Tamoz shortly, but her path would be to the ziggurat’s front. That would not do. She dropped down into the fog and plotted a circular course around to the structure’s back.

The percussion maintained its monotony. Hassaket estimated that she was behind the ziggurat, spotted a roof, and landed on it. When the drums’ tempo jumped, it would be time to attack; the Bone Render would have emerged to begin the sacrifices. Hassaket reflected on the fact that she did know the rituals of Irikiti, and that that knowledge was now her weapon. Merkeses would be pleased.

The drum tempo then did jump, and up she went through the thinning fog for another look at the temple. She had selected a place in the quarter of the town behind the ziggurat. Congratulations, however, would have to wait. The sun was becoming brighter.

She risked climbing for a few more moments. Altitude would have to be traded for speed in her plan. The fog would still have to provide enough of a screen a little higher up in the sky.

Hassaket glimpsed a figure in a black robe stepping up through the stairwell, so she dived downward as far as she could without smashing back into the roofs of Tamoz. Exposing herself to sorcery from the Bone Render would be a mistake, but after streaking along for about 100 paces, she dared again to pop up through the fog.

This time she held her crossbow at the ready. There next was that moment when the force of her upward flight equaled the force pulling her down. She hung in the open air, feeling like a cloud and aiming at the Bone Render’s back. She squeezed the trigger and the projectile flew with a lash of the bowstring.

There was no time to watch and confirm her aim. Hassaket instead dropped into a second dive and let the crossbow plummet, replacing it with her bloody-headed axe. She never heard the bolt thrower hit the ground and knew that Merkeses would keep it safe for the next time. Even the quiver of bolts vanished.

The temple’s walls rushed at her, but she banked up and over the very top, axe pulled back to strike. The black-robed Bone Render was crumpled on the stone floor and twitching hard. The drumming had stopped. The attack had stunned the acolytes, but the two Blood Drinkers had pulled their swords and turned, looking for the source of the danger.

Neither spotted her in time.

Hassaket attacked like what she once was: a diabolic entity with two centuries of experience using velocity as tool of bloodshed. Flying low over the ziggurat’s top level, she dropped her axe blade down to snare one of the red-robed priests. It stuck fast into her chosen target’s forehead. Then, wings flared for a crash stop, she planted her feet as her victim’s legs flew out from under him. Finally, the renegade herald used the axe haft like a lever to fling the hapless Blood Drinker off the temple’s flat roof. His wailing sounded muddy as he fell.

The surviving Blood Drinker gestured at Hassaket next. A stream of fiery smoke streaked at her from his wrist. The rebel herald threw up one arm as a shield and charged, bracing for pain, but a blue flash dissolved the sorcery before it could touch her flesh. A new priestess of Merkeses, Hassaket realized, could not be so easily disposed of. She swung her axe next, but the Blood Drinker gave ground and met her with a sword parry.

Rather than press forward, she reacted to a flicker in her peripheral vision and swung backwards next, catching one of the acolytes in the forearm before he could press his own sword home. She felt a vibration in her axe haft that spoke of the blade taking a big taste of bone, and the man collapsed. Raveed then began to yell: “It is the Hand of Merkeses! The Hand of Merkeses! Strike now for the All-Seeing!” Eventually his voice became only a croaking chant, but he kept on declaring the return of his God.

The strike backwards at the acolyte put the Bone Render at Hassaket’s feet. The high priestess of Irikiti had made progress struggling against the trauma of the crossbow bolt and was close to standing. Hassaket could sense sorcery knitting Irikiti’s favored slave back together again. It felt like bugs crawling on her arms and neck. Meanwhile, the Blood Drinker charged anew with the last healthy acolyte following close behind, his own short sword now also drawn.

One of the chained men at the top of the ziggurat pushed back with a roar, though, and crashed into the Blood Drinker’s shins. The priest fell forward with a frustrated snarl. A second captive threw his body into the fray next, intent on tangling the Blood Drinker’s blade with his restraints.

Hassaket smiled as she recognized Irikiti’s hold on Tamoz beginning to unravel and used the moment to strike at the Bone Render again. Killing her remained an imperative, but the diabolic priestess managed to flinch away at the last moment. The axe sheered off her ear instead of splitting her skull and then punctured deep into her shoulder. The Bone Render fell back down but remained quite alive.

The acolyte, shrieking like some sort of angry animal at the tangle of bodies before his feet, finally found a path to Hassaket. Even though her weapon was not for thrusting, she lunged with it at the aggressor. Irikiti’s servant, surprised by the unorthodox attack, took a smashing blow centered on his chin and mouth from the blunt top of the axe’s head. Teeth from his shattered jaw flew all around as the man fell backwards and went motionless.

Hassaket did not finish him but instead turned on the surviving Blood Drinker. The priest flailed and kicked from his prone position with negligible results against what was now a total of four chained opponents. The struggle had become a deadlocked wrestling match. Rather than risking a cut to a new ally, the rebel herald dropped her axe and grasped the beleaguered Blood Drinker by the hair and chin before snapping his neck with a sharp twist. The result was a quicker death than what he deserved, but there wasn’t time for complete justice.

The apostate refused to think that the battle was over. She snatched up the sword of the dead Blood Drinker and ran for the head of the stairs. Just as she suspected, yet another priest was sprinting his way up. He parried her swing, but Hassaket’s strength left him leaning backwards with no place to step. She delivered a kick next that sent him bouncing back down the temple’s granite steps and into two acolytes that were similarly frantic to ascertain what was happening at the top of the ziggurat. The stairs’ steep incline punished all three with extravagant contusions as they rolled downward.

Hassaket took a moment to survey the scene as Raveed kept chanting with his exhausted voice. Smoke from two lit pyres and the last screams of their corresponding victims filled the air, but most of the intended Lazrah sacrifices remained safe. They had, in fact, taken up Raveed’s mantra. The people on the plaza, meanwhile, roiled in berserk waves. Those in the back of the crowd pried up cobblestones and handed them to youths who in turn ran ahead to pelt the Blood Drinkers at the base of the temple. Charred Lazrah bodies had fallen to sorcery, but some Blood Drinkers had also crumpled. Only three and a few acolytes kept fighting.

Before Hassaket could involve herself, another shower of cobblestones flew from the crowd. A Blood Drinker must have been struck in the head as he conjured. The black tendril of smoke that leapt from his fist went wild and raked a neighboring red-robed priest from the waist up, burning him beyond recognition before he had time to yell.

Irikiti’s slaves could take no more and began fleeing up the stairs, but the Lazrah youths were faster and tackled them from behind. The crowd’s staves and knives then came out to begin exacting vengeance. Hassaket smiled and then turned back in time to see the Bone Render regarding her from the temple floor with absolute hatred. The woman spoke in the diabolist language: “I commend my essence to my Lord and Master.” The high priestess dissolved into a cloud of red mist next, leaving behind her robes.

“DAMN YOU!” shouted Hassaket, enraged at the escape, but then she ran to the chained men. Several hobbled about and searched for a key to their bonds amongst the robes of Irikiti’s fallen. One sawed at Raveed’s binding with a short sword as best he could. One had bled to death from a sword slash. Two survivors tried to help a comrade that had been stabbed but clung to life. She could see the puncture in the fallen man’s left ribcage. Frothy blood bubbled from the opening with every breath he took.

Hassaket had left any damaged allies to die or recover of their own accord when she served Irikiti. Their suffering pleased Him. Now, though, that would not do. She needed men willing to fight despite chained limbs.

She then experienced a moment of bliss as the hand of the All-Seeing touched her mind. With that touch came knowledge. Hassaket knew where to find the key. She ran to the acolyte with the shattered jaw. The Lazrah men had already searched him once, but there was a pocket concealed in a hem fold that they had missed.

With a rip the cloth flung up its treasure. Hassaket caught the key and sprinted to the men trying to save their comrade, freeing both in moments. “Do you know how to heal him?” she asked.

“We will try,” said one as they both began cutting the robes of an acolyte into long bandages.

“Don’t quit,” Hassaket ordered before leaping into the morning sky. “I’ll bring back someone who can save him with her voice.”

Chapter Seven: Saviors

Fire Shrike was standing outside of the shrine’s clearing when she heard big wings flapping and then an anxious query from Hassaket: “Starlight?”

The shaman walked out from under the trees with a smile. “Am I ‘Starlight?’”

The renegade herald ran to her but hesitated at the last moment to be sure that their embrace was as gentle as a summer breeze. “Yes, you are. Never mind. You are standing. Shrike, are you sure that is safe?”

“Yes. I am weak but whole. Are you well? Your eyes are the blue of a sapphire, Hassaket.”

“They are? Never mind. Do you feel strong enough to call on Earth Mother?”

“Yes. I have never felt more able.”

“Is it safe to carry you to Irikiti’s temple? There are wounded.”

“Yes. I want to be part of your victory.”

“My brave Starlight Sparrow,” said Hassaket as she scooped her up and went back into the air.

The shaman felt pain that pulsed in time with the bouncing quality of winged flight, but she did her best to relax in her lover’s amazing arms and watch as Irikiti’s temple drew closer. There were people, singing and swaying, all around the structure. A haze of black smoke made everything blurry. Dead men in robes hung upside down from stakes on all levels of the ziggurat. Someone had cut their throats and allowed them to bleed all over the temple’s stonework. Burned flesh scented the air.

At the top level of the structure, though, a different mood held sway. Mumbled despair rose from a group standing in a rough circle. Wild smears of blood stained the floor of black tile under them. In the center of the circle, a man and a woman knelt by a pale body. The man pressed down on bandages that wrapped the stricken’s chest. The woman bawled as she held the same body’s right hand.

This mournful group of Lazrah was Hassaket’s destination. By the time her lover touched the temple floor, the whole circle was on its knees. Fire Shrike received another gentle landing and then sat next to the fallen man. The shaman called out with a song as she supported his head with a cup formed from her own hands.

At first Shrike thought it would be best to send the injured man’s spirit to Earth Mother. His life was a tiny flicker. She released the tether on her own spirit, though, and learned more. The anger and desperation of his spirit stung her like wasps. It would be best, she decided, to aid his fight for life. No one should go through the Veil with so much turbulence. If he tried to live and failed, the struggle would still give him some peace. Hassaket, she remembered, had been even more of a fighter, and this man had some of her lover’s urgency.

It seemed that Earth Mother agreed with her judgment. The man’s spark grew. Shrike winced. His anger still stung, but she did not abandon the song.

The man gave a whoosh of breath, and Earth Mother’s loving warmth filled the air. The woman’s crying changed its tenor to one of joy. Gasps fluttered from the circle of people as the fallen man opened his eyes. Hassaket slipped a wad of cloth under the man’s head, tugged Shrike a short ways back, and hugged her for a long time. “It is not right,” she whispered, “that I ask so much of you.”

Rejoicing broke out around them with words that Fire Shrike could not understand. The Lazrah language in song was still beyond her ear, but it seemed not to matter. The shaman whispered back to her blood companion. “I can’t believe how stupid I was. You never should have had to fight alone.”

Shrike heard someone address Hassaket, but the words seemed wrapped in the morning fog. New fog, in fact, wrapped everything. Her lover stood, and the shaman felt herself sliding down to the temple tiles. There was a muffled shout of concern from a long ways away. She did not care. She felt so tired.

And then the fog brought complete darkness. Darkness brought dreams of Earth Mother, undulating and soft. Earth Mother gave her the kind of understanding that only came in dreams.

* * *

Something cradled Fire Shrike when the darkness lifted. She saw walls of timber and stone all around her, dimly lit and grey. Hassaket sat next to her, looking expectant. Faint clinking and conversation sounded from a doorway. “Where am I?” Shrike asked.

“Raveed’s home,” the winged woman answered. “The day is the same as your two healing miracles, but the sun is setting. How do you feel?”

“I am at peace. Are you still well?”

“Nobody cut my midsection open today,” said Hassaket. “I am well.”

“What has happened since I slept?”

“A new challenge.”

“Oh? What?”

“There are more Lazrah imprisoned in the temple, defeated soldiers back from the war with your Skiras. I can feel wards guarding the doors, but everyone is desperate to free them. I don’t know how much longer I can dissuade them from trying a battering ram. Disaster will follow.”

Shrike’s nose detected the smell of cooking food. “That will not happen, but I think I should eat before anything else.”

Pulling herself up from the soft pallet that supported her inclining body was a challenge. Fire Shrike giggled, giddy with the wild day. “This does not want to let me go. Do these people sleep on this?”

Hassaket extended a hand down, one eyebrow arched up on her face. “Here,” she said. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

She accepted the help after another lapse of giggling and righted herself. “Earth Mother already healed me today and saved that man. My Goddess won’t let this thing get the best of me, either. Maybe you can join me back here when we have more privacy?”

The renegade herald abandoned any seriousness and showed a wolfish grin. “You are better, aren’t you? For now, Starlight, come with me.”

The shaman then noticed that she had been bathed and changed into a different tunic. It felt good, and the smile she had for her lover grew larger. “Someone has been taking care of me.”

“I have,” she responded, “and others. You made many friends today.”

A shrug began Shrike’s answer. “I wasn’t going to let anyone die without asking for Earth Mother’s help.”

“You see it as obvious, but these people have been living with Irikiti’s slaves for a long time. They do not see it so casually.” With that declaration Hassaket led her through the doorway.

The next room contained a large, low table. A fireplace set in the far wall blazed with a conflagration. Women dressed in gowns with cinched waists busied themselves with distributing food trays and floor cushions, but they dropped to their knees upon spotting her and Hassaket.

“Please get up, get up,” pleaded Fire Shrike, but then she realized that she had been speaking the Skiras language since she awoke. She tried again with Lazrah words, though, and all of the women stood. They reminded her of spooked deer, so she added an apology: “I am sorry. This day has been trying.”

That provoked a sprinkle of laughter. Hassaket took advantage of the break in the tension for an introduction. “Everyone, this is my lover, Fire Shrike. She is a priestess to an Earth Goddess her people call Lapat Shan, and I am sure that she is hungry.”

They sat together at an island of cushions. The women did not hesitate to present platter after platter. All of it was like nothing Shrike had tasted before, and most of it was good. Some of it was amazing. There was, however, no meat. She then remembered that most people did not consider eating like a starving wolf to be good manners and restrained herself.

A bottle of red liquid came next with a set of brass cups. Hassaket filled one and handed it over. “Be careful with this, Spirit Rider. It is called seniri. It will addle your mind if you have too much.”

“Addle? Like wettai?”

“I haven’t heard of ‘wettai’ before, but they could be similar.”

“Wettai is a cactus and a tool. It changes a person’s perception of creation to be like Earth Mother’s. Why not this seniri, too?” asked Shrike before taking a big gulp.

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“We cannot let those men starve in that temple.”

“True,” agreed the renegade herald.

“We will ask Earth Mother to provide. More please.”

Six cups later, she stood without a trace of a stumble. She could feel the drink in so far as she felt nothing except Earth Mother’s guiding Grace. There was no fear.

Fire Shrike’s feet led her out into the streets of Tamoz. She did not respond to the crowd that fell to their knees when she first emerged with the rebel herald. The temple was obvious over the rooftops of the town, though, and she walked towards that edifice with Hassaket still at her side.

She had no memory of the stroll that followed. Shrike next discovered herself wandering around the plaza before the ziggurat. Cobblestones paved much of this open space, but she encountered a wide patch of exposed, raw dirt. The shaman sat down there without ceremony and began running her hands over the cool earth. Time passed.

And then it was time. Shrike stood and beckoned the rebel herald into her arms. Earth Mother was ready and swallowed both of them down into the absolute and close darkness of Her embrace.

Fire Shrike felt the air shift as the ground released them. Fetid, muggy thickness surrounded her. Hassaket turned in her arms to face outward, held up her hand, and called forth a tongue of flame from it. This time, though, the fire was not crimson. Instead it was blue, brighter than a shard of afternoon sky.

They were standing in a room, big and square, and there was something long and reptilian in one corner. It uncoiled and came for them with a reverberating hiss. Hassaket had her axe out and met the charge while shrieking like a hawk, but Shrike only had time to drop her hand on her dagger’s pommel. Everything remained unreal. Reality itself, in fact, was in doubt.

The thing’s fanged mouth curved around her blood companion’s axe, but Hassaket anticipated and had her other hand, still flaming, ready to punch its snout. The reptile squawked in pain before the two opponents slammed together in the flickering, blue light. A frozen moment of clenched muscles came next, and Fire Shrike saw her chance. She thrust home her obsidian blade. It burned though scales and divided the creature in two with a flash of violet fire.

Hassaket let the two chunks of monster drop and walked to the nearest wall. Mounts held cold torches there, and she used her flaming hand to ignite two of them. She then turned back to Shrike and pointed down. “So, Earth Mother brought us under the temple and inside?”

Fire Shrike looked at the indicated spot and saw a buckled circle of tiles. “Yes,” she confirmed before walking to her lover. “Now pull off your tunic.”

Hassaket did so and then commented: “Not what I expected you to say. What is it?”

The shaman ran her hands along the length of the apostate’s body before kissing her blood companion on the hip, standing up straight, and making an announcement: “You remain unbitten by anything except me. You are still free of any venom. How long do you think you can keep this up?”

A whimper from an unknown source interrupted the humor. Hassaket grabbed up her axe, spun towards the sound, and spread her wings to shield her. The shaman peeked around one wing anyway and saw a pile of blankets in another corner. It seemed that there was also something hidden among all the covers, but no giant reptile rushed out to attack.

“You stay here,” said Hassaket as she approached with her weapon drawn back. Shrike pulled her dagger again and waited. The memory of the near-fatal encounter with the false Merkite still hung in her mind, demanding caution.

The renegade herald caught a blanket with her axe and pulled it back, revealing a person lying down. Hassaket then waved Shrike closer. In a moment the pair stood together, looking down at a nude woman with dark, short hair.

Fire Shrike saw that large portions of the person’s body had been marked, probably tattooed, in close lines that suggested scales. The illustrations, though, were unfinished. Only her legs and hips bore the etching.

Something was wrong. The woman did not recognize their presence. She looked upward at the ceiling with a blank stare and whimpered again for no apparent reason.

“What is wrong with her?” Shrike asked.

“I am afraid I know,” said Hassaket. “If you take a close look at the other thing we just killed, you will see that it was once a man. It looks like the temple denizens were making a female one, too.”

“To breed?”

“I suppose. We should kill her. It would be a mercy.”

“Can’t we heal this?” asked Shrike.

“You might be able to. I am not yet knowledgeable enough to attempt an exorcism in the name of Merkeses. Have you enacted one since Mud Lion’s?”

Shrike felt the answer stick in her throat. Old memories returned and threatened her faith. Hassaket followed with another question. “Are you ready to forgive yourself if you should fail?”

She took a deep breath and listened to the silence all around before speaking. “An exorcism of this girl would be a great act of purification.”

“True.”

“Would the same exorcism also clear the wards that guard this temple?”

“I believe that is also true,” said Hassaket.

“So,” Shrike concluded, “this must be done. I know I’m an imperfect vessel for Earth Mother’s blessings, but this is what I am supposed to do. I will not let fear stop me from serving my adopted home.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Please hold her hand, Hassaket.”

She then walked to the middle of the room, pulled her dagger, and pushed it into a tile. The flat stone glowed and bubbled as the heat from Hassaket’s sorcery did its work. The shaman cut a molten line into the floor about as long as she was tall and then two more, all radiating outward from a single point. Together, they defined three wedge-shaped areas of equal size.

The blood offering was next. Shrike cut her right index finger and traced the sigil for Earth Mother in the closest of the three wedges. The whole mark was no longer than half a hand, but she desired nothing more than this sign of her ultimate allegiance.

Finally, she hummed the notes of Earth Mother’s thanksgiving song while waiting for the lines in the stone to cool. Hassaket said nothing, watching and listening from her place next to the possessed girl. Shrike sensed only calm on the part of her lover, and it helped her to keep her own.

The red light from where her dagger had cut the tiles faded completely. Shrike looked at her blood companion. “Could you place her body on this line?”

Hassaket scooped the victim up and placed her back down. Shrike aligned the girl’s arms with the two other demarcations in the stone before standing and beginning the mantra cycle:

“I am the keeper of the Veil; Its power flows though me; I am the keeper of the Veil; Creation demands you depart; I am the keeper of the Veil; Her spirit is not yours; Princess Ixchel abjures you; Sky Father abjures you; Earth Mother abjures you; I am the keeper of the Veil; Return to the Hell of Bloody Tears; I am the keeper of the Veil; Stay and suffer your final destruction.”

All warmth in the room disappeared. Shrike’s next breath came as a plume of steam. This was to be expected. The diabolic spirit was thinning the Veil to keep its grip on the girl, and bitter cold resulted. It would only get worse, but her first thought was that this initial wave of freezing air did not match Lord Wendigo’s. Her hope remained alive.

She stepped over one of her cuts in the floor to stand near Earth Mother’s sigil and repeated the exorcism mantra. The mark made with her blood took on an amber glow, and the air grew colder still.

Fire Shrike stepped over the girl’s legs next and into the last division of her triune mark before beginning the mantra a third time. Her teeth began to chatter, and she had to stop and catch her breath at the end. Every repetition of the full cycle was like a sprint across a long field.

The possessed girl turned to Shrike and used the pause as an opportunity to speak like someone born and raised in a Skiras tribe. “Lord Irikiti wants to know why you have placed so much trust in his traitorous herald. Did you know that Hassaket has begged to pleasure Him in every way? When she is done with you, what makes you think you will avoid betrayal?”

Fire Shrike did not answer either question. Instead, she began the cycle of mantras again. The cold deepened further. She remembered again Mud Lion’s exorcism. Afterwards, the tips of her fingers and toes blackened from the frigid air. Another shaman had to be summoned to heal her. The memory was a blur, and Shrike could not even remember her benefactor’s name. No one would tell her. It had been infuriating.

The end of the second cycle brought more taunts from the evil spirit. “Fire Shrike, Lord Irikiti wishes you to know that he traded with Lord Wendigo for Mud Lion’s spirit. Your teacher divulged to us - after some encouragement - that his nickname for you was Lone Wolf. It made him proud and sad at the same time when he called you that. If you would abandon Hassaket, He would release your mentor to a proper afterlife, and you would be avoiding betrayal in your near future. Consider wisely this offer. It will be revoked forever if you complete this little exercise. Mud Lion’s suffering will also become the Lord’s personal concern. That man’s spirit will become His work of art.”

This time, Fire Shrike did not restrain herself. “You lie! I led Mud Lion’s spirit to Earth Mother! He has his place with our ancestors! Lord Wendigo took his body! You have traded only secrets with the Cannibal Spirit, not Mud Lion’s essence! Shut up and become ready to meet your end!”

The possessed girl showed an expression somewhere between a snarl and a smile. “Delude yourself with faith as much as you like, Spirit Rider. Just remember my words as Hassaket kills you in the bed you both share.”

The shaman scowled and began the final cycle of mantras. Earth Mother’s mark now threw out enough light to fill the whole room. Hassaket had begun to light every torch in the room with movements made sharp by anger. The open flames made no impression, however, against the cold.

When the final words of the last mantra left Shrike’s lips, the black ink in the girl’s skin pulled itself out into the air and coalesced into a massive serpent of shadow. The shaman clapped her hands together, drawing Earth Mother’s amber light from the sigil into ensnaring strands all over the diabolic wraith. The shaman then growled the final sentence of the exorcism: “Suffer your final destruction.” The snake writhed, shearing itself into fragments by smashing against its luminous cage. The pieces drifted down like big, black snowflakes that melted into the floor.

Shrike dropped down, breathing hard. The frigid air fled as quickly as it had manifested. The girl pulled her knees up against her chest and began to cry. Hassaket sat between the two and linked them together by holding both of their hands.

The girl was the first to speak. “Thank you. Oh, Gods. Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” answered Fire Shrike. Her lover, though, remained silent. It did not miss the shaman’s notice. “Hassaket, I will never loose faith in you.”

“Why not? I can’t say that it spoke a lie. I did beg.”

“One day, I will find the words that will make you forgive yourself for the past.”

The winged woman leaned forward, face set like red iron. “What about your past?”

Fire Shrike gave her a kiss before answering. “This girl is now free. I have atoned for Mud Lion. I think there is one more task here, though. There has to be a human spirit trapped in the dead monster. I’ll set him free. Then, I have nothing else to do except love you.”

She walked back to the slain reptile and began a song for a deceased spirit, urging it to find Earth Mother’s Grace. Shrike did not stop until a shimmer of white light hovered over the scaled flesh and then dwindled again. “He now has a chance,” she said, “for peace. Let’s get out of here. There are still more captives to free, yes?”

Hassaket responded by mustering a little smile and a nod. They found a trap door in the ceiling made of timbers, but it did not survive too many axe blows. The former diabolist then boosted Shrike up through the shattered portal, and the shaman rolled down a rope ladder that was coiled and waiting on the upper floor. The girl, shaking badly, just managed to climb it.

A few torches sputtered at this level. It was the temple’s formal prison. Cages occupied the space in neat blocks separated by wide walkways. Irikiti’s loyalists had filled them with prisoners. These men stayed silent, unsure of the allegiance shared by their visitors.

Shrike reflected on the extraordinary amount of effort that must have gone into the whole room. Even for the Lazrah, who no doubt found working iron to be mundane, the holding cells had to be a waste. Among her people, though, such an undertaking would not be attempted. Their iron was for weapons alone, and criminals faced one of two punishments: restitution or death. They kept no one in a cage.

She cleared her throat before speaking in a loud voice. “Are you men ready to leave this hell?”

The prisoners answered with hoarse cries. Hassaket, though, had a quiet question just for her. “What if there are more threats loose down here? They can’t defend themselves. The cages are safest for now.”

Shrike addressed the prisoners again. “We are going to make sure that all of Irikiti’s dogs are dead.”

One voice responded for all of the others. “We are dying in this place.”

“We will hurry.”

The trio of women left after Shrike’s promise by a staircase that climbed up into the surrounding rock. Hassaket’s blue flame led the way. The rough-hewn passageway led them upward in random fits and starts, interrupted by short stretches of hallway. Everything appeared deserted.

The pathway became a tight spiral staircase with rooms radiating out from it, and then they came to a set of double doors. Shrike saw a dead acolyte on the stone stairs, facedown in a big stain of his own blood. Hassaket kicked the body over, and it became clear that the man had killed himself by falling on his own sword. “Too bad,” commented the renegade herald. “His spirit will learn that Irikiti prefers slaves that die fighting over those that surrender to despair. He’ll spend 10,000 years at the bottom of the Hell of Burning Tears for cowardice.”

“Are you sure,” asked Fire Shrike, “that I dispelled the wards?”

Her blood companion hesitated for a moment and then lifted the bar on the doors. “Yes. Let’s go back to the cages.”

They kept their silence for the return walk. Fire Shrike burned though each cage’s lock with her dagger while her lover stood guard nearby. The men only offered a few hoarse words of gratitude, so Shrike attempted little jests as she worked. Hassaket, though, stayed stern.

The exorcised girl led the long string of captives out with a torch, but the men showed no joy. Many had to be carried by their own comrades. A few were already dead.

Fire Shrike and Hassaket emerged from the temple last to find the top occupied by a dozen men and women waiting on their knees around a bonfire. The shaman recognized only Raveed by name in the flickering light. The others were Merkites she had yet to meet.

The old man stood, holding an armload of objects: a stringed instrument of bronze, a rugged crown of iron, and a sheathed sword. “I apologize for being so wrong,” he said. “I did not see either of you as our salvation. I beg for your forgiveness.”

Shrike smiled. “Creation is a place full of surprises. None of us have guessed all of them.”

Raveed bowed. “Thank you for your understanding. I have been digging for gifts since you both disappeared, hoping that you would come out of the temple alive. These are the last relics of Merkeses’s hegemony here in Tamoz. I’ve kept them hidden for a long time.”

He held up the crown. “This was worn by the Sahgat, our high priest. We humbly request that Hassaket would now take that role.” He offered it over, and she took it.

“Becoming the Sahgat of Tamoz,” the winged woman said, “is my destiny. I am here for the glory of Merkeses.”

Raveed held up the instrument next and looked at Shrike. “We call this a calsi. It is a symbol of mercy and beauty for Merkeses. Fire Shrike, I cannot imagine that I will ever meet someone more deserving of this gift.”

Hassaket interrupted. “Raveed, are you saying that she is more beautiful than me?”

The old man went speechless. The Skiras shaman, though, recognized the tease in her blood companion’s voice. “Raveed,” she whispered, “remember that Merkeses is a trickster.”

He produced a strangled grin. “You are both beautiful, but if I were to ask Irikiti’s slaves, they would say that mercy is something you do lack, Sahgat Hassaket. Let Fire Shrike keep the calsi.”

Everyone laughed. The sound was a nervous chitter from the Merkites, but Shrike’s boomed along with Hassaket’s.

“Driving home the point about mercy,” continued Raveed, “there is this.” The man drew the sword from its sheath and handed it, hilt first, to Hassaket. Shrike saw that it was all one piece of forged iron and that the pommel mirrored a stylized horse’s head that bent around to guard the wielder’s gripping hand. The blade itself had a luscious curve that reminded her of Hassaket’s hip.

“My father,” he said, “called this kind of sword a falcata. It can shear through a man’s arm with one swing even if it has to cut through armor. The smiths from that time knew secrets taught by the All-Seeing that we have lost since.”

“I remember this sort of blade,” said Hassaket, “from when I was one of Irikiti’s dogs, and it will deliver quite a cut. Now I can feel Merkeses’s pleasure in it. Such a work of beauty and purpose is a sacrament to our God. The people of Tamoz will discover the secrets of their forging again.”

Chapter Eight: Rulers

A polished plate of brass, taller than Fire Shrike, reflected back her own image. She found her new tunic intriguing. The clothier had finished curing the pelt from Hassaket’s big stag and made it into a garment that clung to the curves of her body. Its hem came down halfway to her knees, but then a thicket of ribbons dyed to match her red tattoos dangled down to where her boot moccasins began, halfway up her calves. Delicately forged copper leaves glittered from the end of each ribbon.

Her shoulders were bare except for another red ribbon that looped behind her neck. Copper clasps of the same motif as the metal decorations around her calves fastened each end of this last ribbon to the front of her tunic. None of this seemed practical in light of the colder autumn days, but the clothier had also made her a cloak from still more of Hassaket’s prize stag.

Her lover entered the reflection from behind. Shrike turned to her, causing the decorative leaves to jingle together. “I shouldn’t want or like this, but it is beautiful. That man Lorza does wonderful things.”

She took a moment to appreciate Hassaket’s finery next. The new Sahgat wore a tight tunic similar to hers, but this one was of a pale blue material. The clothier had also left its back open to accommodate her wings. It covered, in fact, very little of Hassaket’s body at all. Shrike loved it.

The renegade herald never hesitated to wear Raveed’s iron crown, and this morning was no exception. In the light of day, Shrike had seen more of it. Lapis triangles set together in a tight pattern gave the dark metal a band of color. The crown then pushed her black hair up into a proud plume that still had enough length to cascade back down to her shoulders. Plates also came down exactly like a helmet’s cheek guards to frame Hassaket’s face.

As a final embellishment, Hassaket had begun tracing triangles just under her own eyes with a blue pigment. Her maroon skin turned the ceremonial marks to purple. Raveed had told her that it was traditional for a Sahgat, and Hassaket took to it immediately.

“You,” declared Shrike, “look very kissable.” She acted on her comment, beginning with Hassaket’s lips and then skipping down to her lover’s bare shoulders. The former herald vocalized a low marble of appreciation.

There was the faint sound of activity from the streets, though, so Shrike stopped. “The Merkites could be here any moment. We will have to wait.”

“Very well. I must admit that I agree.” Regret dimmed Hassaket’s smile for a moment, but then she brightened. “So, you haven’t learned to play the calsi yet. Is it still there by the mirror?”

“Yes, it is,” said Shrike as she picked up the instrument and strummed its strings. The notes sounded like a little bird trapped in a thorn bush.

“Would you like to learn it now?”

The shaman snorted a laugh. “How so?”

“Merkeses is all about inspiration,” said Hassaket. “Would Earth Mother forsake you if you received a Revelation from the All-Seeing?”

“No, She would not. I am going to show my love for Her when we speak with the Merkites. This you know. As long as I keep acting for Her, blessings from benign spirits are no concern.”

“Good. I want you to experience a Revelation of Merkeses, Starlight Sparrow. You are my inspiration. First, though, I want to show you the proper stance of deference to be used in a land devoted to Merkeses. All of the kneeling and bowing in Tamoz is a remnant of Irikiti, and I will see it stopped.”

“How do you know all of this?” asked Shrike.

“Dreams and visions. Of course, you taught me about both, so now I am ready. Thank you.”

Shrike felt a longing to kiss Hassaket begin to churn her heart. It must have shown in her face. Her lover reached out and caressed her cheek, but then there was a knock at the entrance. Tamoz’s new Sahgat winced and then responded to duty’s call: “Enter.”

The new captain, a man named Dageran, stepped inside and bowed. “Your councilors are here, Sahgat Hassaket, Lady Shrike.”

“Show them in,” answered the renegade herald.

The Merkites, bundled against the autumn cold, bowed low as they filed in and hung their cloaks on wall pegs. Raveed took it upon himself to commence with niceties. “Good morning, Sahgat Hassaket, Lady Shrike. How is this home? Did you find any trace of devotion to Irikiti? Can I arrange for anything else?”

Shrike answered. “No. Everything is wonderful. The Blood Drinker’s people took everything they could when they fled, but your people made this shelter proper again. Everyone, please sit.”

It was time to speak for Earth Mother, so she remained standing. The Merkites regarded her with polite silence. They had all lived for many winters, and their experiences had been nothing like a Skiras shaman’s. No one would call her cowardly or faithless, though, so she began the interrogation: “I have been learning more about Tamoz. Did you know that your fields are exhausted?”

Raveed and his compatriots looked at the floor in silence. Shrike pressed onward. “Under Irikiti Tamoz has been raping Earth Mother. If you keep on this path, She will punish us with want. It is not spiteful. It will be as normal as the change of seasons.”

Raveed cleared his throat before answering her accusation. “Lady Shrike, what would you have us do?”

“How much seed is in the temple granary?”

“Enough. Enough to plant the fields, pay the datat, and keep us fed until the next harvest.”

“So we have some time. What is the datat?”

“Irikiti’s grain levy.”

“That is ours to keep from now on. That should help. How did Tamoz grow so much for the last harvest?”

“For many springs, no level ground went without corn.”

Shrike frowned. “It seems that Tamoz has used all of its valley. What were Irikiti’s slaves going to do when Earth Mother could give no more?”

Only more silence answered her question. Hassaket stood with her next and took a turn speaking. “The terraces are a mess, tumbled down and overgrown. Why did Tamoz abandon them?”

“Wars and sacrifices,” answered Raveed. “Most of the Satae were bled to feed Irikiti. The Lazrah nation next fought a long war with the Kaladites and the Natahya. The struggle with the Skiras tribes began after that. You have to have working men to keep up terraces. Every year, we have fewer and fewer. The men we do have wage war much of the time.”

“Well, your men are back,” said Hassaket. “Tell them to start on the terraces. Pay them something fair. There is gold in the temple. Scratch out Irikiti’s crest on the coins, though, before you hand them out.”

Shrike’s devotion to Earth Mother did not let her relent, so she spoke again as the Merkites considered Hassaket’s order. “The terrace soil is ready to grow corn, but you must let some of the other fields rest at the next planting.”

“Yes, as you wish” said Raveed, “But if we leave too many fields empty in the spring, we surely will starve. The terraced land will not be enough by itself.”

“There is plentiful game in the hills around Tamoz. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Send men hunting.”

“Irikiti forbade bows here. We provided spearmen for conscription. Archers came from trusted, wealthy provinces. I can’t imagine many hunters coming from Tamoz this winter.”

“What a sad way to live,” commented Shrike. “Do your people grow any beans?”

“The basa is not to our taste.”

“They can still keep starvation at bay. Do you have seeds?

“They grow wild at the forest’s edge. The Satae used to forage for them this time of year.”

“So now the women of Tamoz,” she reasoned out loud, “have a task they can do. They can gather the basa, store them in the temple granary, and plant them in the spring on some of the fields. The beans will rest the soil where they grow and still give food. Then, you can also let some of your fields grow nothing for a season. Make up the difference with the datat’s corn. Your land will know balance with time.”

“This sounds reasonable,” agreed the aged man. “It will be done.”

“We are counting on you, Raveed,” said Hassaket. “Tell me of any who refuse to help. They will answer to me.”

“As you wish.”

“Good. On to matters of etiquette. Merkeses detests kneeling. None of you are slaves. I will show you the expression of respect that the All-Seeing considers pious. Watch.”

Hassaket stood straight, made a fist with her right hand, pressed it into her left palm, and bowed only her head. Then she looked up. “This is the effrazah. This is what I want to see instead of bowing from the waist or groveling on your knees. It conveys a focus on duty and a readiness for Revelation. Does everyone understand?”

“As you wish,” said Raveed.

Shrike could see her lover’s wings begin to twitch. With her she was so gentle, but a different Hassaket now became much louder: “Why does only one man in this room have a voice? Does everyone understand?”

Everyone stood and copied the effrazah. “As you wish,” they chorused.

“Good! Now we move on to Revelation. Merkeses wants followers eager to receive it. I am the Sahgat. I am the channel for the Sacrament of Revelation. Today I will show you how Merkeses speaks to those ready to listen.”

Hassaket held up her right hand, and Merkeses’s flame ignited all around it. The new Sahgat then beckoned her with a nod. Shrike stepped before her and executed an effrazah. Hassaket offered her a tender smile in return and stretched out her burning hand. Shrike reached out to touch the fire. It flared as their fingers touched.

An unexpected chill ran though Shrike’s body, and when the light subsided, she found that the world had become a new place. Everything manifested as music. She heard it, saw it, and tasted it. The greatest song was Hassaket. It was a bass rhythm, completely at odds with her lover’s high, musical voice. Everyone and everything else was a little melody layered on top, but the low bass dominated. She reveled in Hassaket’s song as it pulsed through her being.

She felt her perception growing, expanding to encompass first the town and then the hills. Hassaket’s bass still supported everything. It was, however, not all harmony. Discordance rumbled from the north.

That was in the direction of her home. There was blood. There was betrayal. There was defilement.

Horror returned Shrike to the room. The blue fire was out. Only the consoling warmth of Hassaket’s touch kept her from crying out.

She took up the calsi by a sort of compulsion but hesitated to play. She saw that it was out of tune just by looking. Delicate wheels cast in the shape of seven-pointed stars, however, could be turned to allow for the adjustment of each string’s tension, so she did. Then she began to strum.

The shaman cascaded notes gently, up and down, and sometimes paused to stutter at the highest pitches. The tune begged for words, but Shrike had no idea what they were, so she contented herself with merely playing.

After a few measures, the tug to explore the song grew potent. She began plucking clusters of notes that varied from the first tune. She stopped and looked up only when the urge to play quieted. More than one of the Merkites was beginning to fight tears.

She addressed Raveed. “Does this music displease you?”

“No, not at all. My mother sang that lullaby to me – ‘Baby Mouse’s Picnic’ – and I sang it to my children. I don’t understand how you know it, or how you know how to play that calsi like, well, like I’ve never heard it done before.”

“I can explain,” said Hassaket. “Merkeses is about Revelation. You have had time to forget this fact.”

All of the Merkites snapped back into the effrazah, and the rebel herald continued. “You are dismissed. Begin to make our plans a reality and return tomorrow morning. We will discuss still more.”

The group dispersed without a word. Hassaket followed them as far as the doorway and spoke to Dageran. “No interruptions until Lady Shrike or I say otherwise.”

“Yes, Sahgat Hassaket.”

The captain closed the doors as he left, and then Hassaket reached out to caress her shoulders. Shrike flinched away. “Wait. The Revelation was about more than music, more than the calsi. It showed me a disaster back home.”

“What kind of disaster?”

“Something with ramifications on both sides of the Veil. Something has sparked a wave of killing. I can’t say beyond that. I am afraid, but I don’t really know what to be afraid of.”

Hassaket stepped back and dropped her arms. “Merkeses deemed you worthy of more than talent with an instrument in this Revelation. You received a vision, too. It’s not surprising at all. I know your spirit is powerful.”

“How can we possibly go back to my home now?”

“That’s something I don’t know. The trip will take thirty days, and that is without any snow. We can’t leave Tamoz. I can’t leave you wondering about your people, either.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Hassaket. “Merkeses does not pollute any Revelation with trivia.”

“What will we do?”

“I don’t know, but we will have to make a decision soon.”

* * *

The next morning, Hassaket awoke to a grey dawn and slid free of the dozing Shrike’s embrace without jarring her awake. The new priestess of Merkeses then smiled to herself. The first challenge of the day had been met.

She put on a simple tunic and left the sleeping quarters on the balls of her feet, determined to preserve her little victory for consideration. From there she stepped out on a balcony. An early snow had fallen overnight, mostly melting when it touched the ground, but it was still drifting down out of the sky.

Hassaket let some flakes settle on her face. The Hell of Burning Tears lacked snow. This sort of fluffy, gentle rain was part of the human world. One hundred years ago she first found that its touch brought her happiness, but she had to hide her reaction. That was no longer necessary. No human here would care if she enjoyed something seemingly simple. One hundred years ago her happiness would have warranted time in a drowning pool.

The long call of horns from the direction of the river ruined Hassaket’s reverie. She ran back to Fire Shrike and gave her a firm shake. “Get your dagger. Something is wrong. The guards’ alarm sounded.” She then yanked on the stag boots that Lorza had made for her, donned her iron crown, and strapped the falcata to her hip.

Shrike rolled out of bed and hurried to catch up. “Why do bastards attack early?” she grumbled.

“We’ll attack with the dawn one day, too, Starlight.”

Looking feral and gorgeous, Shrike joined her for the run down the home’s little flight of stairs and into the audience chamber. Dageran, already in his hauberk of iron scales, almost ran into them when they pushed open the outside doors. The man still managed an effrazah while keeping a grip on his helmet: “Good morning, Sahgat Hassaket, Lady Shrike. There is word of a badow rowing up the river with no standard. If it carries a Bone Render, we may need both of you.”

“How many soldiers do you have ready?” asked Hassaket.

“Fifteen,” he answered.

“Go without me. I want to see this from above,” she said before taking to the sky.

Hassaket saw what a badow was after clearing the roofs of Tamoz. A longboat made of reeds bound together glided along the river. There was indeed no standard on its mast. Its single sail remained furled, relying instead upon a team of rowers to move. Meanwhile, Dageran’s reception party of Tamoz veterans waited at the town’s docks. They already stood in a shield wall that bristled with spears.

Hassaket estimated that the falling snow would screen her presence from any human eyes as far away as the river, and that was perfect. She circled and watched from on high. There were six rowers and two others of some higher rank on the boat. No one on board wore metal armor or carried any sort of spear. No one wore the robes of Irikiti’s priesthood. She had thought about asking Merkeses for the crossbow, but that now seemed unnecessary.

The longboat approached close to the docks. No one waited to secure the boat’s line to a mooring, so the crew sent someone jumping across. They also began to shout out at Dageran’s soldiers on the shore, but the words were too faint for Hassaket to understand.

She decided that it was time to see how these strangers would react to a surprise. Hassaket folded her wings to dive and streaked down at the dock. She landed within five paces of the mooring point, sword at the ready.

The strangers panicked, falling to their knees. One explicative from the spasm of words stuck in Hassaket’s mind: “OH SHIT! A HERALD!” She had to quash a smile.

Hassaket heard the pound of feet running up behind her on the dock planks and guessed that Dageran’s men were on their way. A sense of pride unlike anything she had experienced for two hundred years warmed her heart. Loyalty drove the men of Tamoz, not fear. She pointed at a visitor with her falcata next. “Stand and tell me why you are here!”

The heavy man stumbled up from the boat. “Begging Irikiti’s mercy, we are here to trade.”

The part of her that had been making duplicity into an art for two hundred years scoffed at the lie. She brought her weapon back but did not swing. “Try again!”

The speaker mumbled. “There was a rumor of heresy.”

That statement survived her judgment. Hassaket switched to a calm voice. “What sort of heresy?”

“The heresy that Tamoz had refused the guidance of the Lord of Burning Tears. I see that this is not true, praise Irikiti. You are here.”

“And this pleases you?”

“Of course.”

Hassaket felt her lips curl into a sneer, but she did not strike the man dead. “You cannot stop lying to me, but I don’t know why. Put your hands up over your head and walk to the riverbank. Take them down and I’ll cleave your skull open.”

The heavy man paled to match the still-falling snow before beginning to walk. The Tamoz veterans created a hallway of shields and spears for their Sahgat as she followed her captive from a few paces behind.

“Kneel,” Hassaket ordered as the man took the first step off of the pier and into the mud. She then stood far enough away to be outside the reach of any hidden blades. “What is your name?”

“Adazi.”

“Are you here to see if there is heresy in Tamoz?”

“Yes.”

“There isn’t a Bone Render in your boat?”

“No, there isn’t.”

“What did you plan to do about any heretics without Irikiti’s priests or soldiers?”

Adazi offered no answer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath instead.

“That means you are here to speak to the heretics. That means you are a heretic.”

He opened his eyes and groaned. “Are we to be tortured?”

As Hassaket considered the question, she saw something behind the man. It was the first piling on the near side of the pier, a broad cylinder of timber sunk deep into the bank, but something made its shape subtly wrong. She then recognized Fire Shrike, hidden by the power of Earth Mother and ready to strike with her dagger. Hassaket had to stop herself from smiling again. It was marvelous to have her. They might build something great together.

“I don’t think so,” said the renegade herald to the man, “but I have one last test for you.” She reached out to Adazi, placed her fingertips on his forehead, and cleared her mind for a special sort of Revelation. Rather than imparting knowledge to the man, she would learn the truth about him. In the end it would only give her the truth. Coercion remained the province of Irikiti. Still, a little echo of diabolic invasiveness shaded this sorcery.

The blue light of the All-Seeing saturated Adazi and showed Hassaket a generous friend, an unfaithful husband, and a fierce competitor. He was no warrior. Commerce dominated his core, and he saw the way of the sword as something for mercenaries. He was human and had all of the wild facets of the type. Diabolists were one-note creations, but humans were like him: beings of constant variation. Their charm radiated from this fact.

This one was no devotee of Irikiti. Thick strands of revulsion tangled his spirit where memories of the Lord of Burning Tears intruded. Adazi had worked hard as a merchant to screen his children from the reach of His servants. Everyone, he believed, sometimes responded well to a subtle offer of coins. That rule included Bone Renders.

Hassaket withdrew her hand. “You are a heretic. This is good. You will not be tortured. You will live.”

The man looked stunned from his exposure to Merkeses’s power, but he eventually found words. “Who are you? What are you?”

“I am Sahgat Hassaket, Priestess of Merkeses, former herald to Irikiti.”

“Isn’t Merkeses dead?”

“Merkeses can’t die, and the All-Seeing also has not abandoned Lazrah. I am proof.”

“Please forgive us. We saw you and knew only fear.”

Hassaket nodded. “Times of change are confusing.”

The sound of approaching feet distracted her next. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Raveed had gathered another dozen fighting men. Now he led them at a jog towards the docks. These men carried a motley collection of weapons, but their faces were still looking for a fight. For a moment Hassaket wondered if these displays of audacity and loyalty from Tamoz would spoil her.

Then she looked back at Adazi. “Why are you here?”

“We came looking for help.”

“Explain.”

“All the Gods have abandoned Geltash. We stand alone against a pair of monsters that are preying on our people.”

“Abandoned? Irikiti’s slaves no longer rule Geltash?”

“No, they departed. They went northward without provisions, spouting some gibberish about penance and rebirth into Irikiti’s favor. They left something behind, too. A pair of creatures now haunts Geltash. They are too clever to be hunted. A small group of men is no match for their ferocity. When we heard that Tamoz had broken Irikiti’s yoke, a few of us decided that help might be found here.”

“Are these monsters like snakes?”

A look of amazement came over Adazi. “Yes, that’s what I think I’ve seen.”

“I have faced such a thing. We need to act soon. There is a good chance that your monsters are a mating couple. Go over and introduce yourself to that old man. His name is Raveed. I need to see the rest of your crew in Merkeses’s light.”

“Why? None of them love Irikiti.”

“I have been surprised by an assassin of Irikiti’s once before. I cannot let it happen again.”

Adazi bowed and turned to take his leave, but she interrupted him. “No, no, not like that. This is proper for followers of Merkeses.” Hassaket demonstrated the effrazah for perhaps the twentieth time. She then shouted to her captain on the dock. “Dageran, send another, hands over his head!”

Merkeses’ gift for finding truth revealed the whole parade of humans. She began to take pleasure in merely learning about them. The ice of caution, however, never melted away from her mind. When the last rower sprouted blades from his wrists and sprang forward, she was ready.

Hassaket flew back with a flap from her wings and started to pull her sword free, but it was unnecessary. The odd chunk of piling that was Fire Shrike darted into action and drove her dagger into the assassin’s thigh. The resulting flash of fire left him with a blackened stump in place of one leg. Irikiti’s slave fell and thrashed in the mud of the riverbank twice before becoming still.

Fire Shrike regained her true coloration and exulted as she stood over her slain foe: “I’m taking a trophy!” The shaman then cut off one of the corpse’s ears and held up the strip of bloody flesh. “I’ll offer his spirit to Earth Mother tonight!”

Everyone fell silent with shock except Hassaket: “Irikiti knows every time one of His slaves perishes. It is grounds for celebration.” She looked over at Adazi next. “You need to see this!”

The man ran over, stopping with a clumsy effrazah. “Sahgat, I am sorry!”

“Never mind. Look at these,” Hassaket said while gesturing at the dead man’s wrists. “The blades are hidden in the forearms until needed, and even so, they are longer than they should be. They aren’t even exactly bone, but his body has accepted these weapons as if they were natural. He allowed himself to be made into something more and less than human. He was just like me before I found my backbone.”

The man’s mouth tried to speak and failed. Fire Shrike prompted him with a question made loud by the bloodlust leftover from her kill. “Did you know him?”

Shrike’s words helped Adazi jar loose a little story. “His name was Nahshen. He asked to come here with us. He said he wanted to challenge Irikiti’s hold. We believed him.”

The shaman persisted with the questioning. “You ran with him when you were boys?”

“Some. He courted a woman when he was older, but she spurned him. He stayed out at his parents’ farm afterwards. He worked their land even after they died the next winter. He has sisters, but they married and left years ago. I wonder what I would find under his roof now?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Fire Shrike. “Bring your whole crew over here and have them take a closer look. They need to understand that this man was no longer one of them. This slave to Irikiti used all of you to get close to Hassaket. He wanted to end Merkeses’s threat. He wanted blood and spirits to flow to the Hell of Burning Tears forever. Make them see that he is worth no tears.”

Hassaket approved of the shaman’s words with a smile as Adazi offered an effrazah and trotted back to his surviving compatriots. The rebel herald recalled when she first met Shrike. The young woman had displayed a hint of regret about killing back then, but now it was all gone. The end of that little bit of squeamishness made her even more beautiful. Hassaket could not imagine being with anyone else.

The little group of Geltash rebels shuffled back to the corpse next for a closer look. They found nothing to say as the despair of a civil war in Lazrah seeped into their thoughts. All of the unhappiness, however, didn’t seem right to Hassaket, so she interrupted the grim little vigil: “Come, we should celebrate. The assassin has failed. I am sure that we will help Geltash, so you all have succeeded. Raveed, how can we welcome our honored guests?”

* * *

Fire Shrike sat with Hassaket among a pile of floor cushions, listening to a recounting of the battle on top of the temple while pig fat hissed in the fire. It was not Skiras tradition to worship any shaman, but the speaker’s words carried adulation. She consoled herself with the fact that Hassaket did away with all of the kneeling by insisting on the effrazah, but Shrike still felt nervous as the narration unfolded:

“ . . . like everyone else. The Bone Render barked, so we looked over our shoulders and saw that she was down, but there was only fog behind us. Made no sense at all. Sahgat Hassaket then came to us like lightening, hooked a Blood Drinker in his head with her axe – while still flying – and flung him off. She was like some stone-throwing engine, and the Blood Drinker was, well, the stone. His name was Tahrgid. That bastard raped my sister-in-law twice after the Bone Render sent my brother away with the last conscription. An axe to the head and a fall down the temple stairs was the least of what he deserved.”

The crowd pounded the low tables with their fists. It was a Lazrah expression of approval, but it still made Shrike jump a little. The story and plenty of seniri, however, were helping Adazi and the other visitors from Geltash catch some laughter. That group needed a release. She then heard the story come to her part:

“. . . lands carrying Lady Shrike. She’s a shaman to an earth spirit named Lapat Shan, and so she sits cross-legged at Naigzi’s head, cradles it up off the stones, and starts singing. No idea about the words, but the sound was prettier that any makit’s song. After a while, he opens his eyes and smiles. The sucking cut in his ribcage was nothing but new skin! Lady Shrike drops out next, tired to the bone. I guess saving a life like that takes it out of you.”

More laughter and pounding met the story’s end. Shrike nodded towards the narrator and commented. “Tamoz has lost so much. It was time to start a change.” Shouts of agreement came back to her, and she smiled. The Lazrah were making a good impression on her. Anything else would be a lie, but what about her people? It had only been a day since the Revelation about home, but the need for haste gnawed at the back of her mind.

A serving girl named Kayla came by with a pitcher of seniri and looked at Shrike with doe eyes of brilliant green: “My Lady?” She offered to pour with a smile of white fire. Her tunic was cut daringly short, and the smell of some sweet perfume around her overwhelmed the cataba smoke that filled the room.

“No,” said Shrike. “But thank you.”

“Please, My Lady,” the girl coaxed with honeyed, pouting words. “Don’t be all about duty. Even Sahgat Hassaket is not all about duty.”

Kayla’s hips were close. Shrike felt her face turning hot. Hassaket nudged her and smiled. “Come on, Lady Shrike, have some more. It was a hard morning.”

Shrike tried to divine the expression in her lover’s face. Probably due to Kayla’s presumption, it was somewhere between jovial teasing and smoldering anger. It had never occurred to her before that Hassaket might handle this sort of thing poorly, but there was nobody like Kayla before Tamoz. The serving girl was, in fact, only the second woman she had ever met that showed any interest in coupling. The first was Hassaket. No Skiras woman ever dared.

Shrike relented, holding up her cup. “Sahgat Hassaket is right, Kayla. It has been another wild morning.” The pouring of drinks and the whole festival then passed without event.

Hassaket stood as the serving girls began collecting empty platters. “Raveed, see to it that the council meets with our friends from Geltash later today. But first, have someone see to it that our visitors have proper lodging. There is still another Blood Drinker’s home empty.”

The man stood with an effrazah and called for two more Merkites to join him. Hassaket offered Shrike a hand up from the cushions. Together they returned to their own expropriated dwelling, shadowed by Dageran and two other guards.

Once back in their sleeping chamber, the renegade herald launched herself onto their bed and rolled over. “So, would you like to invite Kayla over tonight?”

Shrike immediately regretted her decision to keep drinking. She was not trying to commune with Earth Mother but instead trying to talk sense to Hassaket, and that demanded clarity. Her jaw tightened as she tried to push aside the seniri’s stupor, and then she managed something simple: “I am sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not making you feel loved. For not making you sure that I would never jump into another’s arms.”

Hassaket sat up with a jerk. “I am such a fool! I’ll kill Kayla! I can’t afford the distraction of the sex games that went along with Irikiti’s reign. That little bitch wants into our lives.”

Shrike’s mind spun to catch more words. “Stop it. You are not in the Hell of Burning Tears. She offered herself. If we leave her alone, that’s the end.”

The fire in Hassaket’s eyes started to fade. “Leave her alone?”

“Yes. If she needs to be with a woman, she’ll have to find someone else. She’ll figure it out by herself. You don’t have to kill anyone. All you have to do is know that you have no reason to be angry. I want no one else.”

She knelt into Hassaket’s embrace. They fell back into the bed together, resting until calm returned. The former herald then propped herself up on her elbows. “I need to learn your patience, your mercy. There is no way I can build something here without it. Most humans are hard to know from day to day. You are the exception.”

Shrike felt happy relief wash over her mind and Hassaket changed the subject. “I have been thinking about your home.”

“And?”

“Simple. We will visit Geltash in a badow and solve their problem. That will take us towards the Skiras nation. From there I can fly. I can make the journey in a few days and see what is unfolding. We will then have knowledge and can make our next decision.”

Shrike felt her smile become a frown. “Can you fly from here?”

“Yes, but why?”

“I don’t want you to wait. Irikiti’s slaves from Geltash departed northward days and days ago. We can’t wait to learn why.”

“I can’t carry you very far and make good progress with my wings. We also still have Geltash to worry about.”

“What if I handled Geltash?”

“Without me?”

Shrike nodded. “Yes. We will save time if you learn what is happening in the north while I keep Geltash’s allegiance with Tamoz.”

“Are you punishing me for my stupidity about Kayla?”

“No! You must not think I am weak. There are risks, but acting slowly is the worst risk of all.”

“Not too long ago you said that I should never have to fight alone. Now you want to fight alone. Why is that fair?”

“I never guessed this! I never wanted this! But it has happened!”

Shock conquered Hassaket’s face. “Do you really expect me to risk loosing you? I know you are becoming a warrior, but you almost died at the shrine in the forest. We are lethal together, but apart we are not strong enough! How can you ask this?”

“My family may be waiting to be sacrificed right now. How can I not take a risk? I can’t love myself or anyone else if I hide behind you forever. Please let me fight the monsters in Geltash.”

The emotion in Hassaket’s face drained away next. “Very well. We can both leave tomorrow.” She crawled off of the bed next, turned her back to Shrike, and walked for the door.

“Please don’t leave like this!” the shaman called out. The renegade herald, however, showed no signs of having heard anything.

Chapter Nine: Mourners

All of Tamoz turned out for Sahgat Hassaket’s blessing at the plaza where the furious and the brave had openly defied Irikiti with just cobblestones not too long ago. Some of the crowd went so far as to watch the proceedings from vantage points on the temple. Fire Shrike could feel a pulse of fanaticism in the air.

She watched as Dageran stood tall and reached out to touch Hassaket’s hand of blue fire. The man gasped as the power of Merkeses coursed through his body. The All-Seeing’s priestess then intoned the Revelation’s intent with her melodic voice. “Dageran, son of Karbahl, you are now the Lord-Commander of the Faithful. May you forever grow in wisdom.”

A man Shrike had never seen before was the next to experience Revelation. He was thick and squat, like Flint Ox, but his chin was shaven and his eyes were smiling. “Madon, son of Ahkidon, you are now the Lord-Artisan of the Faithful. May you forever grow in wisdom.” The man’s eyes glowed with even more joy as he absorbed Merkeses’s truth.

The head of the Merkites came last. He was as solemn as a cliff face, offering no concession to his age. “Raveed, son of Horabah, Vizier to Tamoz, wear the mantle of Merkeses’s authority without fear.” Despite the contact with the flame, Shrike saw that he remained solid.

All three men genuflected with effrazahs. The surrounding crowd mirrored the gesture, and it stunned Shrike for a moment. No one among the Skiras ever showed her this much reverence, and then there were angry men like Flint Ox and their sharp hostility. For some reason the Lazrah, however, could show her and Hassaket gratitude like Sky Father’s sun gave light.

Shrike returned the gesture along with Hassaket to the people, and the Sahgat began a sermon next. The shaman, though, could not stop from drifting away to her memory of the morning. Her lover had looked at her as if she had already died and the funeral had been last spring. Even though she could reach out and touch her companion, Shrike felt like Mud Lion’s Lone Wolf again. That name allowed for no lasting escape. Hassaket could be gone forever tomorrow.

The shaman spotted a patch of abandoned land to the east of the temple. Only tall grasses grew there in uneven patches. There were staves taller than a man poking up here and there out of the ground, tied with faded streamers of red cloth that danced in the light breeze. It was an expanse of dirt that looked as forlorn as she felt.

The Skiras shaman successfully fought back tears as the sermon came to an end. It would not do to show weakness. If her estrangement from Hassaket became permanent, appearing vulnerable would not do.

That singular thought was like a slap to her face. She had blundered into already making plans for the end. It might be best to go home. Hassaket, in truth, was the hero of Tamoz.

There was a roar of applause all around Shrike and then someone walked into her vicinity. It was Dageran. She exchanged effrazahs with the new Lord-Commander. “Yes?”

“Everything is ready, Lady Shrike. We will be going downriver in a second badow, following the visitors from Geltash.”

“Good, thanks.” She pointed at the empty plot of land. “Dageran, by the way, what is that place? I’ve never seen anyone standing around those staves. Nobody has even put down a garden there. Why?”

He grimaced before answering. “Lady Shrike, we cremated our dead in that place when Irikiti still ruled.”

“Cremated? You mean releasing the spirits of your dead with fire?”

“Yes.”

“Did His priests and priestesses oversee the funerals?”

“No. They performed the sacrifices of Irikiti’s enemies, but that didn’t involve the common people. We waged war so that such rituals could happen, but Irikiti’s dogs let us cremate our own dead. Now we hold funerals near Merkeses’s shrine in the woods.”

“Good,” she affirmed. “Keep your rites for the dead far from Irikiti’s temple.”

It had not occurred to Shrike before, but now she wondered what happened to the Lazrah spirits that lacked guidance from some intermediary with the Gods. What would she find on the other side of the Veil here in Tamoz? The consideration cast creeping shadows in her imagination, but an idea also emerged. “Well, let’s begin our journey,” she said, breaking out of her thoughts.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the Sahgat to take her leave before we go to the docks?”

“Very well.”

Dageran’s eyebrows rose up in some interest at her choice of words. Shrike, not caring about his conclusions, strode over to Hassaket. The rebel herald was speaking with Raveed as she draped a pair satchel bags over her shoulders such that the straps made an “X” pattern over her breasts. Then her blood companion’s eyes, perhaps permanently blue with the influence of Merkeses, turned towards her. Shrike snapped into an effrazah. “Goodbye, Sahgat. I’ll see you again in Geltash.”

Hassaket looked through her and spoke with a withered tone. “Goodbye, Starlight Sparrow.” With those words she spread her wings and tested the wind. Everyone stepped back. When Hassaket rose up from the ground, the loitering crowd cheered. Shrike, though, walked for the dock without looking up. Dageran had to jog to catch her.

The soldier walked with her in silence for a while but then spoke. “Lady Shrike, I hope I am not a bother, but could I ask you if something is wrong?”

Fire Shrike stopped and considered the man. Dageran had squared, rugged features, close-cropped hair that would not interfere with a helmet, and storm-grey eyes. He also wore an ear stud that shown in the sun, proclaiming his married status.

She found the truth spilling out of her mouth for an answer. “Isn’t it strange how lovers can cause so much pain?”

The Lord-Commander guffawed. “Who else could? Who else has that kind of reach?”

“No one,” she concurred with her first smile of the morning. They resumed walking at a brisk pace to the dock without conversation. Her life was one big trap, but it was time to get on with her plan even if it threatened to destroy Hassaket’s love. Mist Stag had been wrong, and she had been wrong to believe him. Her people did need help. Merkeses made that much clear in the Revelation. Now she had to do her best for her blood companion, and her family, and the Lazrah rebels, and the Skiras nation, so facing the monsters in Geltash by herself was the best choice she could make in a dying world.

Tamoz’s badow turned out to be longer than the one used by the men from Geltash. There were stations for eight rowers instead of six. That left one man stationed at the rudder and one passenger. Shrike hopped on board and settled into the very last rower’s station while the men loaded supplies.

She distracted herself by noting the crew. They wore cuirasses of quilted fabric instead of any metal armor, and even Dageran had abandoned his scale hauberk for the same. They might tread water for a while or even swim a few strokes rather than sinking like stones.

Then, she noticed that Dageran was looking at her from his place at the bow. He spoke when he had her attention. “Lady Shrike, does it please you to row?”

“Yes. I’m not soft, and I can’t become soft.”

The crew whooped their approval. Dageran gave an abbreviated effrazah and a smile. “As you wish. Speak out when you would like a rest.”

They pushed off from the dock shortly after Dageran’s offer. Shrike was not familiar with boats, but it did not take long for her to copy the movements of the other rowers. Once she had the rhythm, the only thing to do was watch the water flow and feel the ache of effort invade her limbs. She switched stations to the boat’s opposite side at midday with the other rowers. This change distributed the work evenly to both her arms. She said next to nothing the whole time, and that calmed her spirit.

They slid onto a sandy beach at sunset, and then Shrike devoured a bowl of some tasteless porridge before lying down. Sleep claimed her almost immediately. After all, she had spent the whole day draining her heart of the strength to break.

* * *

Sahgat Hassaket looked out at the faces of Tamoz. Their enthusiasm captured her mind like a blooming magnolia seduced her sense of smell. No one had shown her adulation like this at any time. It bordered on worship.

The sting of Fire Shrike’s demand to fight in Geltash without her, though, punched through all of the intoxication. The one person she had failed to win was the most important person in her life. Dageran, though, stood nearby and waited for the Sacrament of Revelation. Duty and ceremony ruled the moment, so she could not disappoint. Hassaket pushed aside the strife with her lover and opened her spirit to Merkeses’s gift for the man. She then became a living river of inspiration.

The apostate still remembered when Irikiti Elevated her to the form of a herald. It made her feel like a tick fat with blood. She experienced invoking Revelation, on the other hand, as the opposite of the diabolic rite. For a moment she vanished in a sort of negation. There was Merkeses, and there was Dageran. She embodied only transition. The pain of her separate existence vanished. Words tumbled from her mouth only when the sense of selfdom returned:

“Dageran, son of Karbahl, you are now the Lord-Commander of the Faithful. May you forever grow in wisdom.”

She continued with Madon’s and then Raveed’s Revelation. In the end she felt scrubbed and new, but the sensation did not last. It was time to speak to all of the people.

Hassaket had given speeches to humans before, but her audiences were high priests and kings. She was not here to lie and flatter. These were her people now, and they had to be afraid. They knew Irikiti still ruled most of Lazrah, so her words had to give them hope. This burden weighed heavily upon her spirit.

“People of Tamoz,” she began, “you are all born again into the light of Merkeses, the All-Seeing. This is a celebration!”

Everyone cheered. She then held up her arms, and there was quiet again. Hassaket felt her heavy burden begin to lift.

“I, too, am born again. Lady Shrike gave me this gift, and we brought it to you. We should all celebrate, but we must also look to the future. Our enemy may be surprised, but this will not last forever.”

“Be brave. Anyone can see that Merkeses is offering us a guiding hand. We already have new friends from Geltash. We will send emissaries back to that same province and win an alliance that will more than double our strength. Geltash, furthermore, cannot be the only other province to tire of all the bloody sacrifices. We will keep bringing Merkeses to all of the Lazrah nation until our enemies have no place left to stand!”

These words brought another chorus of cheers. Hassaket waited a few moments for quiet.

“Our enemy thrives on pain and arrogance. As these things grow so does their power. This fact means that there is one act all of you can take to make sure of our triumph. You don’t all have to become soldiers or priestesses. Instead, it is simpler and more difficult at the same time. You must all hold tight to virtue. Be just and patient with your neighbors. Be loving with your families.”

“We will be strong enough if you can hold on to virtue. Our enemy was never powerful enough to destroy Merkeses’s Lazrah from without. The old Lazrah fell to corruption from within, so if you can all stay strong in your virtue, I know we will triumph!”

This time the crowd bellowed with approval. The very cobblestones of the plaza seemed to shake. Then, Hassaket saw Fire Shrike seemingly focused on nothing, and pain began to creep back around her world’s edges.

The shaman came back from her reverie, and they then traded effrazahs with the crowd. The happy throng began to disperse. A cordon of soldiers, however, kept her and Shrike apart from the masses. Raveed’s words took Hassaket’s attention next:

“Your thoughts are wonderful, Sahgat. Thank you. But I am nervous about your journey northward. Tamoz is not ready to stand without you and Lady Shrike. What if Irikiti attacks?”

“The journey is necessary,” declared Hassaket. “We need to know something about the rest of Lazrah. That is my task while Lady Shrike is in Geltash.”

Raveed sighed. “I still think there is too much risk.”

Hassaket felt the man’s fear catch in her own throat, and all she could manage next was a mumble. “Yes. I know.”

The Skiras shaman appeared in Hassaket’s peripheral sight as she began to drape bags of provisions on her shoulders. The apostate’s heart cried to hug the human woman, but her body could not. She knew it wasn’t right for Shrike to go to Geltash without her. How, though, could she dismiss Shrike’s fear for the Skiras? The warning actually had come from Merkeses. There was no escape.

Hassaket turned towards her. Shrike chose the formality of the effrazah and spoke. “Goodbye, Sahgat. I’ll see you again in Geltash.”

She forced out her favorite term of endearment for the shaman in return. “Goodbye, Starlight Sparrow.” Hassaket knew the words came out wrong, though. Frustration poisoned her every gesture. She had to leave before she started screaming, so Hassaket spread her wings and took to the sky.

She followed the river northward, sharing the winds with nothing. The birds always saw her as a predator. Below Hassaket the valley that cradled Tamoz gradually widened, and the dominance of checkered farm fields spread. She knew that the trend would only continue in Geltash, and more fields meant more people. More people meant more fighting men against Irikiti, but the neighboring province had to first accept her rule like Tamoz.

The outcome in Geltash now depended alone on Fire Shrike. Considering that fact began to feed Hassaket’s pain yet again. This errand to the north was likely to cost her a lover beyond her wildest dreams and a future at the head of a growing nation.

Hassaket began a slow glide downward and breathed deep to remain calm. Autumn’s dormancy, she noted, had taken complete hold in the human world. It imported a sense of order. There was not too much to take in. The important things would stand out instead of disappearing into summer’s rioting press of competing lives.

Just as the sun settled, a lake darkened her horizon. Geltash’s town would be waiting on the water’s northern side. Like many places in the Lazrah nation, she had seen it from the air but never visited.

After flapping halfway across the lake, Hassaket could discern a silhouette of buildings in the dim light. Like every other place in the Lazrah nation, the town had a ziggurat dedicated to Irikiti. Homes and shops spread out from the temple and along the lakeshore.

There were no fires, however, to be seen. No one had placed torches out. No light sparkled from windows. Everyone, Hassaket concluded, was hiding from Irikiti’s creatures. This was the place where Shrike would triumph or die, and she had already planned to merely fly over it. The act made her feel pathetic beyond words. Hassaket wasn’t sure that she could kill two of Irikiti’s reptiles alone, but she was allowing Fire Shrike to try.

She kept flying until she was well north of Geltash. A sandbar out in the middle of the river seemed to be an attractive camp. No one could approach it on foot without splashing through the water.

Dalmirae had wings, though, so Hassaket sat cross-legged and cleared her mind. She considered her own thoughts as if they were butterflies, colorful but ultimately trivial. The effort to obtain a clear focus alone created a bridge to the All-Seeing.

Merkeses’s transcendent intellect stirred. It was like glimpsing something huge and ancient swimming just under the surface of the big river that surrounded her island camp. Hassaket then made an entreaty to her God for a simple ward, one that would bring her awareness if a threat passed through. This request begged for nothing more than a boon of pure knowledge, the essence of everything the All-Seeing valued as sacred.

Her thought butterflies, however, became fire flashes. The communion with Merkeses collapsed. Sparks swarmed in her mind, and every little fire was a facet of the fact that she had left Fire Shrike forlorn in Tamoz.

The shaman had left behind everyone she knew. The shaman had saved her life from the khat’laba’s poison and Dalmirae’s sorcery. The shaman had given her a new God. After all of that, she had actually left without telling Shrike of her love.

Instead of communing with Merkeses, Hassaket could only wail. Then, she collapsed and pulled her wings over her body as the wind of a cold night blew across the face of the river. Sleep found Hassaket only in reckless fits and starts.

Finally, she gave up and sat, striving again to make her thoughts into trivial butterflies. Striving could keep her from despair. Despair was the gateway to the hells, and she was never going back.

The currents of remorse, however, crushed the butterflies before they fully formed. Desperate, Hassaket pressed her right hand to her chest and called out to her God:

“Glorious Merkeses, grant your servant the power to work your will; Glorious Merkeses, grant your servant the tranquility to see the path; Glorious Merkeses, grant your servant the grace to meet her ending well.”

The blue fire of Revelation sprouted from her hand. The flames licked all over her form, and the All-Seeing then burned the remorse away. Her God replaced it with a vision of what needed to be done. Fire Shrike had seen the truth while she had not. Hidden things awaited discovery at the unfinished temple where the shaman had assassinated the Bone Render, so Hassaket took to the sky with powerful flaps and flew northward into the full dark. It felt good to again be free of arrogance.

* * *

On the fourth day of rowing, Shrike saw the river open up into a lake. The Geltash badow led them straight across the open water. The sun was halfway to the horizon when she could discern that they were bound for a shore dotted with docks, moored boats, and buildings. Another ziggurat to Irikiti loomed behind everything else.

They moored their longboat next to Adazi’s. All of the Geltash natives began to ready weapons next, so Dageran ordered his men to do the same. Shrike scanned the surroundings while fingering the pommel of her dagger.

No one came to meet them. Barking dogs didn’t even break the quiet. Waves sloshing on the dock pilings and wind whistling around the buildings offered them the only reception.

Adazi signaled for them to wait and then jogged with his crew down the pier, disappearing into the town. They returned after a short while with a group of armed men perhaps triple in size. “Get ready,” Dageran said with a low mutter, “to put up a shield wall. Their numbers won’t mean anything on this narrow dock. Lady Shrike, please stand behind us.”

The Tamoz veterans shuffled to the fore. Shrike contented herself by watching between her bodyguards’ shoulders. Two men led the Geltash contingent. One was Adazi, looking like a spooked goose despite his bulk. The other was a tall and thin, like a living spear.

The tall man addressed them, and his words shook with anger. “My name is Hahdin, son of Fedeen. Adazi tells me that you have a savage with you who is willing to help. He believes this despite Nahshen’s murder at her very hands.”

“Hahdin, I saw Nahshen’s body with my own eyes” said Adazi with a whiny protest. “All of the men with me did. He sold his spirit to Irikiti. We have no doubt.”

Fire Shrike pushed her way in front of the Tamoz veterans. “Hello, Hahdin. My name is Fire Shrike. I am sworn to Lapat Shan. Any enemy of Irikiti may be worthy of my help. Any diabolist cannot be spared. Would you argue otherwise?”

The tall man glared over at Adazi and gestured at her as if she were an object. “This little girl? She is supposed to save us? This is ridiculous!”

Shrike felt her pulse begin to pound. “If you think Geltash is safe, we will go back to Tamoz. I was wondering, though, where everyone was. Are they dead or hiding?”

Adazi found his courage and added to her rhetoric. “Some of both, Lady Shrike. Mostly still living, but the dead mount every night and some during the day. We are not safe even now. The things have attacked groups of men as large as this one. Standing by the water is especially bad.”

“I see,” said Hahdin, “that this savage has divided us. Did she go down on her knees and take the measure of your manhood in her mouth, Adazi? We will have to find some other solution.” The tall man then turned and stalked away. About half of the Geltash men followed.

Adazi remained with perhaps a dozen others and executed an effrazah. “I apologize, Lady Shrike.”

“Don’t worry. Raveed didn’t believe I was to be trusted when I first met him, either. I will show Hahdin that he is making a mistake.”

“May I ask how do you plan to destroy Irikiti’s monsters?”

“Show me,” said Shrike, “where Geltash cremates their dead. That is the first step.”

The heavy man nodded and began to walk down a cobblestone street that led in the direction of the ziggurat. Everyone followed while scanning for any threat. The journey, however, only revealed more of a pleasant afternoon in Geltash.

The town’s stepped pyramid squatted at the northern edge of all the buildings. North of that was an expanse of land conspicuous with telltale staves sunk into the dirt and tied with red streamers. Scattered patches of charcoal-blackened earth marred the clumps of grass.

Shrike looked at Adazi. “How many times have these diabolic creatures left the bodies of their victims behind?”

“Sometimes, always mutilated. These things know what they are doing. They’re not just animals.”

“And those bodies have been cremated here?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Here is the place where I will make my stand.”

Dageran joined the conversation after hearing her pronouncement. “Lady Shrike, you can’t mean to fight these things alone, can you?”

The shaman felt as if she were losing the last of her strength for rational argument. Hassaket had already taken most of that away. She ran her hands through her hair, though, and then tried to answer. “Lord-Commander, what if these things refuse to attack all of us? What good will we have served?”

No one had an answer forthcoming. Shrike showed no mercy. “What if we were all killed? Who would return to Tamoz with the news?”

Everyone’s voice again remained hidden. She spoke again. “I will face these things by myself. They will see one person as an easy target. They will be wrong. I will kill them.”

Dageran handed her a water skin, a heavy blanket, and some rations before all of the guards paid their respects with an effrazah. She offered back the same courtesy and instructions: “Find someplace safe to spend the night. Stay together. Come back at morning’s first light.”

After the men disappeared around a corner of the temple, Shrike pulled off her tunic and laid flat on her back in one of the field’s blackened patches. She placed the dagger under the small of her back and watched high clouds drift by, feeling the ashes of the dead on her bare skin and opening her spirit to Earth Mother’s embrace. It fit her purpose to lay down perhaps two hundred paces from a temple dedicated to Irikiti. She needed to know if diabolical sorcery had done anything to the other side of the Veil in Geltash.

Next she saw the world shimmer with waves of heat like the worst of a summer drought. The autumn day dispersed and hot, sticky air rushed in to take its place. The reek of old sweat filled her nostrils. She sat up in an effort to get a better sight of the manifestation and saw that it centered on Irikiti’s temple.

Shrike felt her mood lift when she realized what her senses had found. It was a diabolical ward set to defend the ziggurat, and she had spotted it. She now shared this ability with Hassaket. Earth Mother had judged her worthy of another gift, but it was almost irrelevant. Her purpose didn’t have anything to do with wards. Her purpose would instead unfold among the dead.

This sharpening of intent gave her the final impetus for crossing into the shadowed periphery of the Veil. What she found dragged her to the brink of tears. A crowed of spirits greeted Fire Shrike. Men, women, and children milled about, shivering and crying. Their pale forms all showed puncture wounds from fanged bites. Irikiti’s servants had managed to forge creatures worthy of the Hell of Burning Tears. Their victims suffered even after death.

They stumbled toward Shrike and pawed at her body. She looked down and saw that a little boy had reached out to hold her hand. He felt like ice.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Ashalu.”

“That sounds wonderful. How old are you?

“I’m five”

“You’re so big and tall for five years.”

The ghost struggled through a little smile as something else pulled Fire Shrike deeper into the world of spirits. Fields of the pale dead surrounded the shaman as she drifted with the invisible current. Years and years of Geltash’s departed had made no progress at finding where their ancestors rested.

This confluence of misery fulfilled her suspicions. Allowing any spirit to linger in the Veil was heretical travesty. A people without guidance, however, could expect no other outcome. She would turn this disaster against Irikiti. Just like the possessed girl in Tamoz, her enemies had created both another horror and another opportunity.

A warm light began to contest the blacks and grays of this place. Shrike looked for the source. An amber sphere lit the distance, and the current was pulling her towards it. It was a good sign. She had found her Goddess.

In time she moved to the light, and there was Earth Mother. Her hair flowed from the darkness into a golden aura that surrounded Her face. At first Shrike could only grapple with a sensation of feeling both tiny and loved in the same moment. It was like jumping into the cold brook she had shared with Hassaket during the summer. She knew what to expect from both the cold water and Earth Mother, but the moment of shock and bliss together never became ordinary. The Goddess spoke with a voice that sounded like leaves in a cornfield being rustled by a gentle breeze. “Hello, Starlight Sparrow.”

Fire Shrike dropped to her knees and whispered. “Earth Mother, why does it have to hurt so much?”

“Daughter, be patient. Fury sometimes cripples Hassaket’s heart, but her love for you will triumph.”

“Thank you for Your mercy. How may I serve You?”

“Sing out to these spirits. Diabolic meddling and pointless wandering has blinded them to My Grace. I cannot reach them. They need someone human to serve as their shaman.”

“Thank you, Earth Mother. I will never know of such an honor again.”

Shrike turned and walked to a point outside the amber light before beginning a song for the natives of Geltash:

“Fathers and mothers, be at peace; Sisters and brothers, be at peace; All is well; Earth Mother beckons; The gathered harvest is waiting; Pigs are over the fire; Your ancestors wait with joy; The men drink their seniri; The women don their finery; The children play with the dogs; Fathers and mothers, be at peace; Sisters and brothers, be at peace; All is well; Earth Mother beckons.”

The expanse of spirits quivered but failed to show any other answer to her call. She repeated it over and over, ignoring a fatigue that felt like a wet winter’s cold just before it threatened to extinguish life. There were so many dead, but this was her purpose. Then, the exhaustion began to melt away as the very strands of her spirit began to array themselves against the strain.

Finally, the dead turned to face her as if they were one being. She kept singing. The spirits began stepping towards the light. When they arrived, Earth Mother embraced them and sent them on the way of peace.

Shrike lost track of the number of times she sang the song, and then she noticed a knot of spirits that still resisted. She looked up to Earth Mother, hoping for guidance. “They,” the Goddess said, “are the recently slain. Your song cannot reach them. Their pain is too raw. They need justice.”

“I will be their justice,” answered Fire Shrike, and in that moment she was back amongst the victims of the reptiles again. She picked up Ashalu and tried to warm his cold body with a hug. He hugged her back and whispered into her ear. “Please go back and fight.”

“Of course, little brave.”

Shrike blinked, and she was back in the field. Princess Ixchel’s stars now lit Sky Father’s face, and a piercing sensation pressed down on both of her shoulders. Something was pinning her to the ground. Its triangular head, as large as the biggest watermelon, hovered a little more than an arm’s length over her face. There was also a coiled bulk at her feet.

Irikiti’s monsters had found her.

The one at her feet stood on its nominally human legs, displaying its male gender. It was going to rape her, but she felt the frigid power of the dead coursing through her sinews. This was the curse and blessing of communing with forlorn spirits, and Shrike had been counting on it.

She kicked a leg up at the head of the monster that held her down. It had to be the female. The top of her foot crushed its snout inward with a sharp crunch and a fluid splatter. Her spirit allies had made her flesh and bones into eldritch iron. The creature fell back with a hiss that gurgled though a ruined snout.

The shaman knew that the male was readying a fanged strike. The dead knew everything that was happening here, and they shared their knowledge with a generosity that exceeded what her eyes could see in daylight. She kicked downward and over as hard as she could next, spinning herself over and onto her belly.

The male’s mouth snapped shut next to her, right where she would have been, and Shrike retaliated by raking her fingernails across its eye. The organ shredded. The male now retreated back and out of reach with another angry hiss.

The fight paused as the pair began to circle her, cackling to each other like tortured birds. Shrike snatched up the dagger, freeing its blade from the sheath with a flick of her wrist. That launched the female into a spiraling charge at her back. It was intent upon catching her in its coils. The male, meanwhile, reared back to strike yet again.

The dead, however, were still showing Shrike all. She struck backwards without looking and caught the female by surprise. The dagger punched through its scaled hide behind the jaw. A fire-flash of diabolical annihilation lit the night and separated its head from its body. The thing flopped about in a patch of tall grass, accepting its own death only gradually.

Fire Shrike’s backward slash carried her out of the male’s easy striking distance. She blew a kiss at the monster and smiled a taunt: “I thought you wanted me. What’s wrong?”

The male lunged again. Shrike dodged to the side with the ruined eye and countered with another slash. It anticipated, though, and ducked away, stopping to regard her from a safer distance.

It made a staccato cough next and then turned to flee. It was as fast as a dark ribbon of lightening, but Shrike poured all of the spirits’ thirst for blood into a sprint and leaped, dagger drawn back. The blade came down into the back of the thing’s pelvis. More fire bloomed and claimed another enemy.

The snake creature thrashed as if it feared returning to the Hell of Burning Tears more than anything else. Shrike, afraid of being caught in its dying fury, jumped back and left the dagger embedded and searing away flesh. Soon all signs of life disappeared from the monster’s charred husk.

The shaman retrieved her weapon and walked over to the dead female for another look. Its body had expelled six eggs as it perished. Unready for the outside, the shells split open because of fragility alone. How many mating pairs, she wondered, were out there? How many eggs might hatch successfully in the whole of Lazrah nation by the spring?

It was well outside her power to help now, though, so she sat on the blanket from Dageran’s supplies. With sunset it had grown cold, but she was not shivering. The chill felt good, but she should have been scrambling to start a fire. She should be seeing her breath in plumes of steam, but there was nothing. Her hair should have been soaked with sweat, but there was none.

Fear danced in her stomach as she contemplated the reality of what the power of the dead had done to her body. She had hoped for this change, but now it terrified. Desperate to hurry Hassaket on her way, she had made a mistake. Or had she? Earth Mother had shown her no other way. Princess Ixchel would have demanded a human spirit, and she had none to offer but her own. Lord Agni and Sky Father had never shown her any interest. Cennern would have made her into something even less human, and Wendigo was beyond all consideration. Was there any other way she could have won this fight? What would Hassaket do when she returned to a lover that was always cool to the touch?

Shock hammered at her spirit. Now she would be Lone Wolf forever. She looked at her dagger. It always did her bidding. Would it give her a quick death if she asked?

Light teased her eyes next, disrupting her macabre thoughts. Shrike looked up, expecting to see some hint of the sun in the east, but the illumination was all around. It was like sitting in a rainbow, and then the light began to show her stories. The dead began telling her about the moments of happiness they had stolen from the grip of Irikiti’s priesthood. A pageant of raucous games, elegant marriages, passionate couplings, happy children, and peaceful songs unfolded before her eyes.

Then, Ashalu manifested out of the light and told her the lyrics to Baby Mouse’s Picnic. He faded away after the words soaked into her memory, but the images continued. Shrike forgot all about the dagger and basked in the concentrated sweetness of forty-seven lives until dawn really did begin to color the horizon. She stood with the rising sun, pulled her tunic back on, and decided to face the world with her new body.

A group of men, equipped with spears and shields, came around a corner of Irikiti’s temple just as she sat back down. Dageran and the other men of Tamoz lead the way. They shouted and broke into a run when they saw her.

The soldiers stopped short, though, and examined the creatures’ charred bodies. The Geltash locals, lead by Adazi, came next and went wide-eyed at the sight of the carnage. All except the tall, imperious Hahdin dropped down to their knees in awe.

Dageran and his crew chose the effrazah instead. The Lord-Commander then came closer: “Good morning, Lady Shrike, and congratulations. I will never question your power again.” Some inhibition throttled the man’s next words, though, and then he asked a question. “Lady Shrike, are you well?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“You seem pale. Did these things poison you before you killed them?”

“No, I am well,” she said, “but communing with the spirits can exact a price. Please have someone get spades and shovels. I’ll need stones for cairns, and I’ll need my calsi, too. There are two spirits here that need to be led to Lapat Shan.”

Shrike specified by gesturing at the fallen monsters. Men hurried away to meet her requests. Hahdin alone contested her directions: “Why do you want to put these things to any sort of rest? I say leave them to the vultures.”

Adazi lashed out before Shrike could say anything. “Man, do you see all of this? Remember Jonis? I know you were there. He actually managed to drive a spear into the gut of one of those things, and it just slid off. They mauled him while we ran like kicked dogs, but this girl killed them both! By herself! Do you really think she doesn’t know what to do?”

Shrike struggled to be polite. “If you understood, Hahdin, you would not question me. These things once were human. They deserve a funeral like everyone else.”

Hahdin scowled and blushed before stepping back. Shrike tagged “and you are welcome” on the end of the exchange. From where, she wondered, did he get all of his bitterness?

Runners came back in short order with everything requested. Carrying the little harp as if it were made of glass, a Tamoz veteran handed her the calsi. The digging of the graves commenced, and the people of Geltash began to dribble in next. Shrike had nothing to do but watch the crowd gather.

Amazement shocked everyone as soon as they saw her and the pair of dead things. Adazi conversed with different knots of people, but she couldn’t hear any of the words well enough to understand. Then, men prepared to sling the burned reptiles into the fresh pits.

She objected at the rough treatment. “Gently! Those bodies belonged to your people once!” Everyone stopped moving or even talking. Fire Shrike stood stunned for a moment at the sound of her own voice. Each angry word now had a shadow of thunder behind it, a little like the sound of Hassaket’s sorcery before Merkeses.

The dead, it seemed, had made it impossible for her to become frustrated without revealing just how much of her humanity was gone.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to yell.” The internment began again with lighter hands and complete silence. When the cairns had been erected at the head of each grave, she sat between the two piles of stone.

Everyone formed a wide circle around the new graves and Shrike. She looked at both of her index fingers. Earth Mother had long-since erased any sign of trauma on the tips of both, so she opened the left one. Her changed flesh actually resisted the dagger’s edge. Shrike managed a sufficient cut, though, and drew Earth Mother’s sigil on each cairn. Her blood was now a dark purple instead of red. The dead had marked her inside and out.

She took up her calsi and strummed a few notes. Her new voice be damned, she would sing these spirits to their rest. Shrike chose Baby Mouse’s Picnic since it had a deep hold on the Lazrah people. Merkeses also knew of it, and Ashalu would be pleased:

“Let’s all go to / Baby Mouse’s picnic / We’ll need rose cups for dew / So that I can share with you / At Baby Mouse’s picnic.”

“Let’s all go to / Baby Mouse’s picnic / We’ll need hackle berries / To sell to the frost faeries / At Baby Mouse’s picnic.”

“Let’s all go to / Baby Mouse’s picnic / We’ll need heads of gold wheat / For the best bread you can eat / At Baby Mouse’s picnic.”

“Let’s all go to / Baby Mouse’s picnic / We’ll need love in our hearts / Then we can all play our parts / At Baby Mouse’s picnic.”

The bass shadow reasserted itself in her words as she sang, but this time it sounded right to her. It was a cheerful song performed to mourn the dead. The words needed a shadow.

Two columns of rainbow light rose up out of the graves as Shrike played the last notes, and they took the forms of a young man and a young woman. They danced around her with slow steps that reminded her of courting snow herons. She smiled at the manifestation.

Then the spirits darted straight at Hahdin. The tall man looked at if he had been impaled by a spear as the spirits lost their recognizable forms and whirled around him like a dust devil made of lightning. The pair of ghosts bellowed like angry bears as they circled.

He dropped to the ground, holding his head in his hands. The circle of observers broke. People backed away from the light storm and cried out in fear. The wind gusted, and Shrike knew that the air was freezing, but her flesh now revealed in the cold.

The spirits then began to fade, and Shrike felt her own sinews relax. She had given the boy and girl their just release. They had voiced their pain. They were on their way to Earth Mother and their ancestors beyond the Veil. Her role as a shepherd of the dead had ended for a while.

Hahdin still crouched on the ground, but he appeared unharmed. His fellows pulled him to his feet and led him away. Dageran stepped in close to her and offered an effrazah before speaking. “Lady Shrike, what did all of that mean?”

“I’m not sure. I’d rather not guess.”

The Lord Commander grimaced in a way that conveyed agreement. “I appreciate your caution. Are you still well?”

“Yes. Better than when you first asked that question.”

“Good. So, now you know the words to Baby Mouse’s Picnic? Did Merkeses teach you again?”

“No, the dead taught me. A little boy named Ashalu said that it always made him smile.”

Chapter Ten: Blade of Merkeses

Hassaket came to the wide bend in the river that took the water eastward. Below her sprawled what remained of the next town down from Geltash: Kodan. A Skiras war party had already made the place into a fire-blackened waste. Even the town’s battered ziggurat had smashed entry doors. She considered that settlers from Tamoz and Geltash might claim it when the spring came, but that hinged on the fight against Irikiti.

The rebel herald abandoned the path of the river and angled to the northwest through grey skies that had just begun to spit snow. The timing of the weather was horrendous. Fire Shrike wanted her to hurry, so she refused to be forced out of the sky. Walking from here would take forever.

The enemy’s unfinished temple seemed close enough now to warrant new levels of caution, though, so she swooped downward to fly above the treetops. Dalmirae had spotted her flying high, framed against the open sky. This could not happen again.

In fact, she had plans for the rival herald. Merkeses was not only the All-Seeing. Her God was also the Cunning Jackal. Hassaket would introduce Dalmirae to this alternate aspect if they met again. The odds, it seemed to her, were good.

Something, though, interrupted her plotting. Hassaket saw a pair of big animals crouched below her, so she banked back for another look. Two of Irikiti’s reptile things, both just like the one she fought in Tamoz, glared up at her from a trio of human corpses.

They had to be depopulating the countryside. The dead travelers were the only Lazrah she had spotted since leaving Tamoz. It was true that this part of the nation had small numbers, but there always used to be at least a few boats on the river. Now nothing moved along the water.

A new sense of haste from the sighting drove her onward. The trees became scattered and shorter as she flew. The snow also finally quit, helping her pace. At the last bunch of decent trees, she circled and took a careful look for any more of Irikiti’s snakes before sitting down under some branches. Hassaket then opened her senses to perceive any diabolic wards that might be waiting.

One did exist in the same direction as the unfinished temple. The pit of her stomach tingled with the realization that the enemy had a trap ready, but the Cunning Jackal had resources for this challenge, too. The coming fight would be interesting.

She took to the air and stayed aloft until after the sun had set. Hassaket then gnawed some salted beef and took a drink from the new snow before starting again in the dark. She was still flying at dawn. The sun had climbed to its zenith when the ridge that divided the Lazrah from the Skiras appeared on the horizon.

After flying for most of the remaining afternoon, she climbed up into the sky for a good look around and spotted the unfinished temple in the distance. Hassaket then dove back down after this glance and began marching. Stealth now took all priority over speed.

Night held complete sway when Hassaket confronted a creek bed churning with muddy water. She flew just far enough to jump it. The gulley was probably part of the same dry one she had used for cover with Fire Shrike in the summer. Then she sat behind some nearby shrubs and reached out to sense the enemy’s ward again.

It fairly hummed with power, easy to detect but likely to open another gate for one of Irikiti’s minions. The khat’laba from the summer had almost killed her, and this time she was alone, but Hassaket ignored the thought. Even before her Elevation to herald, war and death had been part of her life. This was what she did, and now she had the aid of Merkeses, so hope stayed with her spirit.

Losing Fire Shrike, though, would be failure’s terrible price.

She crept towards the ward until the temple grounds appeared at the edge of her vision. The tent city for Lazrah soldiers was gone. The ziggurat, minus a top level and a part of a second, stood about two hundred paces away, and a sort of big kennel had been erected adjacent and left of it. Inside the kennel a few tattered tents seemed to slouch like tired beggars around two flickering campfires. The only movement Hassaket could see was that of figures pacing back and forth. They had to be guards.

Hassaket resolved to watch and wait, but that became boring after a while, so her test of Irikiti’s defenses began with an entreaty to Merkeses’ subversive aspect:

“Cunning Jackal, grant your servant the power to work your will; Cunning Jackal, grant your servant the tranquility to see the path; Cunning Jackal, grant your servant the grace to meet her ending well.”

With a simple reaching and grasping gesture, she summoned Merkeses’s crossbow and quiver into the human world next, cocked back the bow, and fit a bolt in the weapon’s channel. Then she pushed outward with her left palm held open. A ghostly image of her form materialized and drifted into the night towards the boundary of the ward.

When Hassaket’s false self met the diabolists’ sorcery, the world before her exploded. A column of green fire wider than the whole temple complex shot upward, vaulting higher than she had seen any bird fly. Then, it curved outward and downward, a tremendous wave of incineration.

There was no time to fly and nowhere to hide. Only Merkeses’s power could save her now. It had stopped the Blood Drinker’s sorcery, and it could stop this.

Hassaket opened her arms as if she were embracing immolation and invited Merkeses to choose life or death for her. Now her spirit knew a God’s protection. She would never belong to Irikiti again. Better yet, she had known Fire Shrike’s love. Even if her fate were death, this outcome would surpass anything she could have imagined for a long time.

The chartreuse destruction came down with a slapping splash all around. It buried the rebel herald, but her immediate space remained empty and cool. Merkeses had elected to use her still.

The flames died, revealing a hellish landscape shrouded by smoke from burnt grass and steam from vaporized snow. Thinking that fate favored the bold, Hassaket flew up next in a high arc that targeted the kennel. The hazy murk enveloped her as she ascended.

On the way down it became clear that the ward spared the temple grounds. It was an island of relative normalcy surrounded by a wide ring of devastation. One of the guards that Hassaket had spotted outside the kennel looked up at her as she descended. Eight black eyes and a pair of blood-siphoning fangs crowded out any other facial features. It held a tall staff with a blade on one end.

She delivered a crossbow quarrel to its head before it could take any action. The corrupted human fell but still squirmed with life. Just like the Bone Render in Tamoz, this thing radiated regenerative sorcery.

Inside the kennel captives wrapped in rags cowered as a second corrupt human rushed Hassaket as her feet touched down. It ran as fast as a horse could gallop, but it had started its charge from too far away. She managed to snap another crossbow quarrel into place and launch it.

The range was very close. The projectile disappeared into the thing’s chest where its heart should be. It fell facedown and went still, the bolt’s metal head peaking out by the monster’s backbone.

“Finally,” she whispered to herself, “a decisive kill.”

The first of Irikiti’s slaves was climbing back to its feet, so Hassaket flung the crossbow back across the Veil and drew her sword. She lunged next and drove the falcata’s blade deep into the corrupted human’s sternum before it could manage an attack. The heart, Hassaket had decided, was the target of choice. This enemy confirmed her judgment by dropping like the victim of the completely fatal crossbow bolt.

She flew over to the kennel’s gate next and brought her sword down on the chain that held it closed. The iron links could not resist the falcata’s blade and fell in a pile.

“RUN,” she demanded while yanking open the little prison, but the captives still cowered. They hesitated to get close to a winged woman that until now had only butchered everything in her path. She then flew to the back of the enclosure, yelled again, and this time managed the desired result. The men and women, obviously Skiras now that Hassaket had a closer look, ran for the gate like rabbits fleeing a pen.

A spasm of green flashes exploded at her back next, so the rebel herald spun to face the new disturbance. The slender form of Dalmirae and several other beings were looking down at her from the edge of the temple’s first level. The loyalist’s companions were serpentine from the waist down. Glossy red and black scales patterned their long torsos with shapes like diamonds.

Dalmirae looked confused by her sorcery’s failure, so Hassaket provided enlightenment: “The All-Seeing won’t let you have such an easy kill! It looks like you’ll have to come get me!” With that challenge Hassaket leapt to the top of the kennel fence and dived into flight, hoping the loyalist would pursue.

The rebel herald, spotting a pair of many-eyed humans in her new path, decided to stay low. Even better, they had their backs turned to her as they closed in on a knot of fleeing Skiras. She caught up with them and prepared to spread more vengeance.

All eight of their eyes focused forward, so the first one never had a chance as the point of her falcata punched between its shoulder blades. It tumbled down. She landed a downward swing into the eyes of the second one just as it turned back to see what had happened. This slave fell with a more stylish show of blood than the first, but Hassaket knew that they both still lived. A real chance of survival, however, now opened for the desperate Skrias.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Dalmirae catching up. There was no time to finish the two kills. She kept flying instead, intent on a chance to face her rival herald without interference.

When she had flown far enough, Hassaket landed in a broad expanse of field and dropped into a low stance, falcata at the ready. Dalmirae remained aloft upon her arrival, circled at a respectful distance, and started a conversation. “Is your little bitch in attendance tonight?”

“It’s just you and me. Why don’t you come down?”

“One moment,” Dalmirae said before vocalizing a conjuration. A fan of green fire cascaded from the outstretched hands of Irikiti’s loyal herald as she glided. A charred ring of land all around Hassaket resulted.

Merkeses’s priestess appreciated the devastation for the security cordon it was. “Very nice. It never pays to be too trusting, but notice that we really are alone. You’ve destroyed grass and nothing else.”

Dalmirae landed perhaps twenty paces distant. “Ah, the truth. How refreshing.”

“Why have you chased me this far? I thought you liked a sure thing. This is a fight you might lose.”

“Irikiti gave me the order to kill you if we met again. Here is my chance.”

“You haven’t tried at all since the last time. Why have you made me come to you?”

“I am sorry that it hurts your pride, but know that other goals have taken priority over you.”

Hassaket stood straight and laughed. “I beg your pardon, but I really am that important. Irikiti has made another mistake by distracting you away from me. You’ve had plenty of time, though, to think about my offer from this summer. It is not too late to pick a new path, but I don’t think I’ll make this offer again.”

Dalmirae growled. “I owe everything to my Lord. So do you.”

“Not true. Like all condemned spirits both of us were his pawns. He fed off of our suffering. He also fed off our victories because those spread suffering in turn, but I found a way out. My spirit is redeemed. Despite all of my faults, I have hope, and you’ve sensed it. That is why you are here. That is why you’ve chased me so far. Dalmirae, what kind of hope do you have?”

The loyalist’s eyes narrowed and then she answered with a question. “Hassaket, what exactly are you proposing?”

“I need you for the coming battle. Irikiti is readying something, isn’t he?”

“Perhaps. More importantly, I am amazed that you made it through the fire ward. How did you manage?”

“I am now an agent for Merkeses. The All-Seeing is not ready to concede after all of these years and is far from powerless. I am ready to make you a trade. I will liberate you, Dalmirae, but I need you to betray Irikiti first.”

“No gifts freely offered?”

“Like you I come from the Hell of Burning Tears. What did you expect?”

“I expected a true change.”

Hassaket laughed for a moment before responding. “Remember that you tried to drag me back to Irikiti when we last met. I don’t think I can win my war without your help, but I have to do this the old way. I will be vulnerable during the rite that frees you. I cannot make myself an easy target for someone of doubtful allegiance.”

“So, what makes you think Irikiti will not be able to sense my newly treacherous heart?”

“Merkeses can hide you for long enough, but you have to accept the Cunning Jackal’s Blessing. If you do, there will be no turning back.”

“I will have to fool Pakteshi, too.”

“Pakteshi?”

“A Bone Render. You’ve seen her before. You put a crossbow bolt in her back. You cut off her ear. You cleaved her shoulder.”

“She’s at this temple?”

“Yes. Less human now than any of the others, but she remembers you. She will be suspicious when I return without your head. The others, though, are not as aware.”

“Despite all those eyes, they aren’t. Still, we will have to make it appear as if you were in a fight and then wounded.”

“Hassaket,” said Dalmirae with a sad voice, “we lived evil lives when we were human. I don’t remember my sins. I don’t think you remember yours. Still, we condemned ourselves to the Hell of Burning Tears. By the strength of our spirits, we escaped from crude tortures and won places of favor with Lord Irikiti. We belong to Him. You are violating proper order. You are rebelling against your place. I will not add to your arrogance.”

She drew her scimitar and pulled in her wings. The black blade hissed rather than rang as it came free of its scabbard. Hassaket dropped back into a fighting stance and spoke her own mournful words. “I had thought you would be ready for true freedom.”

Dalmirae said “Your mistake,” and then she charged forward with her weapon extended outward. The falcata was shorter, so Hassaket readied to meet the scimitar with a parry. Then she caught a glimpse of something unexpected. The renegade managed to jump upward and snap her wings back out, gaining just enough lift to avoid losing a foot as Dalmirae struck low.

Irikiti’s loyalist then brought her weapon up in a high arc, but Hassaket continued upward fast enough to also avoid this second blow. The apostate then went even higher before landing well out of reach and turning back around. They had traded places. Dalmirae came at her again with a sideways gait, offering a small profile and readying a lunge. Hassaket circled left and lunged first, though, smashing the dull side of her sword blade into the black weapon.

The artifact of Merkeses’ rule survived its first martial contact with hellish metal. Hassaket suspected that it would. She had seen this sort of sword in use long ago.

Dalmirae jumped back with help from her own hastily extended wings before Hassaket could thrust past the jolted scimitar. The falcata blade missed the wrist of the loyalist’s sword arm by less than a hand’s length.

Hassaket took to the air after a few strides, trying to catch Dalmirae’s retreat. The two then climbed and spiraled around each other, a bladed gyre. The renegade found herself throwing parries, though, with her shorter sword. The loyalist was as hard to catch as a leaf in a windstorm, so she retreated back to the ground again.

No choice existed except to take another low stance and face her still-circling enemy, so she did. Then Dalmirae made a pass overhead, intent on pressing her advantage. The renegade ducked in time to avoid a strike that would have spit her forehead, but she could see Dalmirae’s odds of victory mounting. Hassaket tensed her leg muscles and made ready to spring with the loyalist’s next pass. She would meet her end fighting, not hiding.

Hassaket pushed up into Dalmirae’s next swooping attack while parrying the scimitar with her sword. Then she grabbed the bundle of sinews at the root of the loyalist’s right wing with her free hand and yanked down hard. Dalmirae flipped onto her back in midair and smashed into the ground. Hassaket fell on top and drove her sword’s pommel into Dalmirae’s chin. Then the renegade pulled back and plunged the falcata blade into her dazed enemy’s stomach.

Herald’s blood gushed over the charred earth. The loyalist lost her strength and her weapon. All she managed next was to speak with a croak as her eyes pleaded with the night sky: “Hassaket, you rebellious cunt.”

“Yes?”

“If I were Irikiti, I would have Elevated you one hundred years ago.”

Hassaket almost broke into a smile and said nothing. Dalmirae closed her eyes, took three more labored breaths, and then lost all signs of life.

Chapter Eleven: Messengers

Fire Shrike sat on the top of Geltash’s ziggurat and looked northward from under what Dageran called a parasol. It was like a tent on a staff. The Lord-Commander’s gracious gift had kept the recent snow flurries off, but today the sun was breaking through the grey. She decided to keep the little shelter up anyways. Her newly pale skin did not care too much for sunlight.

Wedges of geese had been the only sight so far, but Shrike kept watching. Someone, though, eventually distracted her by cresting the stairs. Dageran placed a tray of roasted duck by her and gave an effrazah before speaking. “Good afternoon, Lady Shrike. I see there’s no sign of Sahgat Hassaket.”

“None. Thanks for the food.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ve been distracted,” she said. “How are things with this place?”

“Geltash is returning to normal, but I know Adazi and some of the others are wondering what to do next.”

“Hassaket will answer that question for us.”

Dageran only sighed for an answer, so Shrike continued.

“It is still early. She will be back.”

“But what if you are wrong?”

“Then, I will give the safe answer: Prepare for war. If Irikiti’s forces are gathering their strength to the north, they will come back. Since Geltash and Tamoz are rebellious, everyone here will have to fight or be killed. Running away into the teeth of a winter would be just another kind of death sentence for most in Geltash and Tamoz. If your people aren’t soldiers, they are soft.”

“I agree,” said Dageran, “but I also think many here in Geltash need to hear that judgment from your mouth. Leave out the ‘soft’ part, though.”

It was Shrike’s turn to sigh, but then she capitulated. “Very well. Can you have the leaders of Geltash come together for a meeting this evening?”

“Yes, Lady Shrike.”

“I will tell them my thoughts. It will be especially interesting to hear what Hahdin says.”

Dageran smiled wearily before commenting. “Actually, he has been quiet since the morning we buried Irikiti’s snakes.”

“That is strange. Have you heard anything about why that pair of spirits showed such interest in him?”

“The man has, or maybe had, two children.”

“Maybe?”

“Adazi reports a steady flow of rumors about them. He says that Hahdin hid his anguish when Geltash’s Bone Render selected his son and daughter to become courtesans for the Masheba Court.”

“Courtesans?” questioned Shrike. “I don’t know that word.”

“Sexual playthings for the powerful of Irikiti’s priesthood.”

“Oh. I see.”

“He never received any correspondences from his children after their departure. I saw that the spirits were a man and a woman. Could all of this be part of one story?”

“Yes,” agreed Shrike. “It was likely a lie that Hahdin’s children were to be . . . courtesans. They became victims of possession instead. That explains the spirits’ agitation with their father. They felt betrayed. Didn’t Hahdin suspect that the Bone Render was acting in bad faith?”

Dageran frowned. “Probably, but he had no recourse. None of us would have. All of us worked to meet the expectations of Irikiti’s slaves. Hahdin, a wealthy merchant with a family, ran special risks.”

“Why do you think he has been so vicious since we first met? Surely he had to suspect that his children met a bad fate before we ever arrived.”

“I guess he underestimated you like I once did. Remember that he was not certain of his children’s fate, and you looked like a bad bet. He feared that your failure might mean vengeance visited on them.”

“But in fact,” said Fire Shrike, “Irikiti’s dogs had already sacrificed his son and his daughter. Hahdin just had no way of knowing. How horrible. All I did was free their spirits. It was too late for their bodies.”

“All you did was free his children’s spirits? Why is this a small thing? He owes you a giant debt.”

“I hope he sees it that way.”

“I’ll have him watched. There is no knowing what he might do if he blames you for the death of his children. Irikiti may have given him blades in his arms already.”

“Yes, you are wise. Please let me know. I am tired of assassins.”

“Of course.” Dageran then gave a departing effrazah and started back down the stairs.

Shrike took two bites of duck and then went back to watching the skies. Now her appetite was as slim as Hassaket’s. By evening, geese were still the largest things she had spotted in the air.

When the sunlight was only a glimmer on the clouds, Shrike walked down the temple’s stairs with the closed parasol over her shoulder. Two guards waited for her at ground level and trailed her back to the house where everyone from Tamoz quartered. The escorts only quit their duty when she stepped into her private room.

The space was not big, but it was too much for her to fill alone. Then again, she couldn’t imagine a room small enough to make her feel whole. Only Hassaket could make her whole.

Whispers of the dead floated around her for a moment, signaling that the sun had set completely. This manifestation happened every night since she had fought the pair of reptiles, and she was now accustomed. A knock at her door followed. “Lady Shrike?” asked Dageran.

“I am ready,” she said while stepping out into the hall. The pair, trailed by another soldier from Tamoz, walked outside and along the dark streets to a large building. The smell of cooking meat and wood smoke surrounded the structure. Guards stationed at the double doors opened them wide for the trio.

Shrike recognized it as a banquet hall. Everyone stood when they saw her, and all conversations ended. Adazi came out to greet her through the room’s cataba smoke and gave his effrazah. “It is such a pleasure to see you, Lady Shrike. Geltash needs to voice its appreciation for your bravery, your ferocity, your piety.”

The customary pounding on the tables then began. Shrike gave an effrazah to the gathering, and Adazi led her and Dageran to their own places. A meal of fish promptly appeared with a cup of seniri. Shrike ate half and gave the rest to a little dog that was begging under the table. In the same time she downed a whole flagon of seniri. That would have been enough to put her on the floor at one time, but now it felt merely pleasant.

“Don’t get into a drinking bout with Lady Shrike,” said a burly man right next to her. “If I’d put away that much seniri so fast, I’d have pissed myself, stripped, and danced on the tables by now. The wife wouldn’t let me back in the house, and then I’d lose my wanker to the frost!” That made everyone in earshot almost cry with laughter, and Shrike couldn’t help but join the crowd. Perhaps she was not so changed by the dead after all.

The meal came to an end and Adazi stood up, holding his arms out to catch everyone’s attention. After a few shouts and bawdy taunting from the crowd, the group calmed. “On to business,” he said next. “We have now celebrated the death of Irikiti’s monsters, but we must look ahead. I would like especially,” Adazi added while looking at her, “to hear Lady Shrike’s thoughts. She is a warrior and a shaman. It would be a horrible mistake to keep her out of our counsel.”

She stood. “My people would call this group capa lowtan, a council of elders. I will try to add to the wisdom here. I can tell you that Merkeses granted me a vision of Irikiti growing strong again in the north. He will be coming back for vengeance on Geltash and Tamoz, and I say strike first. Irikiti’s slaves will return when they are ready, and they will be thirsty for more blood than ever. Geltash should not wait for the enemy to be ready. Tamoz will strike with you. I am sure of it.” Then she gave an effrazah and sat back down.

Her statement evoked tepid pounding on the tables. The men seated around Hahdin remained still. They seemed to be waiting for him, and then he did stand. “I am tired,” he began with a level voice, “of war. I’ve been conscripted many times. I never bought a surrogate to fight the Kaladites or the Skiras. I’ve always served Lazrah in person. Geltash, furthermore, has been conscripted most years in my memory. We are all tired of war. We have all fought, and some gave their lives.”

“This is also an especially bad time. Irikiti’s slaves took the datat from our granaries early this year. I am not sure we can send men northward to fight without forcing famine on our wives and children. In the end, though, none of this matters.”

Shrike looked up at Hahdin, puzzled by the man’s last words. He was standing straight, emphasizing his considerable height. Then anger began to rip through his voice as he continued speaking in the smoky banquet hall.

“None of this matters because I am sure that Geltash cannot eat any more of Irikiti’s shit! We have been choking on it for years, and then His slaves left behind a pair of predators to keep us cowering! I say kill as many of those bastards as we can and go to our old God singing! We will find peace on one side of death or the other! It doesn’t matter! Death or Victory! Either is an escape!”

A stunned silence blanketed the room. Fire Shrike then made a fist and pounded the table before her. The wood threatened to split because her transformed flesh and bones now delivered blows like a hammer. It sounded like a clap of thunder. She dropped her fist again. This time Adazi and Dageran joined her.

The rumble spread all across the room. It was not a chaotic sound made by individuals expressing their approval. It was the sound of Geltash’s collective heart beating out of hatred for Irikiti.

Everyone pushed back from Fire Shrike’s table as her fist shattered it with a crash. The little dog darted clear with a yelp. The shaman then stood and gave a trill howl at the ceiling rafters. It was the traditional cry Skiras women made when their men went off to war, but her new voice made the ululation new and frightening. The gathering roared back bellicose approval.

Hahdin alone remained quiet, but he did catch Fire Shrike’s eye with a joyless smile. He then executed a crisp effrazah.

* * *

The rebel herald pushed her wings as hard as she could. The snow and clouds had gone, aiding her speed, and the cold breeze invigorated her body. The river, meanwhile, flowed down below with white caps on its waves.

In a fit of inspiration Hassaket pulled off her tunic in mid-air and splashed under the water’s surface. She was disheveled and Geltash was close. Meeting Fire Shrike while smelling like an animal would not do.

Retuning to the sky while soaking wet, however, tested even her tolerance for cold. Hassaket gritted her teeth and endured. She had to know that everything was well. The burning worry in her heart dwarfed every other feeling.

The exertion from flying was beginning to thaw her arms and legs when Geltash’s ziggurat came into view. After getting a little closer, Hassaket spotted a parasol on the top of the temple and a figure under it, looking upward. She then recognized Fire Shrike. Her Starlight Sparrow was waiting.

Hassaket dropped downward and then stopped hard, testing her wing’s strength with a harsh landing near to the shaman. Haste would be the rule for this journey through to its last moments. She looked to see Shrike standing with folded arms and a brittle smile.

No words could sound right, so Hassaket ran to her lover, kneeled, and hugged her around the waist. After a moment, Shrike reached down and tugged her chin up so that they could look at each other. “Hassaket, are you well?”

“Not until you forgive me, Starlight Sparrow. I should never have left without saying that I love you. I love you; I do. Please believe that.”

An expression Hassaket could not name held Shrike’s face. It was frightened and hopeful at the same time. “I love you, too,” said the spirit rider. “I forgive you. Don’t say anything more. You only wanted to keep me safe. Maybe I did not listen closely enough.”

“Something else is wrong?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“You don’t see it? You don’t feel it? I’m pale. I’m cold to the touch.”

“You do look different.” Hassaket ran one of her hands slowly up the back of Shrike’s thigh. “And you feel different. There is a storm dancing through you body.”

“Yes,” the shaman said with a quaver. “I am changed. I am not human any more.”

“Not human?” said a puzzled Hassaket before smiling. “Did you expect that to be my concern? I am in love with something in you that transcends mere humanity. The light in your eyes is still my Starlight Sparrow. The rest is exquisite in a new way.”

“It is?”

“The best parts of your body,” said Hassaket as she ran her other hand up the back of Shrike’s other thigh, “are the same. I am anxious to taste the new. Will we be alone up here?”

“No,” groused a frustrated Fire Shrike. “There are guards posted down below us. They check on me sometimes.”

“Well, that’s proper. You’re precious.” Hassaket looked over at the ziggurat’s doors, already ajar from having been bashed open, and slipped one hand free of Shrike’s tunic to gesture at them. “Was Geltash’s Bone Render keeping prisoners like Tamoz’s?”

“No. I guess the reptiles were thought to be enough punishment for these people.”

“And I sense no ward.”

“I saw it and destroyed it.”

“Wonderful. Your power grows in leaps and bounds. I am guessing no one would bother us inside.”

Shrike nodded. “Let’s go. I’ve missed you so much.”

They walked hand-in-hand to the doors, and Hassaket pushed on one. It opened into darkness. Then they stepped inside and found a broken timber to brace them closed again. Absolute silence reigned. “I see nothing,” said Hassaket. “Has Earth Mother given you any sign of movement down there?”

“No. We are alone.”

They embraced for a long kiss before pulling off their unwanted clothing. Then they took plenty of time to wring the passion from each other’s bodies. Afterwards, Hassaket found conversation emerging between them like spring flowers. “Starlight Sparrow, are you going to tell me how you triumphed?” she asked through a woozy haze.

“Yes. I destroyed the pair of monsters by communing with the dead of Geltash. Now I am as you see me.”

“I have found no imperfections after a complete and satisfying search,” said a mock-indignant Hassaket. “You did nothing wrong. Now it will also be easier for me to stop being such a bitch, too. There is a new power in you. No assassin will slay you with a treacherous stab. Irikiti will have to try much harder now, and I can worry less.”

“I hope my family will not be afraid of me.”

“They will see that the same light still shines in your eyes just like I see it now. That should be enough.”

“How bad is it in the north?”

Hassaket winced. “Irikiti’s slaves are congregating at the unfinished temple where you killed the Bone Render this summer. Now Tamoz’s Bone Render is there. I bet Irikiti’s curs from Geltash are there, too. I saw soldiers twisted completely by diabolic gifts. They have been capturing Skiras. I raided the place and freed a fair number, but my plan mostly failed.”

“What failure? You saved people of my nation. Thank you! I love you! How can you call this a failure?”

“You are right. I shouldn’t belittle the good I managed, but I had also hoped to bring Dalmirae to our side. She refused, and I killed her instead. I fear that Irikiti is preparing a grand expression of His power. Without Dalmirae ready to strike from amongst the enemy, I worry for our war’s final outcome.”

“We’ll fight anyways. What made you think she could be turned?”

“Dalmirae did not hate me. I could feel that much. The absence of hatred is important among diabolists. It is rare. She was just a loyal soldier for Irikiti. I thought I could convince her that more worthy objects of loyalty existed, but I failed. I buried her body and her scimitar under a pile of rocks because she was only doing her duty. It bothers me to think about her suffering Irikiti’s rage now.”

Shrike took her hand. “You never know. Especially if you left behind something like her weapon, a show of respect like burial can ripple though to the other side of the Veil. You are also a priestess of Merkeses, and that gives your actions even more weight. Don’t be so sure her spirit is doomed to the Hell of Burning Tears again.”

Hassaket smiled and leaned in to kiss her. “You lift my spirit like no one I have ever met.”

The sound of urgent conversation outside, muffled by the doors, interrupted the moment. “They are wondering where I am,” said Shrike with a whisper as she stood. “We should go and make sure no one panics.”

Hassaket stood next to her. “No, please wait. You are safe. They will learn the truth soon enough.”

“I will always wait for you. What is it, Lover?”

“I want to know more. Is Geltash ready to fight like Tamoz?”

“Yes,” said Shrike. “They are eager.”

“Good. You have done well. We will attack with the spring thaw and win a full measure of vengeance.”

“Like you in Tamoz, I did what was right in Geltash. That’s all.”

“Now you are belittling yourself. That’s not right for you, either. Accept that we are special, Starlight Sparrow. Our past deeds and mistakes mean nothing. We are fit rulers. We are fit lovers. Everything is perfect. We are together. These people are rallying to challenge Irikiti. I find happiness in all of this.”

Fire Shrike started a trail of little kisses down her neck. Hassaket luxuriated in the moment until the shaman’s lips reached her breasts. Standing became an intolerable chore, and then they slid together back down to the temple floor, seized again by the urgent fever of coupling. Everything was indeed perfect.

* * *

Shrike cuddled with Hassaket under a heap of blankets and watched the light from the fireplace play across the room’s rafters. The big dwellings of the Lazrah had disadvantages, she reflected, but they were far from all bad. They could be pretty, and they conveyed a comforting sense of permanence.

Of course, that permanence was illusionary. She knew that only the manifestations of Princess Ixchel, Earth Mother, and Sky Father had permanence on this side of the Veil, but her thoughts also provoked a question. Shrike looked over at Hassaket: “My Love, can you live forever?”

There was a pause before the answer. “No. Since I freed myself from the Hell of Burning Tears, this body must die. I accept that.”

“So you threw away immortality?”

“Not really. Once Irikiti grants enough Elevations, a given diabolist becomes a threat. He disposes of them. Their spirits go back to the bottom of the Hell of Burning Tears. If they pull themselves out again, they have suffered for thousands of years and have lost all memories of their past Elevations. What is immortality when the fires of a hell have incinerated your old lives?”

“What if you managed to replace Irikiti?”

“That dream drives many diabolists. I cast it aside when I won my freedom, and I still think it was a good trade. What about you? Does Earth Mother grant you immortality?”

“No. Just vigor. I will live a strong, long life, and I will not linger when the end does come. Old age will claim me in the time it takes lightening to jump across the sky.”

“And I’ll get to die, too” said Hassaket. “Merkeses will guide my spirit, so we’ll find each other on the other side of the Veil. See? I knew immortality as a diabolist wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Then we can pleasure each other forever, lying on a bed of grass in the shade of an oak groove,” said Fire Shrike as she wiggled closer still. “It will be either a clear day in the spring or a warm night in the summer, your choice.”

“How about pools of water,” proposed Hassaket, “in a stream made hot by Earth Mother’s power and surrounded by snowy fields? And servants. There should be servants.”

Shrike chuckled for an answer, but then drowsiness began to pull on her eyelids. They had spent almost all of the day in private, and sleep’s call was finally stronger than the urge for sex.

The next time she opened her eyes, Shrike realized that she had been asleep. Hassaket remained slumbering. The fire had become red coals. She slipped out of the covers and put a new log in the hearth.

Then she heard an insistent tapping at the window. They were on the second floor of a home, so it was a concern. Shrike retrieved her dagger from under their mattress of straw-stuffed canvas but rejected the idea of waking her partner. Even Hassaket had to be exhausted after her last expedition, and this noise probably had a harmless explanation.

She pushed back the curtains that hung down over the shutters. The tapping persisted, but it remained only tapping. A servant of Irikiti would have simply bashed its way inside by now, so she unbarred the shutters and pushed one open a crack.

Something fluttered into the room and landed on a rafter. It was a fuzzy moth with pale blue wings, each as big as one of her open hands. Fire Shrike held out her arm, and it flew down to the offered perch. The animal had antennae like delicate ferns and eyes the color of gold.

The Skiras shaman realized that she was holding a manitoue, a messenger of Sky Father’s, and that epiphany blotted out her sight of the room. Mist Stag instead manifested out of a golden shimmer. A mask of scars covered one whole side of the old shaman’s face. He had been burned. The eye on the undamaged side glittered with understanding but his voice wheezed: “My child, I have found you! Praise Sky Father! I heard from some of our people that a winged woman had helped them, so the story made me remember you and Hassaket. The rebel herald flies, and thus Sky Father found her for me. She has in turn led my plea to you.”

“This,” he said while indicating the ruined side of his face, “is a gift from one of Irikiti’s spawn. Sky Father’s lightening, though, made sure it was his last act of defilement, and my pain won time for some of our people to flee. I regret nothing.”

“This and more happened because of Flint Ox. After our people’s victory at Kodan, he gave himself and his followers over to Irikiti. I underestimated his depravity. The turncoats struck at night from within our own encampment as everyone else dreamed of returning to their own tribes, their own families.”

“Many braves fell. There is no good way to tell you that your brother Storm Cat died. I am sorry, but know that he made your family proud. Flint Ox’s curs fought with Irikiti’s gifts, but your brother still made sure that one is now in a hell forever.”

“We fled deep into the homeland, but some of us have now returned. We are not all ready to quit. Flint Ox’s brood has gone quiet at Irikiti’s temple closest to our home, and I am marshalling an ingawasi. We will attack there with the dawn, three days before the night of the winter solstice. Sky Father has warned me that we must act before this longest night. We are not many, but surprise and a hunger for revenge may carry the day.”

“Child, please join us. I was wrong when I said that the Skiras did not need you. I am ready to pay for my foolishness, but your help might mean that others will not have to perish with me.”

Mist Stag faded out, and the room faded in. A dwindling amber nimbus surrounded her, and then Hassaket sprang up and drew her sword with a shout. “Sparrow, down!”

The blade whistled over her just after she dropped. Shrike went silent and stayed crouched on the floor. Mist Stag’s story had hit her like a kick to the stomach. Hassaket, however, had questions: “Shrike, what was that? Are you safe?”

She mumbled her answer: “Mist Stag sent me a manitoue.”

“Manitoue?”

“Yes. It is a message delivered by Sky Father’s blessing.”

An insistent voice sounded from behind the door. The guards had heard the commotion. “Sahgat Hassaket, Lady Shrike?”

“We are well,” answered Hassaket.

“Good, Sahgat. We are sorry for the interruption.”

“Please do not apologize. Thanks for your vigilance.”

“Yes, Sahgat.”

The quiet returned, and Merkeses’s priestess addressed her again. “So, what did he say?”

Shrike recounted the tale while still crouched on the floor, but she left out Storm Cat’s death. She was not ready to hear those words in the air yet.

Hassaket focused on Flint Ox. “He turned to Irikiti after Kodan? The fool!”

Misery began to make Shrike’s head throb, so she pulled her legs to her chest and closed her eyes. “I knew his heart was dead a long time ago. I might have seen his act of hate. I might have stopped him. Now Irikiti has chosen my people to inflict the next purge. First there was the Satae, and they failed. Then there was the Lazrah. They failed at Kodan. He means for Skiras braves to make sure spirits keep filling the Hell of Bloody Tears next. It’s my fault. I’ve forgotten my own people.”

She heard the rebel herald sit on the floor next to her. Then Hassaket took her hand and kissed it. “Shrike, how can that be true? Your people had a great triumph at Kodan. They had a great triumph without you. All Flint Ox had to do was go back home and find some other wife. Instead he decided to become the sort of corrupt thing he accused me of being. It is almost enough hypocrisy to make me vomit. If you had stayed with your people, he would have only made sure that you died first. After all, nothing would ever make you tolerate his touch. We would never have loved, and our lives would be empty.”

Hassaket caressed her cheek before continuing. “Listen to me, Starlight Sparrow: All of the blame is his. Besides, the only time we’ve quarreled was over fear for your people. You faced the two reptiles at Geltash alone so that I would hurry back north. Stop lying about yourself.”

Shrike spoke though the start of tears: “What now, Beloved?”

“That part is easy. We have to attack with Mist Stag. The spring thaw is too late. The third day before the night of the winter solstice is fifty-seven days from this coming dawn. We can be ready. The river still shouldn’t be clogged by ice. Do you think the invitation is open to the rest of us?”

“Of course.”

“I will leave for Tamoz at first light and see how they can help,” said Hassaket.

Shrike wrapped her arms around the rebel herald and whispered in her ear: “Thank you, Lover. I don’t think you know what your haste means to me, but I will never forget it. I will stay here, pray for you, and ready these people.”

They returned to bed, but sleep never came for Shrike. Storm Cat had shown her the most anger of anyone. He had been angry like the rest of her family when she refused all of the courting braves, but he never forgave her. He stayed away on the day that the rest of the family celebrated her start down the path of a shaman. Now she would never know reconciliation.

She sat up at hearing Hassaket move off their bed. The renegade herald was dressing and then looked down at her. “See me off?”

“Yes, yes,” said Shrike. She scrambled out of bed, pulled on a tunic, and followed her out of the room. The guards on duty for the second half of the night gave their effrazahs before following them.

Dageran was already up and outfitted for war when he saw their little procession stomping down the residence’s stairs. “Good morning, Sahgat Hassaket, Lady Shrike. Another journey?”

“Yes,” Shrike answered. “Hassaket is leaving for Tamoz.”

The Lord-Commander gave an effrazah to the winged woman. “I was hoping you would stay for discussions with Adazi and Hahdin.”

“I just learned of the day that we will attack Irikiti, and I must make sure Tamoz will be ready soon. Lady Shrike will stay behind; She is Geltash’s savior.”

Dageran added himself to the group as they all proceeded into the grey morning. He asked a question after walking a little: “What happened, Sahgat?”

“Let’s discuss it on top of the temple,” said Hassaket as she signaled for their guards to wait at the base of the ziggurat’s stairs.

Shrike told her story again when the trio reached the zenith: “My people have suffered treachery since destroying Kodan. Irikiti, faced with failure, tried afterwards to adopt the Skiras. A fight ensued among our braves, and those loyal to the Lord Diabolist won. All of the corrupted Skiras are now with the priesthood that left this place for the north. They will surely return to punish us for our uprising.”

Anger clouded Dageran’s face. “To think I ever gave my loyalty to Irikiti’s pricks. I will redeem my shame with their blood.”

“That any of my people accepted the same offer,” Shrike responded, “means we both have shame that needs to be washed away. The good from all of this is that our numbers grow. A band of braves loyal to Skiras traditions is readying another attack. We plan to join them.”

“So be it,” said Dageran.

“I will be back,” promised Hassaket, “and I will bring the fruits of Tamoz’s efforts. We will strike with the combined forces of two provinces and a Skiras war band. We will strike with the blessings of Merkeses and Lapat Shan. It will be a glorious struggle, no matter the outcome.”

The rebel herald spread her wings next and then embraced Shrike, dipping her back with a ferocious kiss before taking to the air. Rather than flying away immediately, though, she circled back once and called out: “I love you, Starlight Sparrow!”

“I love you, Hassaket!” she answered, and then she saw Dageran smiling. “What is it, Lord-Commander?”

“I enjoy seeing your happiness. What will you do now?”

“I will ready an ingawasi.”

Dageran turned grim. “I have fought enough Skiras to know what that is. How can I help?”

“I need people who have experienced great loss. Anyone too attached to this side of the Veil will not do. It is difficult to explain.”

The Lord-Commander nodded before taking his leave. “No matter. I am not a priest. I will ask the people here. One thing Irikiti has left behind everywhere is loss.”

Fire Shrike surveyed the land all around Geltash. It was still a fresh sight since she had spent so much time only watching the sky for Hassaket. Tamoz was piney, wet, and constrained by mountains, but here the western heights stretched far away on the horizon. There was room around the lake for expanses of flat, grassy land. It also had to be a dry place in the summer. The people of Geltash had made paddled constructs that spun with the wind at the lake’s edge to scoop up water. Ditches stretched out from the wind tools towards the surrounding crop fields.

Geltash’s soil, in short, was like her homelands’. This was a good thing. Finding wettai might be simple, and then she could truly punish all of those who dared to conjure so much hell.

Chapter Twelve: Generals

The Skiras shaman hung down from her room’s windowsill before dropping. It once would have been a dangerous fall to the cobblestone street below, but now she had the metal fortitude of the dead. She flexed her knees with the impact of landing and felt no pain at all.

Shrike then set off through the predawn dark. No escort attended her. She didn’t want to explain that other people would only distort her perceptions though the Veil, so the morning demanded this exercise in stealth. Some things had to be attended to in private.

Crowing cocks made the only noises at first, but then a barking dog blocked her way. Its white teeth glinted in the sky’s little trickle of light. Shrike crouched low, held out her hand, and whispered to the animal with Skiras words. “Come on, little child of Cennern.”

The animal whined and then padded forward with a wagging tail. It was long-legged, sleek, and black. She scratched behind its ear and went on. It frolicked along side her for a little while before returning to its home.

It did not take too long to clear the buildings of Geltash and begin striding through a field of hip-high grass turned brown by the autumn weather. Shrike kept moving until she reached a little ridge. The vegetation at the crest was thin. Little gullies creased the bare soil. Clusters of cacti also found purchase here, but they were not the variety she sought.

Still hopeful for discovery, Fire Shrike followed along the strip of raw earth. Orange light had begun to fill the western sky when she did come across the spiny wettai. Here was the plant that would allow the willing to penetrate the Veil. Here was the raw stuff to make an ingawasi, a pack of Skull Warriors.

Her obsidian dagger proved to be a precise tool for stripping spines and severing the bare stalk from its roots. It never ceased to amaze Fire Shrike that Hassaket’s enchantment knew when to inflict fiery destruction and when to allow for feathery precision. She then put the sticky branch in her satchel and surveyed the surrounding fields.

A band of rock broke through the soil a little further on, and Shrike went to investigate. She knew that the coming battle would be bloody, and a focus for Earth Mother’s power might be decisive. Where better to look than nearby a bunch of wettai?

The expanse of rocky soil bore some likely candidates, looking like oddly flattened eggs speckled with grey flecks. It was as if a flock of stone quails had abandoned their nests. She picked one that looked like an ideal fit for her sling.

Overt power writhed inside the rock. It was time to mark this focus with Earth Mother’s sigil. The ritual act took Shrike’s mind back to the late summer and the first time her Goddess had deemed her worthy of a focus. She had used it to protect her people from the carcadas that sprang from the Bone Render’s head.

So much had changed since then, but now life was circling back. Her new partnership with the Skiras nation loomed, offering a chance to ameliorate Flint Ox’s heresy. Shrike knew that chances like this did not appear often.

She cut her finger and traced the sigil. The flow of Earth Mother’s Grace, though, caught on some unseen eddy behind the Veil. Shrike shivered at a memory of her own words next: “Sometimes She falls silent for no reason.” This, the shaman knew, was one of Her times of quiet.

There was no trying again. Earth Mother could not be bullied. The refusal twisted the pit of her stomach. It felt like the botched exorcism for Mud Lion. She wondered if Storm Cat’s spirit was watching, angrier still because of her faith’s failure.

She sat down and decided to watch the morning brighten. Emptiness only filled creation. Even the birds were still. It was like the periphery of the Veil. The calm sang a faint dirge about death. Maybe it sang a prophecy for her.

If that were true, though, she was at least going to pay the debt to her people. In this thought Shrike found peace. In that peace she found a purpose and gathered the various stones on the ground before going back to the town. An ordinary rock hurled by a sling still maimed most beings.

Her appearance back at the residence caught the guards by surprise. Looking shame-faced, they now shadowed her but said nothing. She gathered some rye bread and cheese before sitting and eating in the gloom of the common hall. The fireplace and the few candles didn’t make much of an impression in this nearly windowless room.

Shrike found the food tasteless. It did not take long, however, for an armored Dageran to come clattering down the stairs. Despite the disappointment of the morning, a teasing urge took hold of her words: “Lord-Commander, do you wear that around the house with your wife, too?”

He started an effrazah but abandoned it with the signal of her frivolity. “No, but I am growing stronger when I wear all of this. I will not fall easily in battle. I will make my family proud.”

Fire Shrike smiled. “Dageran, I hope you can get back home soon.”

“As do I,” he said before sitting across from her. “So, I have found five more willing to join your ingawasi. That makes twelve in all. Two are women. One is a young widow, cheated of the chance to have children with her husband by the snake things. The other lost her little brother the same way.”

“You know there is a good chance that they will step through the Veil and meet Lapat Shan, don’t you? No one encourages Lazrah women to take up weapons. Loss has a deep grip on them if they are considering the ingawasi, and that same pain may see them through the ritual.”

“Lady Shrike, there was a time not so long ago when I would never have bothered selecting a woman for something like this, but then I met you. I will train them if they are successful.”

“Dageran, you are a wise man. You can see that the world is always ripping apart people’s old ideas.”

“Thanks. By the way, Hahdin is another of your group.”

“Hahdin? Really? Isn’t he married? He has someone to ease his grief.”

“He is still wearing his stud, but the rumor is that his wife isn’t wearing hers. She went back to her own family.”

“I guess the anger for the children has deep roots. I shouldn’t be surprised. It is an insult to think that it wouldn’t. He hated me when we first met, though, and now he wants to trust me as a chief. More wild change rages about us.”

Dageran lapsed into a sad smile. “Since I left my parents’ house and married, I have found change to be the rule of life. It all goes so fast.”

“I think,” she offered, “it has something to do with loosing mentors. Everything jumps by like a white tail once a person starts making decisions alone.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I have never wondered why.”

“We have no choice but to push ahead and create change to our liking, so would you please ask the twelve to meet me when the sun first starts dropping towards the horizon?”

“Of course. Where?”

“At the old cremation grounds.”

“Lady Shrike,” said Dageran after a pause, “I know you are a force for good, but sometimes your magic frightens me.”

“Fear has buried this time and this place. I give myself over to it in hopes of emerging on the other side, new and whole.”

She stood, offered her thanks to the Lord-Commander, and retired to consider words that might reach her ingawasi candidates. It did not take long to decide for simplicity, and then she left for the cremation grounds after ordering her guards to stay behind. Again, disinterested observers poisoned matters of the spirit.

Fire Shrike stood under the shade of her parasol as sunlight warmed the field. Even the abandoned temple managed to look pretty in the morning light. No one, though, came close. It seemed to the shaman that the people of Geltash were trying to decide if this place was blessed or cursed.

Shrike had also not yet decided. She had triumphed here, and then Hassaket returned, but the forces of destruction kept showering down agony. The shaman opened her spirit to the dead and Earth Mother, but nothing on the other side of the Veil offered any guidance. The candidates then started to arrive. She spoke only when all twelve were present in a semicircle around her. “Hello. What did Dageran tell you about the ingawasi?”

Hahdin answered: “It is a group of soldiers given power by the spirits to fight.”

“Yes, that is true, but the members of an ingawasi must also know loss. Among the Skiras you never see one when a war begins. After the enemy starts taking braves, though, the mourners join ingawasi. The pain of loss brought by war is the first step.”

“Ingawasi are fearful things,” she continued. “They make war bloodier. The Skiras call an ingawasi member satas banti. You would say skull warrior. They straddle the Veil from dawn till dusk or dusk till dawn. They are in the worlds of the living and the dead at the same time. They know no fear and no mercy. They are already dead, so they know no pain, no weakness. They are killers able to challenge many things from the other side of the Veil.”

Shrike collapsed her parasol and held out her arms, showing her unnatural pallor. “You will be like me when you fight. I will show you the world of the dead, so a part of your spirit will always be joined to me. Think on all of this for a day. If you are still willing, return here tomorrow morning. It is a favorable time for new beginnings.”

The shaman surveyed the group. They showed no hints of doubt about embracing something more than just foreign. They were ready to taste a little bit of death.

Everybody but one of the women, a beauty with hair the color of honey, offered their effrazahs and departed. She spoke to Shrike once they were alone. “My name is Bansha, and Ashalu is my little brother. He spoke to me about you in a dream.”

“You’re Ashalu’s sister? I am happy to meet you. He told me that I needed go fight Irikiti’s monsters, so I did. He is a fine boy. Did you ever sing Baby Mouse’s Picnic to him?”

Bansha’s composure broke with tears and a smile. “Yes, and our mother, of course.”

“He now knows Lapat Shan’s Grace. Don’t fear for him. He’s safe now.”

“Thank you, Lady Shrike. Thank you for Ashalu’s peace, and thank you for my chance to avenge him. Without you I would just be watching this war. I am weary of doing nothing.”

“Your weariness is now action. Ashalu is proud. He wants us all to go fight.”

* * *

As the mountains began to close in again from the east and the west, Hassaket knew she was approaching Tamoz. The wind had made it a fast journey. She resolved to ask her Starlight Sparrow for more knowledge about Sky Father when they were together again. His domain had almost carried her to Tamoz by itself.

The same wind had also pushed her off the river’s course. Before veering back, though, she saw workers milling about a hill banded by old terraces. Some men sawed and dug at the saplings that had been growing up through the stonework. Some hefted and aligned the stones back up to their proper places. Still others leveled and tilled the berms that ran behind the rock embankments, readying them for spring’s planting.

Impressed, she landed for a closer look and felt Merkeses’s blessing all around. The workers stopped and gave her effrazahs. She returned the salute and then made an announcement. “I bring good news! Lady Shrike destroyed Irikiti’s monsters in Geltash and that province is now with us! Our power grows every day!”

Hassaket drank in the cheer that followed and doubted that she would ever grow tired of such outbursts. A true understanding of the human word home grew in her mind, and she fell in love with it. All Tamoz needed was Fire Shrike, and then it would become a paradise.

The apparent foreman, a little man with a thin beard, came to her next with another effrazah. “Good afternoon, Sahgat. It is wonderful to see you well. Is Lady Shrike also well?”

“Yes, we are. Man, what is your name?”

“Bakal, Son of Sahazad.”

“Thank you for all of this work, Bakal. Many will eat their fill because of it. Some of the rocks you are using look like they haven’t been out here in the dirt for years. Where did you get them?”

“Ripped from the temple, Sahgat. I didn’t think that the Bone Render would be needing them.”

Hassaket laughed. “Wonderful! I thought they looked familiar. You could not have chosen better building blocks.” She opened her wings but looked back before taking flight. “Goodbye, Bakal. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

“Merkeses’s blessing on you, Sahgat,” Hassaket heard him say as the breeze caught her wings again. She flew to her Tamoz home next. Two guards stood at its entryway, chatting with some girl running errands. None of them saw Hassaket until she touched down on the street nearby, but then they jumped in surprise and threw their bodies into effrazahs.

“Hello, hello,” she said. “Men, please go find Raveed. Tell him that I am back and would appreciate his council on what is happening here in Tamoz.”

“Yes, Sahgat,” said one of the guards before everyone dispersed. Hassaket entered the dwelling and invoked a fire cantrip to light a few candles. Everything appeared to be in order.

She walked up the flight of stairs to the sleeping chamber. There were clothes hanging on racks around the bed. Hassaket opened the room’s shutters to let in the daylight and turned for a closer look.

Lorza the clothier had been busy. Three new gowns hung on either side of the bed. One side exhibited backless tunics that had to be hers. The poor man, after all, had to work around a herald’s wings. They were sleek garments in blue, white, and black.

The ones that must have been Fire Shrike’s, though, captured Hassaket’s attention most. Lorza had used red fabric paired with cloth the color of raw cotton, neither whitened nor dyed. All of it was cut almost like a soldier’s tunic: sharp and functional. She picked one up and spun with it around the room, letting her imagination run rampant with pictures of how it would look on her lover’s frame of lissome iron.

She missed her Starlight Sparrow already.

Noise and a voice she recognized came from the ground floor. Hassaket hung the garment back up with a resolution to take it back to Shrike soon and then spoke. “Raveed? Please come up! We have much to discuss!”

Footfalls sounded as someone came up the stairs, and there was the Vizier. He gave an effrazah. “Sahgat Hassaket, it is good to see you. Are you well?”

“Very much so. How are you and Tamoz?”

“Tamoz and I are working hard, but it is good. We are working for Merkeses and for ourselves. They are one and the same.”

“Yes, I saw men rebuilding terraces as I flew in. I am pleased. There is little as important as resting the tired fields and still leaving no hungry mouths in Tamoz. A man named Bakal led the team.”

Raveed grinned. “Bakal is indeed a good man. He is not afraid to get his hands dirty, so men listen to him.”

“What,” continued Hassaket, “can you tell me about the Lord-Artisan?”

“The Revelation from Merkeses is driving Madon hard to fashion crossbows of a sort I have never seen. He’s using many metal parts.”

“Crossbows? Excellent.”

“Yes, but I have ordered him to eat and sleep more than once. I seem to be the only person who can make an impression on his hard head.”

“Then you, too, are serving Merkeses well. We cannot let our best destroy themselves. The race to build a strong nation is a long one, not a sprint. I am glad you are here.”

“Thanks, Sahgat. How could I do anything different? No one will ever be able to compare us with the blood sacrifices always demanded by the Bone Render. Would you like to speak to Madon? I think he can tell you the most about the weapons.”

“Yes, right now.”

Hassaket heard more movement on the first floor as they walked down the stairs together. Raveed had brought servants with him and set them loose. The menials were sparking a fire in the big hearth as she went out into the sunny, cool day with the Vizier. Four guards waited to accompany them through the streets of Tamoz.

Raveed kept the discussion alive as they walked: “Sahgat, I hear urgency in your words. What has happened during your travels?”

“Geltash is now with us.”

“Praise Merkeses!”

“Yes, but the enemy is far from defeated. There will be a battle still this winter. We’ll need Madon’s weapons.”

“So soon?”

“Irikiti has not been idle. If we wait for the spring, it will be too late.”

The aged man’s expression grew distant. “Why did I hope anything else might be true? It was ridiculous of me; Great efforts alone obtain great outcomes.”

Hassaket felt herself frowning. “One day, Tamoz will know beauty and rest.”

Raveed gave a sharp nod. “Of course. First, though, we have scum to kill.”

Madon’s forge came into view. It was closer to the docks than almost any other building in Tamoz, perched atop the abrupt slope that marked the edge of the river’s flood basin. Black smoke billowed out of the squat building’s chimney.

Outside, there were rows of objects staged on canvas tarps. Merkeses had revealed the totality of a crossbow to Hassaket, so they were all familiar. Iron levers, rivets, and triggers gave a dull glint alongside squared hafts of wood that had to be for the weapons’ stocks. A handful of craftsmen bustled about the tarps, but they were not too busy to notice her wings and gave effrazahs.

Hassaket appreciated all of the effort on display and pondered Irikiti’s victory over a Lazrah under Merkeses’s sway so long ago. The humans had responded to her now, only one priestess, with phenomenal displays of ingenuity. A nation led by priests and priestesses of Merkeses should have been invincible.

Then she remembered again the carnal corruptions that they had visited on the All-Seeing’s faithful. They called it a truce at the time, but it was only war waged by other means. Those moments of sexual release toppled the whole nation. She and her sister heralds channeled the power of a hell with their own bodies, and the Merkites of that time had foolishly thought that it was all about gratification.

With her at the head of the new Lazrah, however, this sort of attack would fail. Fire Shrike fulfilled all of her wants. The shaman’s love made her proof against Irikiti’s corrupt touch.

They entered through the forge’s heavy door of old oak. The inside was one big room, and they saw Madon immediately. The Lord-Artisan, attended by two apprentices and drenched in sweat, grabbed a flattened rod of red-hot iron with thick tongs and pulled it from a forge full of burning coals. He drowned the metal in a barrel of water without recognizing them in any way. Niceties apparently had to wait.

Once the water stopped hissing, though, he withdrew the rod, placed it aside, and offered an effrazah with the other smiths. The demands of etiquette fulfilled, Hassaket took control: “I see evidence of real thought and real discipline. Thank you, Lord-Artisan. Convey my thanks to all that have worked so hard and send your men out for a deserved rest.”

Madon responded as the apprentice smiths gave their respects again and left. “You are welcome, Sahgat. Merkeses stokes the sense of crisis.”

“Lady Shrike sensed the same. So, how many crossbows may I have and when?”

Madon looked down. “There have been problems.”

“Problems?”

“The bow stave, proper, is the problem. We haven’t made bows here openly for a long time.”

“I know. Wasn’t it forbidden? It was the same reason Tamoz couldn’t send out very many hunters to feed its people this winter.”

“Yes, so Merkeses led me down a different path. We had ingots of iron ready from the mines, so we forged the bow staves. The lack of bone and sinew became irrelevant, and it did go fast. The problems came with the proper tempering. The metal sometimes wants to deform. When done right, these crossbows throw a quarrel so hard it is frightening, but I am still striving for predictable results.”

Hassaket heard doubt creeping into her own words. “I don’t recall Lazrah crossbows being made of metal. You will have to master this technique now.”

“I will know success or failure by tomorrow. The other parts are being joined today. If all goes well, you will have twenty crossbows in two days.”

“That will suffice. We can start training soldiers with twenty. Vizier, I will need a badow ready in two days to move these crossbows to Geltash. Another badow will be needed after that in another two days.”

Raveed’s answer was simple. “Yes, Sahgat.”

Hassaket turned back to Madon. “Is that fair, Lord-Artisan? Twenty crossbows every two days?”

“For how long?”

“Sixteen days, starting today, and then we are all out of time: A total of one hundred and sixty crossbows. I’ll need plenty of bolts, too.”

“Yes, Sahgat. Merkeses willing, we will manage.”

“Good. I suspect the All-Seeing is indeed willing.” She looked around the room before picking up a quarrel. “This is what your crossbows will throw?”

“Yes, Sahgat.”

“The barbs angle inward from the outer edge. Does this work well?”

“For defeating armor, yes. Merkeses’s visions showed me enemies with flesh unlike any person’s. It seemed best to try something new.”

She rested a finger on the spiked head of the projectile and felt Merkeses’s approval sing. “Very good. Know that I will leave with the first crossbows. We are readying an attack. The badows for the weapons should also be loaded with as much food as Tamoz can spare. Irikiti took Geltash’s datat already, so their granaries are low. They will provide most of the soldiers, and Tamoz will provide supplies and extra badows. Raveed, you should still look for warriors from here. Plan to have them at Geltash with the last crossbows. Make sure anyone who wants to fight knows that this battle will be bloody. I want only volunteers, not conscripts.”

* * *

The aspiring satas banti sat cross-legged on the earth of Geltash’s cremation grounds with their shaman. Shrike watched each take a section of wettai from a wooden bowl and begin to chew carefully, mindful of her instructions not to swallow the plant matter. When she raised her right hand, they still had enough awareness of the living world to see the signal and spit the cactus out.

After three deep breaths, she began lightly strumming her calsi and speaking: “This is the third time your spirits go to the edge of the Veil. This time, though, we step through.

“Do not fear,” she continued in monotone tranquility. “Death is the home at the end of everyone’s journey. We are born to die. Stay brave, do what is right, and everything resolves to the good. Fear is a trap, keeping you from a proper peace. Do not fear.”

“Your bravery can even save loved ones who have died before or after you. You can be a signal fire on the other side of the Veil. It is one of the wonders of joining an ingawasi. Your bravery becomes a gift you may give. Rejoice.”

The shaman felt the telltale sense of sinking into the earth as she spoke. The periphery of the Veil, a patchwork of true black and storm grays, then began to cloak the world all around them. Here she had already rescued flocks of spirits from Irikiti’s suffocating coils. Now these pioneers would also have her guidance.

After the darkness asserted itself completely, she did a headcount. All twelve ingawasi candidates had stepped through to the other side. The fact was a remarkable testament to the amount of pain Irikiti had inflicted in their lives. The diabolic lord had all but founded this ingawasi for her.

There was, however, a thirteenth presence. This one hovered in the distance. It was even darker than the periphery, and it had wings like Hassaket’s. It also had a pair of eyes that burned like tiny stars with a sunset hue. They focused on her. Shrike dared a guess about what she was seeing: “Dalmirae?”

The name seemed to cause the wraith to vanish. Fire Shrike waited, but there was only a long quiet. She then spotted the amber light from Earth Mother. It beckoned her onward. “Follow me,” said the shaman to her ingawasi. “There is Someone I need you to meet.”

They floated through the darkness together and then arrived in Earth Mother’s luminous presence. Her eyes glowed with the green of new leaves in the spring. Her lips were the red of the reddest soil. Her body of sensuous curves imposed like a mountain.

Then Shrike began announcing the candidates. “This is Hahdin, son of Fedeen, bereft of his beloved son and his cherished daughter; this is Ingosah, son of Hirtom, bereft of his cherished little sister; this is Sagirah, daughter of Kori, bereft of her beloved husband; this is Tihsor, . . .”

She concluded with her favorite: “This is Bansha, daughter of Lirash, bereft of her beloved little brother.” The Goddess regarded them all. Being held by Her gaze was like waiting out a blizzard in a great tent warmed by a bonfire. No plans or wants buzzed around like gnats. Shrike’s little thoughts disappeared in the totality of a Being that dwarfed all with love.

Then Earth Mother spoke with a vibrant whisper:

“I give Grace to all of you; Death is not an end; Death is a change; Fear rots the spirit; Valor brings hope; Hope brings peace; Peace brings love; Death is not an end; Death is a change; I give Grace to all of you.”

Contentment with a final fate of joy enfolded Shrike like a moth’s cocoon. She closed her eyes and then opened them to perceive the cremation grounds and all of the ingawasi members again. This was good. Sometimes new satas banti became lost in Earth Mother’s love and never returned, but there was still killing work to do.

It had begun to snow. They stood and shook off the flakes. All of them would find this sort of cold trivial for the day. The shaman took up a staff she had brought along and looked back up to see the skull warriors examining their newly pale skin. “You will be like me until sunset. Bansha, let me show you part of what this means. Hold out your arm.”

The young woman followed Shrike’s instructions, and then the shaman brought the staff down hard on the extended limb. The wood shattered. Bansha and the others showed only grim purpose; the young woman didn’t even startle at the demonstration of her resilience. “This is how you will be,” Fire Shrike continued, “the day of the battle with Irikiti. We will win vengeance.”

Everyone executed effrazahs together but said nothing. She addressed both women in the ingawasi next. “Bansha, Sagirah, I want you to find the Lord-Commander. Tell him that I introduced you to Lapat Shan and that you need to begin drilling. Work hard. You are new to weapons.”

She then transitioned to the whole group: “Go with the Grace of Lapat Shan and join the other soldiers. Our futures still need to be won.”

A shadow passed over Shrike. She looked up, spirit ablaze with hope, and saw Hassaket aloft. Her blood companion landed, and the shaman ran to her open arms. She lost herself in a long kiss but then looked into Hassaket’s eyes and said “Peace brings love.”

After a bemused moment, the former herald smiled wide: “With you I have both.”

Shrike then indicated everyone with a sweeping gesture. “This is my ingawasi. We will take many ears from Irikiti’s slaves on the day of battle.” The dispersing satas banti, however, hadn’t noticed the new conversation at all. They were recovering still from Earth Mother’s thrall.

Hassaket showed no offense. “An ingawasi? What’s that?”

“A band of warriors that has won a God or Goddess’ Grace. Power from some great spirit gives such people ferocity far beyond the ordinary. Earth Mother has accepted this band.”

“Wonderful! I also saw the men of Geltash training. We grow fiercer every day. I came with a badow full of weapons and rations, but I could not wait to dock. I needed to find you.”

“I needed to be found,” replied Fire Shrike as she took Hassaket’s hand. “What would you like to do?”

“I need to go back to the boat. It is probably halfway across the lake by now. Could you go tell the Lord-Commander that we have crossbows coming? I will do the training, but I need twenty good men. Then tonight will be for you. I’ll kiss you all over until you beg for mercy.”

“It has been a while,” she said with words made husky by desire. “That could take some time, and then it will be your turn.” Hassaket responded with a hungry smile that needed no words before taking to the air again.

The Skiras shaman had to stand still for a moment and just watch her blood companion fly. The rebel herald’s bold lust gave a sense of freedom that made her feel warm and alive. For a moment the power of the dead had never changed her body. It was a thrall different from Earth Mother’s, but it had a power like nothing else.

* * *

From the top of Geltash’s abandoned ziggurat Hassaket watched the soldiers prepare for war down below on the open fields. Duels between pairs of soldiers spun around like murderous dances, but there were no clangs from clashing metal. The weapons were wooden and wrapped with burlap.

At a further distance the crossbowmen honed their accuracy by targeting hay bales. The packed straw did not damage the darts at all, and Hassaket knew that this was a crucial consideration. They had no resources to squander.

She pondered on the odd gentleness of humans preparing to kill. She once would have reasoned that a few deaths would leave the survivors more ready for the real fight, but now Hassaket dismissed the thought as a vestige of her diabolic past. She swept down next to Dageran with a different concern: “Why all this open sparring, Lord-Commander? I thought we fought in shield walls.”

The man gave his effrazah before answering. “Yes, Sahgat, that is true, but Merkeses showed me the great sheets of fire that Irikiti’s servants throw at their enemies. If we stand shoulder to shoulder, how many of us will burn? Will our shields survive that? I doubt it. We’ll fight more as individuals and cover the ground in a fast charge instead of walking forward.”

“You have considered Merkeses’s wisdom well,” said Hassaket as she clapped the man on his armored back and smiled.

“Sahgat,” Dageran said, “you have presented that wisdom to us. Thank you.”

A rift among the soldiers caught Hassaket’s attention next. A man was being carried on his own shield. She used her wings for a long bound towards the commotion as Fire Shrike arrived. Her lover recognized the fallen man immediately and spoke: “Adazi? Put him down slowly! What happened?”

A tall, gangly youngster, pale and unhappy, stepped forward. “We were sparring. I rushed him with my shield and he fell. The edge of his own shield caught him in the chin as he went down; he fell and stayed down. Oh Gods, forgive me.”

Fire Shrike knelt down next to Adazi and addressed the penitent: “We are all sure this was an accident.” The merciful words, though, did not seem to help.

Hassaket contented herself with considering the fallen. The fat man was dead; his head lolled from his shoulders at an impossible angle. She remembered when Merkeses showed her the Revelation about Adazi. Here was someone completely unsuited for the battlefield. He was a monument to human bravery, ignoring his own fragility in the name of a belief, but this time the gamble exacted a heavy penalty.

Fire Shrike closed Adazi’s eyelids and brushed his hair back before looking up at her: “He trusted us from the beginning. He did all he could to help me.”

“He died doing what he considered worthy, Starlight Sparrow. All there is to do now is commend his spirit.”

The shaman called out to the surrounding soldiers next. “Adazi has passed through the Veil to be with his ancestors! Someone needs to tell his family now!”

A soldier broke away from the crowd at a run. It did not take long after that for the dead man’s relatives to come out to the drilling field, and then the wailing laments began. Hassaket stood back, not trying to offer condolences. It was not her place.

Her isolated stance must have caught Shrike’s attention because the shaman walked over and grasped her hand. Hassaket actually felt only disappointment at Adazi’s death, but her human lover was refusing to permit even a suggestion of anxiety from shadowing their lives together. Fire Shrike treated her as if she were more human than she really was.

The rebel herald looked into Shrike’s bright blue eyes and squeezed her hand to answer the tender touch. It was a crime to need a person so much from a diabolic perspective, but it didn’t matter. Love had claimed her liberated spirit.

A boy with features much like Adazi’s approached them in time, eyes red from tears. He was perhaps thirteen years of age, too young to be a soldier by the Lazrah’s standards and too young to be the face of his family in a time of tragedy. Here, Hassaket noted, was another human pushed into a harsh duty by fate. The young man shied away from meeting her eyes and addressed Fire Shrike instead: “My Lady?”

“Yes?”

“I am Sihmir, son of Adazi, his eldest.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Shrike. “Adazi was a good man. I depended on his help many times.”

“Yes, thanks, and know that you, both of you, gave him hope. If he died, he said that he wanted you to put his spirit to rest. He feared that Irikiti would be waiting.”

“It will be,” said the shaman, “my honor to help, but you need to know that my people place their dead in the ground. They need to be close to Lapat Shan. Are you and yours at peace with this?”

“I am at peace because we are following Father’s wishes. Please come home with us.”

The procession formed, and then they began a slow march. Hassaket kept her silence. Shrike kept holding her hand.

The rest of Adazi’s family was waiting at their residence. The newly deceased had sired two daughters and another son besides Sihmir. There were also brothers, sisters, and friends. Loud despair held them tight.

Hassaket could see that Adazi’s wife had her own sorrow, but it was icy. Merkeses’s sorcery had already revealed the reason for the widow’s bitterness. The rebel herald felt sympathy for the woman, trapped at the funeral of a philandering husband. Hassaket knew that she would have killed a spouse as unfaithful as Adazi some time ago. The wife, however, now kept a strangle hold on rocky stoicism.

After Adazi’s siblings had adorned the corpse in finery, everyone made their way to the family’s fields. They chose a patch of untilled land bordering an irrigation ditch as the place of burial. At Shrike’s direction the men then split their efforts between digging a deep grave and collecting stones for a cairn.

All of the women sang a song Hassaket had not heard before as they interred Adazi’s body. Shrike gave the performance rapt attention. The shaman was all about music, ritual, and death.

Fire Shrike stood at the head of the fresh grave next and addressed the gathering. “All of you knew Adazi well. You have the most power to make this a sacred time. Please come forward. Share your stories.” After that prompt, the shaman relinquished her place in front of the cairn and stood again close to Hassaket.

Shrike wrapped one arm around her waist while the stories flowed like sweet, heavy libations. The sun went well past its zenith. The long intimacy with her lover turned the moments into quiet bliss for Hassaket. The faith and acceptance of Adazi’s family reminded her of all the good things still living in Geltash while the very best part of her life pressed closest of all.

It seemed that everyone had had a say when Adazi’s wife walked to the cairn. Hassaket, curiosity piqued, listened to the woman speak as the gathering fell silent: “Adazi, son of Palghir, was above all things a father to his children. I’ve known no man to work so hard at keeping his children safe, and that goes beyond issues of mere coin. Faced with the bloody prattle of the priests and priestesses, he held his tongue. He refused to assert himself as a man over and over again so that Geltash’s rulers would remain appeased. He knew that the best thing he could do for all of his children was to stay unnoticed. Then one day he saw the tables turn. He left for Tamoz and returned with Lady Shrike. Now everything has changed. Now we have hope. Adazi, son of Palghir, led Geltash on the search for hope.”

Hassaket pondered the words. There were none like loving husband, and she found this satisfactory. Adazi’s wife gave him his due and no more. The angry truth of the man’s unfaithfulness remained unstated but alive. The widow’s eulogy wasn’t heroism, but it was something strange to diabolists: compromise.

Fire Shrike walked back to the cairn next and sang for Adazi’s spirit. It was the same hymn that the Skiras shaman used for fallen braves that first day that they had met, but there were new lyrics that fit Geltash and Adazi. The song made Hassaket feel as if she were soaring over a deep canyon on a still, summer evening.

Shrike finished and rejoined her before they followed the mourners back to the town. “Starlight Sparrow,” Hassaket said as they walked, “I think death is too much of who you are. What can I do to help?”

“You can do nothing more. You already bring my life so much sweetness. You keep me here more than anyone else in creation. Shamans that live in times of war or want must come to know death. It is our fate, our duty.”

These words brought a hint of tears to Hassaket’s eyes. Shrike’s duty did not seem proper. Former diabolists were suited for immersion in death, not beautiful humans.

* * *

The darkness stirred, and a form withdrew from Hassaket’s touch. She awoke to see Shrike pulling on one of the red tunics crafted by Lorza. “It is time, isn’t it?” the apostate herald asked.

“It is time for me to ready the ingawasi,” answered the shaman. “You have a little bit longer, but I bet Dageran will be knocking on the door soon. That man is like a rooster or something. He knows.”

They laughed together at the comparison, and Hassaket then pushed herself up and hugged her lover. “How do you feel?”

“When I was little, I ran races against the boys. Now it is like right before we’d start. My stomach feels sour. Win or loose, I need to start. I’ve felt that way for days and days.”

With that comment they kissed and Shrike slipped out of the room. Hassaket pulled on a cotton shift before starting the process of strapping on the cuirass of hardened leather Dageran had had altered for her wings. The Lord-Commander also gave a cuirass to Shrike, but the shaman had found it a hindrance and returned it.

Hassaket, though, found the armor wonderful. Some artisan had put loving care into the work, imparting the leather with a glossy finish and molding it with faux pectoral musculature. It also had two metal plates mounted behind the leather that further protected her solar plexus and the center of her stomach. There were even matching greaves that fit her shins well. She could sense Merkeses’s pleasure reverberating all around this treasure. This feeling was always exhilarating, no matter when it manifested.

She traced blue triangles on her cheeks and placed the iron crown from Raveed on her brow before venturing out to the common hall. There were loaves and loaves of fresh bread and pots of thick soup, making it obvious that the women of Geltash had been busy cooking well before any hint of the dawn. Their men would leave for war on full stomachs, and so would she. Hassaket sat and ate her fill.

A sense of Merkeses’s further blessings, however, soon drew her out into the street and then up through the air. The lake docks bustled with activity in the predawn cold, so she banked over to take a look. Boys ran back and forth there, stowing supplies in the flotilla of badows destined to carry the combined forces of Tamoz and Geltash downriver. The matrons of this lake community oversaw the process, squawking at anyone judged slow or reckless. This cumulative show of vigor had drawn the All-Seeing’s approval. This engine of war was stirring.

This engine of war received impetus from belief. The people of Tamoz and Geltash believed that Irikiti remained a threat, so they marshaled all of the resources that they could. That was the human way. In the unity of belief, they waged war. She knew from memory, though, that this did not always make for the most rugged fighting force. Belief sometimes failed.

Hassaket also remembered other engines of war. Diabolic lords and ladies pushed their own armies with brutality. Irikiti had expected them to pillage on the march for food and almost never rest. Some of the army’s lesser hordes served as food for the cannibalistic Elevations more so than they provided fighting strength. That was also why like Elevations camped together on a campaign. It was self-preservation.

She had even found a lone orshimir once, dispatched it, and dragged the body back to share with her sister heralds. Then there were her human victims. She recalled the man with a diminutive nose set in a broad face.

These memories seemed to belong to someone else. Hassaket angled her wings to catch the breeze off the lake and rode it out into the open plains. Then she landed, stretched out in the grass, and stared up into the sky. The moon had disappeared behind the horizon, but the stars glittered down at her.

Fire Shrike had told her about those stars. The White Wolves of Princess Ixchel made sure She saw everything under the night sky. They were the spirits of shamans born into Her service. Shrike said that Ixchel’s chosen were even more frightening than Earth Mother’s.

Hassaket laughed out loud with the thought that her companion considered herself frightening. Shrike was a flare of love, actually seeing something attractive about her old life as a diabolist and always crediting her for whatever good she was doing now.

Then the rebel herald’s imagination stumbled on possible disasters. War ruled the present, and so many ways to die had their fangs barred. Without Fire Shrike, without that willful blindness, without that eternal acceptance, Hassaket imagined only wandering through existence. She realized that she did not want to live without her lover, but no creation smiled on the spirit of a suicide, so she would keep breathing if the worst transpired. One day Merkeses, finding her an empty shell, would depart. The memory of being together in the grove after death would be Hassaket’s only light.

Or she might break and return to Irikiti. Accepting a stint in the thrashing agony of a drowning pool might scrub her free of love’s memory. She imagined tasting the flesh of a thinking creature again.

The White Wolves still held sway over the night sky and looked down at her. Hassaket wondered if they knew of her cowardice. Fear had caused the first rift with Shrike over fighting in Geltash, and she was still afraid of losing her. This, no doubt, was why diabolists were not permitted to know love. Once a being knew love, it always had to fear losing it. The same hindrance repeated with every new threat.

This cycle exhausted Hassaket, but it was the order for all creations. Every good, she concluded, had a corresponding yoke. Even serving Irikiti had the good of lazy submission paired with a yoke of blind viciousness. To know love was to take up the yoke of fear, but to know love made any other good trivial. She had defeated fear by breaking free from a hell, and she would keep defeating fear over and over again to keep Fire Shrike’s love.

Hassaket prayed to Merkeses for the good fortune to die before her Starlight Sparrow. She then sprang back up into the sky and flew towards the docks.

Chapter Thirteen: Soldiers, pt. II

Fire Shrike leaned on the tiller of the badow that carried her ingawasi while the skull warriors paddled steadily. They needn’t exert themselves. If they pushed their bodies, they would quickly outpace all of the other boats.

Two banners flapped from the mast of Shrike’s badow. One, presented by the seamstresses of Geltash, portrayed her duel with Irikiti’s reptiles. A beheaded monster lay at the feet of her image. The banner also showed her hoisting another reptile by its throat with one hand and brandishing the obsidian dagger with the other. A swath of forty-seven stars, one for each victim, hovered above all of the flag’s other details.

The other banner came with the contingent of soldiers from Tamoz. It showed the blue flame and rough triangle of Merkeses on white silk. Its simplicity conveyed great beauty.

The flapping sound of big wings filled Shrike’s ears next. Hassaket lit gingerly next to her on the badow’s slender stern and gave her a kiss. The rebel herald then looked up at the pair of banners and spoke in the tongue of the Skiras: “Merkeses finds the marriage of craft and beauty a wonderful thing.”

“The one that shows me, it makes me nervous” said Shrike.

“Be proud. It is a great honor.”

“Too great. If I had the chance, I would have asked for one that reveres Earth Mother. It does not matter, though. My Goddess has no interest in an army’s totem.”

“The two banners,” said Hassaket, “remind me that we will have Tamoz and Geltash to unify. We can’t appear to be separate.”

“I will separate from you only when I die, but I am worried about my people. We are about to ally the Skiras and the Lazrah in this fight. Can we keep them at peace with the trust made from just one battle?”

“Well-said, Starlight Sparrow. I will give your question the consideration it deserves. First, though, must come the battle.”

“Yes,” agreed Fire Shrike, but then a distraction stopped the rest of her words. Ashalu appeared on top of the longboat’s mast. It was an impossible perch for a little boy, but a ghost did not have worry about keeping balanced.

“Ashalu, you should be at peace. What are doing here?” said the shaman with a whisper.

“Listen with your spirit,” he demanded. “They’re coming.”

“What’s wrong, Starlight?” asked Hassaket.

Shrike held up her hand and looked down for an answer, imploring for quiet with the gesture. There was a noise behind the rhythmic splashing of oars. She heard a rough hissing that sent tremors through the water. The noise was getting louder. Then she gasped with recognition, looked up, and yelled to her ingawasi: “SWORDS! NOW!”

The warning came too late for Tihsor. A massive snake’s head splashed up through the water as he was starting to pull his blade free of its scabbard. The thing’s maw closed shut over his head and yanked the skull warrior down under the surface before he could scream.

A second one breached the surface even before Tihsor had vanished on the opposite side of the badow, but a metallic snap sounded from the direction of Hassaket. Shrike saw a dart hurtle into the thing’s fanged mouth. The projectile drew a gusher of black fluid, and then the reptile fell back below the surface. The apostate’s celestial crossbow had drawn the first blood.

The whole badow lurched hard next as something smashed into it under the waterline. Reeds snapped and water splattered. The longboat, however, remained whole.

A skull warrior, no doubt caught unready by the collision, splashed into the river. Shrike had only a moment to see Tomnah jerked completely under by a dark form. His dead wife, the shaman knew, would be waiting for his spirit.

She could hear the next reptile as it streaked upward for the surface. “Hahdin!” she shouted, “to your left!” Her old rival turned at the words in blind obedience and brought his sword in close.

The creature lunged out of the water, but Hahdin was ready with a thrust to meet it. His sword point drove into the end of the thing’s snout. It pulled back with a stuttering hiss, and then Bansha reached out to drive her sword through the black scales of its long neck. The wounds made Irikiti’s monster collapse back into the river. Shrike celebrated with a war whoop: “Good kill, Hahdin! Bansha!”

Yet another thing breached. A wave of crossbow bolts, however, blanketed it almost immediately. The big reptile fought to remain surfaced, but Shrike could see that blood now streamed from a pair of new punctures. The next time it submerged would be the last time.

She looked around to see that another of the longboats had drawn close to their struggle. It was full of soldiers now readying a second volley of crossbow bolts. The help had come from them. She held up a fist to signal her approval.

The casualties among Irikiti’s monsters, however, did nothing to stop the attack. Shrike sensed one more rushing up from the river bottom. It was right under her feet. She stepped forward to avoid pushing Hassaket off the stern of the badow and turned back. The reptile smashed through the reeds and snapped at the air where she had been standing. Shrike rewarded its efforts with a stab into the grey wattle that adorned its throat. The hellfire from Hassaket’s enchantment blew out the back of this one’s head, and all signs of life vanished. It was now a long chunk of smoking flesh tangled with the fragments of her boat.

This collision, however, destroyed the badow. Shrike could not avoid falling, but there was time for a deep breath. A crazy glimpse of Hassaket’s beating wings caught her eye before she submerged. The frigid water that would have quickly extinguished her life once upon a time felt only modest due to what the dead of Geltash had done to her body. Then the splashes of falling skull warriors roiled the river as her ingawasi fell in after her.

The shaman heard one last reptilian horror. Her lungs seemed content, so she swam a stroke downward and turned to face the sound. The water wasn’t too murky. She could see the creature’s dark form streaking around the others’ kicking legs and closing on her. It wanted to kill her more than anyone else.

She remembered Hahdin’s sword form and pulled her own limbs in close, hoping to meet its strike with her own lunge. It veered upward and over her, though, as if it had wings and this were the open air. Shrike spun to keep facing her enemy, but it stayed just out of reach. Now the need to breathe started to tighten her chest.

It was waiting for her to surface. Then would come the venomous bite to one of her legs and the journey down to the bottom of the river.

She heard something fast and small hit the water next, and then the reptile lashed out, its open mouth flashing by her face. She met it with her dagger. The blade lacerated its lower jaw, and then there was a bloom of crimson fire that boiled away any blood that might have polluted the river.

A tremendous crash shook the water, and someone pulled her to the surface. She took a new breath and looked down to see one of Hassaket’s maroon arms looped around her chest. It felt like a band of stone.

A longboat loomed over Shrike and human arms lifted her out of the water. She coughed and said four words in the Lazrah tongue: “We killed them all.”

The badow took her to the shore. From there Shrike watched with the other skull warriors as soldiers pulled the two dead members of her ingawasi out of the river. Then they set about digging graves. She sang songs to their spirits after the burials and walked back to join the rest of the army. There were no tears. Anger lit everyone’s eyes instead.

Shrike saw soldiers pushing all but one of the badows back out into the river, but Hassaket was waiting. Her lover had also managed to recover both banners and now wore them draped over her shoulders. Water streamed off the flags and pooled on the sandy earth at her feet. “Are you ready to go?” asked the winged woman.

“I want to put the spirits trapped in those monsters to rest.”

Hassaket stepped in close to her before asking a different question. “Shrike, can’t we return to this place after our victory?”

The shaman frowned and looked out over the water. “Did the current take the reptiles?”

“I don’t know. Their bodies never floated back up. Starlight, we can build a monument made of weapons to commemorate this place after the battle. Didn’t you say that acts of respect ripple through to the other side of the Veil? If we are late for Mist Stag, the rest becomes meaningless.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. There is a war to fight. Sometimes I am too close to the dead.”

The concession won her an immediate kiss from Hassaket. Shrike clung to her, making sure that it was not a quick intimacy, and then changed the subject: “I heard something odd when I was in the water with the last monster. Did your crossbow bolt wound it?”

“Yes. I was about to dive in after you,” said Hassaket, “but then it made a mistake by coming up near the surface. The crossbow seemed the best bet. I can’t believe that I almost lost you again. Once I thought I wanted to fight Irikiti more than anything else. Once I thought this would be a glorious battle. Now I hate this dung heap war. I only want to lead my people and love you.”

Shrike said nothing but instead hugged the renegade herald again. They parted after a tender moment and then Hassaket continued. “I must go to the head of the boats. Nobody else could handle those reptiles as well as your ingawasi, but I’ll do for a while.”

“We’ll catch up.”

Fire Shrike looked back over her shoulder and called to her ingawasi’s survivors: “Let’s go. We should be in front.”

They climbed into the remaining badow, and it did not take long to regain the lead in the flotilla. The afternoon passed with steady rowing. Flat plains made up the landscape. Memory of the river’s terror, however, banished any sense of monotony.

The sun was close to the horizon when blackened ruins appeared on the west bank of the river. Shrike supposed that the place had to have sheltered as many people as Geltash before what must have been a catastrophic fire. The ruins also had defensive walls, but there were breeches likely made by Earth Mother’s shamans everywhere. “What’s that?” she asked Bansha.

“Kodan.”

“The town sacked by my people this autumn?”

“Yes.”

Shrike felt like cursing but trapped the urge and used a different response: “I’m sorry.”

“The Bone Render in Geltash made much of the effort to capture Skiras slaves and sacrifices. If I were one of your people, I think I would have fought, too. I don’t remember a time when Irikiti’s faithful weren’t thirsty for someone’s blood. My parents told me about when everybody owned Satae slaves, but they made good sacrifices. They’re pretty much gone. Then Irikiti turned against the Natahya and their herds. They were too free. Now we never get red meat and the lake is running out of fish because we are lowering our nets too many times. Then there was the long war with the Kaladites. I hear everybody finally quit. Nobody won, but Irikiti was still thirsty. I guess somebody thought the Skiras would be easy to kill, but they were mistaken, so now Kodan is destroyed. Why did you come to Lazrah, anyways? Didn’t you see us as enemies?”

“I came because of Hassaket. She wanted to free the Lazrah from Irikiti. I wanted to protect my people from Him and love her. I thought I could do both. Now I’m running back home to try and heal things. I can’t seem to be every place I need to be.”

“I was where I needed to be,” said Bansha, “but I still failed Ashalu. I hid when the snakes came. I’m a coward. You’re brave.”

“We’re both here for redemption. We are both flawed, but this we know. None can speak ill of you or me. We will win redemption or die trying.”

* * *

A thaw had blown in from the north. The scent of earth soaked by the snowmelt reached Hassaket’s nose from even her altitude just under the cloud ceiling. It was a seductive hint of what spring would offer.

Hassaket also sensed sorcery. It emanated again from the direction of Irikiti’s unfinished temple. Another ward waited, replacing the firetrap that had failed to incinerate her. This magic felt like an abscess in the timbers of human creation. She could recall encountering nothing like it, and its unique quality frightened her.

Something else also waited dormant in the temple’s vicinity. It was no ward. It felt like Lord Irikiti himself. It dreamed of the same blind submission that made her old life comfortable. It forced her to remember a time when she didn’t have the fate of a whole Lazrah community resting on her shoulders. It occurred to her that being the leader of a people was a strange and horrible burden, but she had sought out this task. There was no going back.

Then Hassaket spotted the primitives she had hoped to find. The apostate ended her consideration of this creation’s wonders and Irikiti’s lurking perversions. It was back to the art of war and diplomacy.

The Skiras braves were looking up at her. They numbered perhaps one hundred men. They all wore hooded cloaks made of some pale animal hide. The color merged nicely with the patches of persistent snow. There was also something odd about the primitives’ eyes.

She decided to land a little ways from the braves. One of them pushed back his hood and walked out to her. Thick scarring had ruined half of his face, but Hassaket still recognized Mist Stag. His good eye was entirely the blue of a pale sky, and this was the odd trait she had noticed from aloft for all the braves. He smiled at her with the fair half of his face before speaking.

“Do you remember me, Hassaket?”

“Of course, Mist Stag. I am sorry for you injury.”

“So polite for someone who has known the fires of a hell! Amazing. Thank you for your kind words. Don’t worry about me. I expect to be free of this battered body soon. Are you now Fire Shrike’s herald?”

“I suppose that I serve her in many ways. Today I am her herald. She sent me to make sure your braves and our soldiers fight as one.”

“Good. Please join us and eat. We will talk more.” With these words he turned back to the braves and began walking. She followed, but after a few steps, Hassaket noticed that none of the other braves wore a relaxed expression like Mist Stag’s. With just a little provocation, these men would try to kill her instead.

One of them still spread out a thick animal skin, and she sat down on it next to the shaman. Another brought out a satchel full of dried meat, and five other braves joined them. The men said nothing, though, and looked at her as if she were a mountain tiger ready to spring.

Hassaket did not find it too annoying. The men of Geltash were becoming accustomed to her. It had been a little while since anyone showed fear at her presence, and fear was part of respect. She contented herself with chewing on the primitive’s tough repast before Mist Stag coughed and spoke again.

“You must wonder about our eyes. Have you ever seen an ingawasi dedicated to Sky Father?”

“No. I didn’t think an ingawasi could be this big, either.”

“It is rare, but the fury among the defeated tribes runs very deep. Have you ever fought against a satas banti that knows Sky Father?”

“No.”

“Good. We will be glad to show you His power when we face Irikiti’s dogs. From which way are your soldiers marching?”

“They are coming out of the south.”

“And they’ll be ready in two mornings, yes?”

“Yes. They are closer to the unfinished temple than you and your braves. I’m not sure you will make it.”

“Have faith. We will give you reason soon enough. Have your soldiers at least remained hidden?”

“No. It was never part of our plan. We came down the river in a flotilla of longboats. We are bringing two rebellious provinces worth of fighting men to this battle.”

The recognizable side of Mist Stag’s face showed some surprise. “Maybe I won’t be allowed to shed this body. That should be a fair number of spears. You and Shrike have been busy. How many men?”

“Seven hundred.”

The shaman nodded. “This will be a great fight indeed. There have been so many deaths here that this number of warriors could turn the battle for us.”

Hassaket glanced at the braves. Even their stony hostility showed signs of breaking. “And,” she added, “the Lazrah rebels have more than spears. They have rediscovered Merkeses. The All-Seeing’s power is alive again in human creation, and I am that God’s priestess.”

“Sky Father,” said Mist Stag, “once told me about Merkeses. It was a sad story, but now the ending has changed. Does that explain your iron crown?”

“Yes.”

“All honor to you, Hassaket. I must now learn to see you as something more than the petulant child of a hell. All of us will have to learn.”

“I’ve had to learn, too.”

Mist Stag, already smiling on the good side of his face, smiled wider still. “We need to keep moving. We will not be late.” Everyone stood.

“Keep up if you can,” he said next. It was an undisguised challenge. The braves and the shaman then sprang for the horizon like a herd of antelope. Their feet barely touched the ground. Hassaket took to the air and discovered that an ingawasi dedicated to Sky Father could come close to matching her fastest flight.

When the sun touched the horizon, the braves stopped. Hassaket came down in big circles as the Skiras formed separate groups, looked up into the sky, and began swaying in place. Singular braves broke from each of the groups and joined Mist Stag. This small faction held their arms up into the air, hands open to the sky, and muttered a rasping chant.

The light from the setting sun noticeably dwindled even in the time it took for her to touch the ground. By then all of the braves were squatted down and breathing hard. Hassaket caught a glimpse of one’s eyes and saw that they had reverted to human normal. Fire Shrike had told her that an ingawasi’s power held either from sunrise to sunset or the reverse, and this one’s had gone with the sunset. Her lover’s skull warriors even had a ritual much like this display.

Hassaket walked over to Mist Stag. He was winded like the others, so she waited to speak. Meanwhile, some braves pulled themselves up and began digging fire pits. Others found the dead stalks of some tall weeds and began weaving them into windbreaks. In time they circled all of the fire pits with low, thatched fences.

She heard curses of frustration, though, when the time came to start the fires. The ground was still soaked from the thaw. Some managed to spark a blaze, but Hassaket walked to one of the pits that was struggling. All activity and discussion among the braves ended as they turned to face her.

“I escaped from a hell,” Hassaket said, “but I brought a little of it with me.” Then she reached down into the tinder at the bottom of the pit and called forth fire. Flames the color of Merkeses’s blue engulfed her hand, and the sloppy conditions couldn’t resist. The braves added dried dung for fuel, and soon they had a respectable blaze.

Next they all sat. One of the braves looked at her after a moment. “Better fire from a hell,” he said, “than to huddle though the night in a pile.” It was apparently the closest that they could manage to thanks, so Hassaket gave him a curt smile and decided to extend some trust by stretching out on an animal skin and feigning slept.

All of the men reclined after only a few more sentences of conversation. Hassaket allowed her muscles to relax but never really slept. Irikiti’s heralds did not sleep while on a campaign, and that was one tradition she had decided to keep.

When she felt ready, Hassaket stood up, slipped through a gap in the windbreak, and flapped back into the sky. The fires were close to smokeless and hidden in the pits, but the braves were now much closer to the unfinished temple. She decided to circle in the darkness and keep watch. There would not be another ambush like the one on the river.

In the fullness of time, a threat did appear: A pack of Irikiti’s reptiles crept out of the dark from the east. They had spotted the Skiras camp but hesitated to advance. Instead their snouts swiveled all around. Their eyes were not sharp enough to spot her, but it seemed as if they knew to be wary of renegade heralds and shamans. The camp’s human sentries, meanwhile, had so far failed to raise any kind of alarm at all.

After their watchful pause, seven monsters kept stalking forward. One turned back, no doubt intent on alerting its masters about the Skiras’s presence. Hassaket summoned Merkeses’s crossbow and notched a bolt, but the clack of the bowstring catching on the trigger froze all of the monsters in place. Although their sight was not a herald’s equal, it seemed to Hassaket that their hearing was superior.

She swept down towards the seven as they strained their senses to locate her. One raised its head and began to cackle a warning as she released a bolt. It missed the same one’s throat and instead sunk into the haunch of another. It gave a sharp wail. Hassaket cursed at the poor shot but knew that the Skiras, alerted by the noise, would now have a fighting chance.

Regaining height, she turned for the east. The eighth one could not be permitted to deliver a warning to Irikiti’s camp, but even her eyes could not pick the messenger out of the blackness. It might be creeping slowly under tangles of brush that filled this plain. It might have sprinted out of sight. There was no way she could know.

Merkeses, however, was also the All-Seeing. Hassaket landed and sat in a snowdrift before calling upon her God in what was now the traditional way:

“Glorious Merkeses, grant your servant the power to work your will; Glorious Merkeses, grant your servant the tranquility to see the path; Glorious Merkeses, grant your servant the grace to meet her ending well.”

A vision filled her eyes. She saw the thing, and it was close. Hassaket had become the hunted, and it had taken Merkeses’s mercy to warn her.

She stood and pulled her falcata from its sheath as it crashed through a stand of brush perhaps fifteen paces away. Seeing a ready opponent, it hissed and began to circle her rather than charging. Hassaket pulled her wings in close and turned to face the monster since she couldn’t go aloft in time. This was another fight to be finished on the ground.

The size of this creature became clear as its full length came out of the covering weeds. Its length surpassed that of the ones she had seen in the river by the full height of a man. It reared up as pouches on either side of its neck bulged. Then its body convulsed with a sort of cough.

Hassaket held up her left arm to shield her face and ducked without thought. Immediately, she felt a liquid splash, and then her skin began to burn. She screamed and rushed the monster since keeping any distance obviously meant death.

It gave her ground, backing across a pool of mud. Hassaket suspected it would be ready with another effusion soon. She leapt and spread her wings, desperate to close.

Her sword penetrated deep into the reptile’s chest as she felt another splash of liquid on her wings. It was attempting to spit out its coup de grace, but she kept hurtling forward and smashed into its gut with a lowered shoulder. The apostate wrenched her sword free next, and her enemy fell.

Flashbacks of what boiling brine from Irikiti’s hell did to bare skin crowded her mind. The caustic spittle had to be diluted, or it would kill her. She rolled in the pool of frigid muck at her feet and then scooped up a handful and pressed it to her neck.

She stood when the burning subsided and took a quick glance to confirm that the thing was absolutely dead. Next Hassaket looked down and saw that the armor given to her by Dageran had been ruined. The hidden metal plates were now plainly visible. All across her stomach she could see wide swaths where the hardened leather had burned away completely, and the thing’s spit still bubbled at the edges of the ragged holes.

Hassaket cursed and pulled the armor off with hurried movements. Some of the caustic liquid still might reach her flesh if she dallied.

The falcata then grabbed her concern. She looked at it closely and saw that the metal had resisted any corrosion, but Hassaket still ripped a strip off of her tunic and wiped the weapon down. Oiling the blade again, though, would have to wait. It was time to go back and see how Mist Stag and his braves fared.

After a brief flight, she saw tendrils of white immolation lashing out from the Skiras’s bonfires and towards the monstrous reptiles that circled and dodged at the edge of the camp. The braves, meanwhile, had formed one compact circle to gain strength from their numbers. They faced their shields outward to stop the creatures’ caustic spit.

It was a deadlocked struggle. Braves had fallen to the acid rain despite their tall shields, and one of the seven reptiles dodged no more. It was a smoking carcass.

Hassaket swept low, rushing up behind one of the black things, and swung her falcata. The sword connected with its neck but didn’t bite deep enough for an outright kill. A squad of braves, though, broke ranks and rushed out to finish the job.

She banked and gained altitude for another pass in time to see a whip of fire entangle one of the reptiles that had thought to attack the charging braves. It had stopped paying attention to its biggest threat and now would be burned alive. Another one, slithering forward from the other side, had also thought to attack the exposed braves, but Hassaket choose it as her next target.

Her falcata caught the side of its head, cutting into its skull. She kept the grip on her sword, but the collision forced her to the ground, and the thing was not yet dead.

Hassaket jumped to her feet in time to see the wounded monster’s neck bulge as it readied to spit. She dodged to her right. The spurt of fluid splattered where she had first stood and began to boil away the dirt. None of it, though, managed to touch her body. The head injury, it seemed to her, had rendered the thing a bit sloppy.

Having already learned the most important lesson when fighting these things, she then charged. Now it was the monster’s turn to dodge as she lunged and swung the falcata. It did not see that three braves were now rushing into this fight. They charged together with their shields high and smashed it off its feet.

She needed no more help to open a long laceration along its torso. It then started to thrash with mindless furry. Its dark blood flew everywhere. Hassaket left the braves to finish the monster with axe blows and turned towards the remaining three.

One of them attempted to break and run at that very moment, but the keeper of the fire had been waiting. The reptile did not make it far before a lithe conflagration snared it. The thing gave a high, long scream. It was such a pitiful sound that Hassaket almost felt a pang of sorrow.

The Skrias braves opened up their formation next to face the surviving pair. They didn’t close to strike with axes but instead readied slings and began hurling leaden slugs. The air became so thick with missiles that the reptiles could only crouch down under their own coils. Hassaket sheathed her falcata and summoned her crossbow again, happy to join in the target practice.

Mist Stag emerged from the ranks of the braves. Fire swept about the reptiles when he crooned and gestured. He, Hassaket realized, was the spirit rider that made the flames do their dance of death.

The two remaining monsters wilted under the accumulated obliteration of white flames, sling bullets, and crossbow quarrels. Hassaket, beaming, walked over to the shaman next as all of the braves knelt. “Congratulations. I didn’t know that a spirit rider chosen by Sky Father could be a lord of flame.”

The old man turned to her with a placid expression. “We can’t, Hassaket. ”

“Then how did you manage?”

“I made a pact with Lord Agni.”

“A pact? Shrike made one with Princess Ixchel. What will you sacrifice?”

Mist Stag ignored the question and pressed something into her hand instead. It was a gossamer icon made of golden strands. The whole thing glimmered with its own light. “What is it?” she asked.

“It is a focus blessed by Sky Father. This fight was not the time to use it. Cast it to the sky on the day of the battle at the temple. I’ve already made all of the proper devotions. You only need faith. Merkeses knows you have faith, and I will not question a God’s judgment.”

“Wait! You are the sacrifice? Who will call Sky Father’s gifts to your ingawasi?”

“There is more than one skull warrior here with enough pain and faith for that sacrament. Don’t worry about me. Lord Agni asks only for my body, not my spirit. I am going to a place safe under Sky Father’s firmament. My ancestors are waiting.”

“Wasn’t there another way?”

Hassaket watched as a new sort of smile found Mist Stag’s face. “No, there wasn’t. It is too bad that the enemy found us after sunset. My braves couldn’t hold Sky Father’s blessing any longer. Take care of Fire Shrike. I hope you are her fortune turning to the good.”

“She is my fortune turning to the good. Mist Stag, I love her. I swear it.”

The shaman’s skin blackened with her last word, and then the wind blew the body away in a cloud of ash and fire. Hassaket started to shout but then stopped and knelt with the other braves. They all remained silent and still for a long stretch of the night, and then the former herald and priestess of Merkeses spoke:

“So leaves Mist Stag, chosen of Sky Father and hero of the Skiras nation. His spirit is too pure to need the help of any words I can say.”

Now, though, Hassaket decided that there was no more time for piety. Her lover would want to know about this death, so she forced herself back into the air. Finding Shrike would not be hard. The dagger still served as a special beacon, making the dark and the distance inconsequential.

The Lazrah rebels with crossbows represented more of a problem. They might mistake her for the enemy, so she flew high and then dropped into the middle of the camp next to Shrike’s tent. No one noticed, though, and Hassaket was almost upset. The human sentries’ lack of herald eyes limited their value at night, but at least the enemy no longer had anyone that could repeat her flying infiltration. She had seen to that with the death of Dalmirae.

Earth Mother made it difficult to take Fire Shrike unawares. Hassaket didn’t even need to announce her presence. The shaman lifted the flap of the tent after a moment and beckoned her inside to sit. Touching the ground alone had awoken her lover.

“Hello, Hassaket,” Shrike said after they shared a quick kiss. The miniscule light of a candle allowed the shaman a closer look at her, and then the questions started coming fast:

“By Earth Mother! What happened? How did you get in all that mud? Have you been in a battle? Are you well? Where’s your armor?”

“I am well, Starlight Sparrow. Irikiti’s snakes were looking for a fight, and I gave them more than they could handle. Really big ones can spit a fluid that burns like fire, so please be careful if you see another one. I have also examined the ward around the temple. I want you to stay away from it, and I want you to stay on this side of the Veil. Even though we are not that close yet, I can feel formidable sorcery at work.”

“As you wish,” agreed Shrike after a little frown. “I’ve already stepped through the Veil for my ingawasi back in Geltash. I don’t need to do it again. How are Mist Stag and his ingawasi? Are they close?”

“The braves are fairly close,” said Hassaket. “They were a big part of my battle with the pack of reptiles. Mist Stag died in the same struggle. He secured a pact with Lord Agni to burn the enemy and gave his body in return. I’m sorry.”

Shrike said nothing at first. Her hands clenched and unclenched instead. Hassaket saw no tears and waited.

The shaman’s next words stomped with the steady cadence of a callous murderer. “I have been considering what you said about Flint Ox’s sacrilege. You are right. All of this is his fault. We must find him and kill him and kill anyone who stands with him. We can never do enough killing to atone for his sins, but I will never know peace again until I try.”

Chapter Fourteen: Soldiers, pt. III

Shrike felt Sky Father molding creation from her place crouched at the bottom of a shallow gully. Raw power roiled the air all around as dawn’s light flowed under the clouds. Thunder rolled and snow flurries streaked by almost parallel with the ground. Dageran and other soldiers grumbled at the freakish weather from alongside her. Shrike then saw Hassaket glide towards the sharp lines of the unfinished temple on the winds of the onrushing storm front like some massive bird of prey.

In this expanse of land Shrike had first seen the khat’laba. Now, no doubt, some other atrocity waited, and Hassaket was again using herself as bait. The urge to join the fight early made her tremble. Creation had to be rewarded for giving her such a valiant lover. It was the only way to keep the balance of things.

She felt a hand pressing down on her shoulder, so she looked over at the Lord-Commander. Dageran answered her glare. “Wait, Lady Shrike. Let the plan work. Hassaket said that this ward was different from the others.”

Whispering a curse, she forced herself to only peek over the lip of the gully. Shrike saw that the diabolists had raised a low wall of earth around their temple since her first visit. Their warriors raced along the tops of these fortifications. They had odd gaits, but the blasphemers were too far away for her to ascertain just how much of their humanity had been lost to Irikiti.

Hassaket, meanwhile, had landed back over to Shrike’s left. The renegade herald gestured towards the enemy’s earthworks, and then a translucent image sailed in the same direction. Shrike bit her lip, guessing that everyone would soon know the nature of the ward Irikiti’s dogs had erected.

The image travelled perhaps a third of the distance to the fortifications when a rift opened in the fabric of the sky. Just as Hassaket had claimed, this sorcery was different. It did not create a path to the Hell of Burning Tears. The new fissure was a dirty green instead of crimson. It released dark ropes of creatures into human creation like a gusher of disease. Shrike recognized the things as a horde of the reptiles like the ones that had ambushed her badow.

And the two she had killed in Geltash. And the one she had killed in Tamoz. Now she couldn’t count them all.

Shrike sprang up, drew her dagger, and began sprinting towards the coming fight. The monsters flowed like a hissing flood towards Hassaket while the rebel herald turned a lazy pirouette. Then the winged woman threw what looked like a seed from the sun up into the sky. Whatever the object was, it then vanished.

The shaman wondered why her lover didn’t flee. She’d never get there in time.

Then white flashes filled her eyes and layered roars of thunder hammered at her ears. Forks of lightening were raking across the gang of reptiles. She stumbled into a crouch to catch her bearings and looked up to where Hassaket should have been. The rebel herald was finally taking to the air. One of the creatures struck up at her, but it bit down on nothing and received a snout split by a sword blade in return. Many of the other monsters, meanwhile, had been reduced to strings of smoking meat by the blinding display of Sky Father’s wrath.

A wall of wind-driven snow came up behind Hassaket next and a band of Skiras braves followed in its wake. They streaked forward faster than anything human, howling for vengeance. Their axes left crackling trails of bluish light. All of it fit how an ingawasi of Sky Father’s ought to manifest.

Relief washed over the shaman. Dageran was right. Her beloved would not have to fight alone.

Her own ingawasi gathered around her next, and she saw that the Lazrah rebels had begun to advance on the right. The pair of standards led the way. She saw her image on the one from Geltash and winced yet again. It still didn’t feel right.

The rebel spearmen from Geltash and Tamoz jogged forward, ready to crouch down behind their shields as Irikiti’s slaves threw out streams of hellfire. The enemy did not, however, have any leisure atop their fortifications. The rebels with crossbows had split into two lines that leapfrogged forward, one running a short ways while the other launched a volley of bolts up into the diabolists. Burning flesh and gushing blood began to decorate the landscape.

Then the clouds swallowed the rising sun. Gloom reigned except for when flares of destruction warped the land with colors from the other side of the Veil. Shrike had no focus from Earth Mother, but it still did not stop her from asking for help now. She clawed through a sheet of ice that covered the ground and then touched the raw earth underneath it.

There was no song for her need. She just cried out, hoping for intercession. This dung heap war had already consumed too many good lives.

Earth Mother answered back with a tremor, and Shrike urged the display of Her potency towards Irikiti’s earthworks. It rolled over the land like a little wave on a pond, but when it touched the fortifications, a stretch of wall as wide as five buffaloes standing shoulder-to-shoulder collapsed.

Shrike leaped up and yelled “FOLLOW ME!” before running at the breach in the wall. She did not bother to see if anyone noticed her exhortation. It was time to fight.

A creature that was snake from the waist down writhed along where the wall still stood, looked at her, and then began a conjuration. Before the fire spewed, though, a flock of crossbow bolts converged on it. She let out a whoop as the thing crumpled. Hassaket had revealed Merkeses’s wisdom to Tamoz, so she would yet again have a real chance to kill. The enemy would at the very least remember her warrior spirit.

More of Irikiti’s fighters ran into view, filling the gap in Irikiti’s defenses. Shrike recognized the featureless helms and chain hauberks right away: dacadam ghouls. They leveled pikes at her, so she jumped up to clear the iron points.

A few ghouls tried to lift their weapons and follow her leap, but they were too slow. Her outstretched dagger caught one in the face, annihilating its whole head. Then her death-hardened frame careened down, left forearm first.

Smashing into the ranks of the enemy didn’t hurt at all. It was pure liberation instead.

Shrike stood and slashed all around as the ghouls struggled to pull swords or find their own feet. Hassaket’s enchantment swirled hellfire all around as the dagger severed any appendage in her reach. It was like dancing in the heart of a red sun. The smell of burning flesh and melting iron filled Shrike’s nostrils.

The dacadams, though, rediscovered their calculating bloodlust after only a few heartbeats and pushed forward. Their bodies did not experience hellfire like a human’s, so Shrike found herself dodging sword thrusts from enemies that didn’t succumb to her blade or the fire at its core until a few moments passed.

Her ingawasi then arrived. The satas banti plunged their spears into the dacadams as if they were hungry crows intent on pinning their prey to the ground. Bansha and Hahdin followed the others with a sort of gory dance among the impaled undead. Wielding traditional Lazrah short swords, they took the ghouls’ heads to end all resistance forever.

Earth Mother’s warning hummed around the soles of Shrike’s feet next, revealing that something was moving on the fortifications above and to her right. The shaman bit down on the flat of her blade and climbed up the ragged incline in the wall’s breach to discover that the crossbow bolts had not killed the snake sorcerer. Instead it was supine and pulling darts from its bleeding body.

She saw that its open wounds had already started to close. The monstrous human screamed with frustration as she punched her blade into its armpit, hollowing its chest cavity with another burst of hellfire. Her weapon predictably reveled in the taste of the thing’s final death.

Looking around next, Shrike saw that Dageran’s men were fighting a pitch battle to take the earthworks. Hassaket, meanwhile, had flown up to the top of the ziggurat. The renegade herald’s blade flashed as she dueled some horrendous woman with arms like Irikiti’s armored pincers.

Her beloved’s fight was high up in the stonework. It was too high. Fire Shrike made a decision that felt like mud in her veins as she called to her ingawasi: “Up here. Dageran needs our help!”

Hassaket would have to fight by herself after all. This truly was a dung heap war.

The shaman jogged along the battlements with her sling at the ready and her ingawasi close behind. A cadre of evil ones, some clutching staves topped with blades of black iron, blocked their way. One looked at her and revealed a face of many black eyes and two fangs. It began the sharp gesturing of another diabolic conjuration.

Shrike let a sling stone from Geltash’s soil fly. Its path was true. The thing jerked its hands up to its face with the pain of the impact, but it did not fall.

She had expected this show of resilience and sprinted forward. The victim of her brutal distraction did not recover fast enough to stop the obsidian dagger from driving home. The enchanted blade burned it in two at the waist.

Her display of power intimidated no one. Blades struck out at Shrike from the remaining crowd of creatures. The shaman, though, grabbed the torso of the dissected diabolist and began another rush forward. It served her as a gruesome shield even though its arms and neck still twitched with echoes of life. Perhaps, in fact, it wasn’t dead.

The dark glaives bit deep into the damned flesh, but none made it through the ribcage. Shrike, soaked with black blood from the waist down, released the lump of cursed meat and raced past the weapons ensnared in it.

She chose a many-eyed abomination as her target. It dropped its hindered glaive and pulled a duck-billed axe from its belt. Shrike screamed with fury at the sight. This one had been a Skiras brave. It drew back her people’s traditional weapon to strike and made a sort of chattering squeal.

She decided not to go for the kill and instead stabbed upwards at the fist that held the weapon. The blade severed fingers, and then fire claimed the whole hand. The axe haft crumbled into shards of charcoal and the weapon’s iron head tumbled past her face. Then Shrike flicked her dagger down into the shoulder of the handless arm. This cut burned off the entire mauled limb. The monstrosity still, however, managed a punch from its good side that landed in her ribcage.

Shrike’s whole body shook with the force of the blow and she stumbled back, but the Skiras traitor didn’t press forward. It had its own pain to master, and then fate came calling. A spear shaft hurtled over Fire Shrike’s shoulder and pierced the center of the monster’s chest. A skull warrior from her ingawasi must have been waiting for an opportunity and had chosen well.

The plate of bone that held the thing’s ribs together must have been tough. The spearhead did not pass all the way through, but it was the only help Shrike needed. Her next lunge put the enchanted dagger into the monster’s gut, and it could take no more.

Her ingawasi remained locked in the struggle all around, but a path forward was clear. She could see the undefended backs of more enemies, all faced to fight Dageran’s men. Shrike pounced like a mountain cat.

The evil ones now had her rampaging in their rear echelon. They still fought to the end. Everyone, diabolist or otherwise, knew that no offers of mercy would contaminate this day’s killing.

She looked back up to the top of the ziggurat once all of Irikiti’s dogs had fallen. There was no sign of Hassaket or the woman with pincers. Dageran shouted at her next from further down the battlements. She ran to meet the Lord-Commander with her ingawasi still following a few paces behind.

“Look,” Dageran said with a wave at another fight on the battlements far across from where they stood. “Your Skiras have also made it up here. They fight well.”

Shrike agreed. Some of Sky Father’s ingawasi had fought through the black snakes, and the diabolists on the earthworks were falling fast to their speed and lightening-laced weapons. It appeared more and more that this battle was won. The unfolding victory didn’t, however, touch her heart.

“Have you seen Hassaket?” she asked Dageran.

“No, Lady Shrike, not since this began.”

“I have to find her.”

Her last words had finished when the ground trembled. She looked up at the ziggurat again and saw the renegade herald fighting for altitude. Then something huge crashed up and out of the ziggurat. Rocks flew in all directions, and Hassaket spun into the ground.

Fire Shrike froze in place and watched the renegade herald for five heartbeats. Her lover did not move. Hassaket remained still even after the rocks stopped raining down. Then Shrike glanced at the gigantic atrocity that had sprung up and out of the temple masonry. It looked like the Satae idol of Irikiti that she had seen back in the summer.

Then something made her take a longer look. It had a tiny head in comparison to the rest of its bulk, and she recognized its face. It had a thick beard, and it was perched on top of an obscenely long neck.

It was Flint Ox. Shrike had to beat back a dry heave. The atrocity then moved its body with a sickening undulation that ended with a gout of fire spurting off its claws and out at the Skiras on the battlements. Her people had to scatter to avoid destruction, and the diabolists nearby leaped to the advantage. Shrike saw the momentum of that fight turn for the enemy as several of Sky Father’s satas banti fell to black blades.

“Dageran,” she said, “sound the retreat for your soldiers. Lure that thing this way.”

She turned to Bansha next. “Take the ingawasi over to the outside of this wall and wait. When you hear my dagger come to life, come back. It will be close. Kill it or die trying.”

Then the shaman hugged the dirt floor of the battlements and begged Earth Mother for the chance to get near to the thing that had murdered Hassaket.

* * *

As one of Irikiti’s snakes slid off her falcata, Hassaket looked up at the temple. Fire filled her vision, so she threw the monstrous corpse into the path of the burning destruction and called upon her own faith in Merkeses. The heat baked the moisture out of the land beneath her and the stench was something right out of the Hell of Burning Tears, but the worst of the flames dissipated.

Butterflies in the pit of her stomach warned her not to test Merkeses like that again. A powerful bond connected Irikiti to the slave that had thrown the flames.

She sheathed her sword and took to the sky before the hellish conjurer could throw another holocaust. While doing so, she spotted her tormenter at the top level of the ragged ziggurat. It was a woman, perfectly proportioned and nude, with brutal arms like Irikiti’s. She had no hair and her tongue constantly tested the air as if she were a snake.

Their eyes locked, and Hassaket recognized her tormenter. It was the Bone Render from Tamoz; the one Dalmirae had called Pakteshi. Irikiti had given her a new form, but the face remained the same.

It shrieked at her and waved its limbs, conjuring again. Hassaket called upon Merkeses’s celestial crossbow without taking time to notch a bolt. Instead she pushed her wings for speed and then fell into a sudden dive when hellish flames again flickered on Pakteshi’s pincers.

Hassaket’s evasion was enough; the pillar of fire hurtled overhead, but now the temple’s half-finished columns were rushing up fast. She snapped her wings out to stop. The rebel herald managed not to fall only by running when her feet touched the ground.

She ducked behind a wall and took a moment to ready the crossbow. Hassaket chose a bolt with a narrow head, reasoning that Pakteshi’s body was now as Madon had predicted. Then she stopped and listened.

Hassaket could hear only the battle down below and the howl of the wind around the stones. Pakteshi was either very quiet or motionless. She stepped around the corner, hoping for a clear path to her target.

Instead she saw Pakteshi running towards her without making a sound. Hassaket launched the bolt, but her enemy swatted it down with one of her monstrous claws. The winged woman then had no choice but to brace the crossbow to absorb a swipe meant for her head. The celestial weapon’s metal stock crumpled under the impact with a screech before all of it dissolved in a cloud of blue light.

“I’ll kill you yet!” yelled Hassaket as she backed away and drew her falcata. The Bone Render’s tongue still fluttered about in the outside air, and she still advanced noiselessly.

Another claw swipe came for Hassaket’s face. The renegade herald caught the strike with her sword, but Pakteshi had put all her strength behind it. After a moment of struggle, Hassaket lost her grip, and the falcata went clanging across the temple’s floor.

Pakteshi, though, stumbled forward with her sudden triumph. The Bone Render was now very close. Her skin had mauve undertones, and she smelled like bog water.

Hassaket stepped inside the reach of the diabolist and delivered a punch. It smashed into the Bone Render’s mouth. The forward progress of Irikiti’s slave ended with a backwards stagger. The renegade herald followed with palm heel strike that landed just under Pakteshi’s nose. That blow drew a splatter of black blood.

Pain shot through Hassaket’s right leg, though, as one of the Bone Render’s claws dug into her thigh. She answered with another punch, this one into Pakteshi’s stomach. They fell together, but Hassaket was on top.

The Bone Render’s bare head bounced on the floor from the impact. Then Hassaket drove it down again with her right elbow. The renegade herald felt the grip on her right leg loosen and saw the diabolist’s free claw flailing like a stunned fish. She drew back her fist, threw another punch into Pakteshi’s face, and heard the Bone Render’s skull make a snapping sound as bone cracked against tile.

Pakteshi’s eyes still burned with awareness, however, and her tongue still worked to taste the air. Guessing that no further head trauma would make any difference and that choking would not work at all, Hassaket then struggled free and tried to reclaim the falcata. She knew that a blade through the heart would end this fight. Her right leg failed her, though, so she managed only an urgent, agonized crawl.

Hassaket grabbed the weapon and commenced with the crawl back, crying the whole way. The Bone Render was already pushing itself up without making a sound. The apostate decided to feign a slower movement than necessary, and all of the pain made her false show of exhaustion almost too easy. The truth, in fact, hovered just behind the deception and threatened to end her life.

Pakteshi did not wait at all. The Bone Render threw herself at Hassaket, right claw extended. The apostate herald then sprung her trap. She rolled back to dodge her enemy’s serrated limb, sword ready for an upward thrust.

The claw cut deep into Hassaket’s left arm, but the falcata dove much deeper between Pakteshi’s breasts. The diabolist coughed a little blood over Hassaket as she hung suspended on the falcata, and then her tongue finally went still. The former herald kicked up with her good leg and sent Pakteshi’s dead weight flying.

She pulled herself halfway up and took stock of her own condition. Blood came in gouts from her thigh, so Hassaket pressed on the wound with both hands. The fluid mercifully stopped flowing before the world went completely dark.

Then it was time to sheath her sword. As Hassaket’s hand touched the blade, though, the temple underneath her began to shake. Something was moving down there. She couldn’t stay. With a whimper she managed to stand.

Now the floor bucked underneath her feet, so she began straining her wings for lift. The wind pulled her to the edge of the ziggurat, but then the crash of shattering masonry filled her ears. Something smashed into her right wing. The world began a blurring spin, and the ground came up with a crushing embrace. Then there was complete darkness.

When the light returned, it felt as if she were suffocating under a blanket of pain. Something enormous moved across the land to her front. It was a snake with coils as thick as the height of a young boy. It ended, though, with a human torso. It had arms like Pakteshi’s claws, only much bigger. It also had wings almost as large as the sails on a human ship that could ply the oceans.

For a whole string of moments Hassaket could only wonder about how it was possible for Irikiti to be present in human creation. Then she recognized differences. Its coils seemed to ooze with slime rather than being covered by thick scales. She could see deep gaps between its ribs, and it lacked her old Lord’s head entirely. A smaller visage swiveled on a stalk of a neck instead. This thing was only almost Irikiti, and it was incomplete.

The head had a beard. Hassaket recognized Flint Ox’s face. The man had surrendered himself more fully than any human she had ever known. His spirit must have been rotten with hatred beyond all boundaries to allow for this degree of submission.

A shower of crossbow bolts flew from the fortifications. Most of them stuck into Flint Ox’s new form, but it seemed not to feel the wounds at all. It gave a sweeping gesture with one claw that threw a wave of hellfire back at the Lazrah rebels. Then it rose up to a height twice as tall as the walls around the temple and rushed forward.

Dageran’s men sounded a retreat with a high scream of horns. Hassaket cursed and stood. Then she flexed her wings and cursed more. The struggle couldn’t end this way, but her body couldn’t seem to shrug off the pain.

Hassaket then saw a fragment of the wall slide towards the behemoth. Fire Shrike was moving to strike with the protection of Earth Mother’s befuddling cloak, and suddenly the apostate found that her wings had the strength to fly. Flashes of hellfire from the dagger began to shred the wet coils of Flint Ox’s abominated self as the shaman attacked. Her lover had decided to unleash a frenzy of destruction rather than to strike once and spring away. Hassaket took to the air, but she was still too distant to even be a distraction.

Panic tried to crush her effort and failed. The rubble of the temple shook as the giant contorted its body in pain and surprise. Then one of its claws arced down, and Fire Shrike’s body, limp as a doll, flew through the air from the force of the blow.

Shrike’s ingawasi came vaulting over the fortifications before its shaman hit the ground. Hassaket didn’t care. She flew to the spirit rider and gave her a gentle hug: “Starlight Sparrow? Sing to Earth Mother for me. Please?”

The ground shook a final time as the thing that was Flint Ox collapsed from a flurry of stab wounds delivered by skull warrior spears. Fire Shrike’s beautiful body was in ruins, though, and her spirit was gone. Hassaket understood that no reason existed for a return to the Hell of Burning Tears. A new kind of damnation had just sprung up all around.

Chapter Fifteen: Shepherd of the Damned

The pain from the clawed arm surpassed anything Shrike could imagine. Then she died. The pain ended.

For a moment she could still perceive through the Veil. The shaman saw a collapsing bulk too massive to be anything other than the death throes of what Flint Ox had become. Then she saw her own shattered body. Hassaket landed nearby and cradled it. After a moment, her lover realized that she was dead and scrambled back as if the corpse were on fire. Shrike saw tears streaking Hassaket’s hysterical face and then the darkness of the Veil closed all around.

Fire Shrike also sobbed, unready to seek Earth Mother, her ancestors, or the grove where she would meet the renegade herald again. She grabbed onto the consolation that at least Hassaket lived. The sweet possibilities of life still waited for her blood companion.

The shaman still kept weeping, but then a winged shadow with eyes of orange light interrupted her despair. Shrike took a deep breath and challenged the new presence. “Dalmirae! Are you here to gloat? Go back to your hell!”

The spirit of the dead herald hesitated before speaking with her husky voice. “You were Hassaket’s paramour? I can see why she was so smitten. But, regarding your demand, I can’t go back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t find the Hell of Burning Tears.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Dalmirae’s voice quieted. “I agree, but here I am. I’ve died before and found my way back without difficulty. I’m not sure what is wrong, but I know that Hassaket buried my body and spoke kind words. That was a first. I remember no one did that even the very first time I died and my spirit went to a hell.”

“What do you want?”

“I want a home. Wandering here is worse than any punishment Irikiti might impose for my failure. That would have an end. This could go on forever.”

“Why should I help you? You tried twice to kill Hassaket.”

The lost diabolist’s voice became assertive again. “You have no reason to show mercy. It was a war. I was a soldier.”

“I should leave you.”

Dalmirae knelt, spread her arms out with open palms held upward, and looked down. “Please don’t. I may never meet someone that can help me again, and suicide is impossible here. I’ve tried. It is painful but pointless.”

The shaman considered before speaking. “Very well. I’ll let Someone else decide your destiny. Hassaket said you were not just hate, and I’ll honor her words. Come with me.”

“Thank you. I don’t remember experiencing such a gift before.”

The pair glided through the shadows of the Veil together, the diabolist behind the human. Fear of treachery kept Shrike glancing back at Dalmirae constantly, but her new ward only offered rude conversation: “Spirit Rider, do you really find Hassaket to be a good lover?”

“Yes.”

“I guessed that she would be too aggressive for a human woman.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Is there anything you would like to ask me? I saw much from inside Lord Irikiti’s camp.”

“He’s not your lord anymore. Your loyalty to that evil is an insult.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve shown one hundred and seventeen years of loyalty to Him as a herald alone, and I can’t even speak for my earlier Elevations. So, any questions?”

“Why would you tell me any truth?”

“I am abandoned by all but you. I have no one to lie for.”

Shrike spat out half of a laugh and half of a snarl. “Sure. Why not? Tell me what happened to Flint Ox.”

“Flint Ox? He made a clumsy entreaty to Lord, ah, to the Hell of Burning Tears, but it didn’t matter that he was ignorant of sorcery. The man was convenient, so Irikiti sent me to him after I failed to take Hassaket prisoner.”

“What was the entreaty about?”

“You. He wanted you. I satisfied him for a while and then convinced him to serve Irikiti with his Tagat braves. I thought a war among the tribes of the Skiras nation would bring you back home and that Hassaket would follow, so Flint Ox and I would both get what we wanted.”

“Very clever.”

“It seems not clever enough. I saw much of this last battle despite the Veil. We did not anticipate so many rebellious Lazrah soldiers.”

“Too bad, and your story still does not sound like Flint Ox. He hated dealing with anything beyond the Veil. He distrusted shamans. Why should I believe any of this?”

“Well, he wasn’t fond of me. He was trying to be rough. Silly human. He had no idea. It all came down to the usual thrusting hips and desperate panting. He thought that he would plant his pathetic seed in me, but instead my hell molded him in its image. I even made him forget about you. I filled his spirit with other things and he brought me his followers. That was a fun time under the night sky.”

Shrike stopped and faced Dalmirae: “Enough. I already knew he was the worst of what a human could be.”

“Yes. It is too bad you even knew him. I have not met a spirit so ripe for the gifts of a hell in many years. Was he always so corrupt?”

The shaman thought for a moment before answering. “Yes. He never could accept the denial of any want.”

“I am very sorry.”

She resumed leading the way without speaking. A murderous diabolist had just offered her kind words. It had to be some sort of seduction.

The current that led Fire Shrike to Earth Mother then became stronger and Her light appeared. Shrike’s sorrow and anger bled away. Soon both of them would know some kind of peace.

After a time that defied time, the light began to change. She heard the sound of gentle rustling, and then the light became an ocean of golden maple leaves dropped by autumn’s cold. A wind pushed the leaves. Blue sky, bare trees, and dormant earth came into view.

Earth Mother was among the trees. The Goddess broke into a big grin full of perfect teeth that sparkled like pale opals upon seeing them. Shrike began laughing as tears of joy flowed from her eyes. Earth Mother spoke next, and Her voice carried a flavor of delight. “Starlight Sparrow, you have brought me a prodigal daughter! You are a wonder to behold!”

The Goddess then turned to consider Dalmirae. “Come to me. I love you.” The lost diabolist stepped through the leaves without hesitation, and Earth Mother enfolded her in an embrace. Shrike heard Dalmirae’s voice: “Goddess, please judge me.”

Earth Mother answered. “Prodigal Daughter, you have suffered too much. I will make you Mine.”

Shrike saw that the wind had begun driving the leaves again. They swirled all around and began to shimmer. Dalmirae looked at her before disappearing in the progressively growing luminescence. Her face now showed tears and utter peace. “Thank you, Spirit Rider. I think Earth Mother has another place for you to go. Goodbye.”

Cold sliced into Shrike’s world and she next found herself peering up at grey clouds and falling snow. Then the shaman looked about. Soldiers and braves knelt all around. Hassaket remained on the ground, crushed by mourning.

Fire Shrike sat up, feeling as shaky as a newborn fawn looks, and spoke: “Please stop crying.” Hassaket looked up and went silent. Everyone else began murmuring.

“Earth Mother,” said Shrike, “sent me back.” She tried to stand, but the urge to wobble fought her hard. Before she fell back down, though, Hassaket was there with arms both strong and supple.

“Praise Earth Mother” croaked the renegade herald. “You are alive.”

“I’ve been though the Veil so many times that I am not sure what that means.”

Hassaket smiled and found her songbird voice once again. “Don’t worry, Starlight Sparrow. I’ll remind you after a little rest.”

Shrike felt her own smile grow. “It is good to be alive. You make it so, Hassaket.”

Next she scanned the surrounding warriors and spotted Dageran. “Lord-Commander, I am weak, but I still must serve the wounded as a shaman. Can you have two men lend me their arms?”

Hassaket made a strangled sound of objection that was trying to become words, but Shrike answered before her lover uttered anything coherent. “You also need to rest, my love. I’ll be safe. Irikiti’s slaves are dead or routed. This part of a battle is my special duty.”

The rebel herald managed a grudging “Very well,” and then Dageran complied with Shrike’s wish. She spent the rest of the day singing to spirits while wind-driven snow flurries lashed the land. She attended to both Skiras and Lazrah. Otherwise doomed men walked again and spirits travelled through the Veil in peace. She was serving again as Earth Mother had always intended, and it felt as justified as the weight of a mountain pressing on the ground.

With nightfall her escorts took her to a bonfire enclosed by a Skiras windbreak. Hassaket and Dageran sheltered there along with a smallish brave. Both men stood when she came into the flickering light, and Dageran added an effrazah. Hassaket half-ran and half-hobbled to kiss her hand.

“Starlight Sparrow!” she said.

The two Lazrah soldiers to either side of her stepped away, and she managed to keep standing. “Don’t worry, Hassaket. I’m well. I’m complete.”

The renegade herald indicated the Skiras brave next. “This is Sun Bear of the Samas tribe. He is speaking for your people tonight.”

“Maybe,” said the man, “you should take my place, Fire Shrike. I already know your story. I’ve never seen a dead shaman come back from beyond the Veil without help, so your faith must now be as high and as broad as the sky. I am at best like Mist Stag’s shadow and far from worthy.”

Mention of Stag’s passing cut into her spirit like hooked cirma thorns rending flesh, but Shrike held on to her feelings. “You fought here, Sun Bear. That makes you worthy. Besides, you now know the mind of our people. You are the proper choice.”

“Thank you,” said Sun Bear, “for your kind words. Please, let’s sit.”

Everyone did so. She slid close to Hassaket, wrapped an arm around her waist, and listened to the fire’s low hiss. Dageran started speaking only after everyone had a chance to experience some quiet:

“We were looking to the future, Lady Shrike.”

“And?”

“There were no decisions. We were waiting for you, too.”

She turned to Hassaket. “What do you think this battle will mean for Irikiti?”

“At least we have earned time. I expect the power of His priesthood to be feeble for a full cycle of the seasons, and they still have their border with the Kaladites to defend. If that neighbor manages a campaign this spring, it might be the end for Irikiti and his slaves. The Kaladites, though, follow Lady Ashertimlae. She will bring us a new hell.”

“So,” said Shrike, “we rest and become ready. Tamoz, Geltash, and all the tribes of the Skiras can learn to stand as one while Ashertimlae tries to choke Irikiti with blood and iron. She’ll probably succeed, but there will be sacrifices among Her slaves, and that will earn us still more time.”

Hassaket agreed. “Spoken like a ruler of a kingdom, Lady Shrike.”

Sun Bear’s eyes glittered with intent. “Spoken like a leader of the Skiras nation. Let your friend lead the Lazrah. She is more than able. You should come home. There is no one left alive who is your equal. I’m not sure there was ever any Skiras shaman alive like you. Your people need you. Your people need to show you proper honor, too.”

Fire Shrike never imagined being invited back home. She believed that path was lost forever. After Sun Bear’s surprise released its hold, though, she found her response flowing like a lazy river:

“Sun Bear, thank you. Your words also have a deep kindness. I will not forget your generous spirit or my people, but I have found a deep well of love and faith away from my home. I can’t leave it without destroying myself.”

The brave nodded a grim understanding, and Shrike took a moment to survey the battlefield. The wind had stopped. The white, calm beauty of gently falling snow veiled the disaster all around. Hassaket squeezed her hand next, so she turned.

The apostate herald gave her a smile that could challenge the sun for brilliance and then looked up at the sky and let white flakes settle on her face.