Chapter 14: Chapter 10: Childhood's End

The next morning, I woke to the aching torpor that comes with one drink too many. Azareth’s words pulled at my sleeping mind, but I held myself anchored, unconscious, unwilling to open my eyes to the burning light of day. He shook me, prying open my eyes, and I shoved him off, grumbling half-asleep. His tone carried impatience, but my foggy mind couldn’t make out his words.

He pushed at me again, but I did not stir. Then he pressed two fingers against my temple. There was a shift in the air, as if it grew heavier for a moment. “Wake,” he muttered under his breath, and as he did so, my heart leapt as though I found myself suddenly falling.

My eyes shot open, and bolting upright, I grimaced at the pain in my head. Still reeling, heart racing, I put my head in my hands and groaned.

“Good morning,” Azareth said, though it lacked the friendliness of a greeting. “From your… regrettable state, I’d think you enjoyed yourself, last night.”

I rubbed my eyes, parted my hair, and squinted at him against the dawn. He raised his brows.

“I didn’t take you for a drunk,” he said.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“You met the newest member of our merry little band, yes?”

“Aryssa,” I replied. A wave of vertigo shocked my nerves as I stood off the bed.

“Yes. I spoke to her this morning, over breakfast. She and the others are getting acquainted, just outside.”

“Then she’s to be our guide?”

He nodded curtly. “There are few better suited. Bards are… uniquely able to travel through war-torn land. It will be harder with an Elthysian retinue, but she will afford us privileges otherwise unavailable.”

“Right.”

“I will be waiting for you near the tavern entrance,” he said, face hard like a scolding parent. “Make no delay. Time is… very much of the essence.”

I nodded, head down, as he exited. I held myself a moment, willing away more of my stupor, then pushed my tired body into action. From the basin, I splashed murky water over my face in an effort to more fully come awake. It helped a little. I took a while, running my fingers through my hair, pulling out the kinks and tangles, then tying it into a single knot. I buckled Elegy to my waist, pulled my cloak around my shoulders, then hefted my travelsack. My eyes were still bloodshot and dark-ringed, but I was as ready as I’d ever be. My stride was sluggish as I left the room behind, and I eased my way down the tavern stairs, wincing at every creak.

Outside, I found the sunlight blinding. I blinked, eyes watering as I decided I’d enjoy the darkwood’s quiet twilight for the day. Until then, I raised my hood to block the brunt of the light. To the right, our small band was assembled—Hemma and Aryssa quietly conversed while Azareth and Luran tended to their belongings or looked on, arms folded. Aryssa turned, hearing the door close behind me, and I once more silently swooned at the emerald-green of her eyes. She carried little in the way of supplies, only a small shoulder bag alongside her bulky lute case.

“You look like shit,” she said, wearing her smile plainly, playfully. She approached and adjusted the collar of my shirt, the lay of my hair. “It’s rare to meet a mercenary who holds her liquor so poorly.”

“I’m not…” I protested, and her eyes glinted.

“Not a mercenary, right. A girl from a farm,” she said, touching my arm. Unconsciously, I shied from the contact. “A girl with arms like tree trunks and a stature just as tall. A sword by her side, made of strange and marvelous metal.”

She raised her brows, and I rolled my eyes. Azareth’s voice took her attention, turning her away from me.

“Bards have a certain significance in Khaldara, I understand,” he said, and Aryssa’s face adjusted to be more demure.

“Our history is kept in poetry and song. I’ve heard that humans prefer to write theirs in books. On paper.” she said, wrinkling her brow. That brought a smile to Azareth’s lips.

“Books do not change, generation to generation.”

“Nor do songs, well-remembered.”

He smiled wider. “Books do not bleed or lie.”

“But they burn. Rather easily, I might add.”

“And yet, they do not age—they do not die with their author.”

“A song doesn’t end with death.” Aryssa put her hands on her hips almost indignantly. “The dead have voice too, if you listen for it.”

“There is truth in that. Truth I wish more of my brethren understood.”

Hemma cleared her throat, then, as if in protest. Azareth spared her a glance, seemingly amused.

“Perhaps we can educate each other, then,” Aryssa said, lifting her tail. “It is a rare opportunity to learn of Elthysians, firsthand.”

“And rare to learn of the horned folk.”

“I admit, you’re more accepting of us demon-kin than I expected.”

“It is pointless to squabble over the sins of the fathers.”

Aryssa grunted, though her smile half-faded. Shaking her head, she gestured at us four and turned east, toward the rising sun. “There will be plenty of time to talk on the road. Shall we?”

Azareth nodded assent, and we took our first steps away from Black Orchard. I made to walk alongside Aryssa, and she watched me with an impish gleam in her eye.

Part of my was happy—she’d made me feel more welcome in one night than Azareth, Luran, even Hemma had in our heretofore month together. But part of me was hesitant, as well. I was… accustomed to being by myself. It was difficult, and sometimes foolish, to take people at face value. First impressions rarely captured someone’s whole essence, and everyone, I knew, had secrets. So when I thought about her, I did so with caution. But her smile, her eyes…

She made me nervous. Not like how I felt before a fight, or when I knew I’d disappointed my father. It was… a new kind of anxiety altogether. It was not entirely unwelcome, but… I found it difficult.

“I’m glad you’re coming with us,” I said, plain and simple.

“And I’m glad to be here. I couldn’t leave you alone with three hornless strangers, now could I?”

I paused, glancing at the others. “They aren’t so bad.”

“Hmm. Is that your mantra?”

I recalled having said something similar the night before. Living in Elthysia, I supposed, had given me a strange frame of reference.

I only shrugged in response.

She laughed, short and sharp. “Azareth seems… a little turgid.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Then you’ve got him pinned. And the other two?”

“Hard to say. The man… observant, cautious, if a little standoffish. Rather like a stray dog. And the woman…” she shrugged. “Principled. Though… not quite to the point of folly.”

“What about me?”

Her green eyes danced, catching my own. “A simple girl, trying to find her way. Or… a gentle giantess who doesn’t quite know the things in her own heart.”

I flushed very red, then. “You act… as if you know me.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I… don’t know.”

She smiled with her whole face. “I like to think of myself as a good judge of character. There’s an… honesty about you. I get the feeling that you could never hide who you are, even if you wanted to.”

“I… don’t think I’m that obvious.”

She winked. “You are. To me, at least.”

Somehow, my blush deepened. I turned my head, hiding within my raised hood, and Aryssa began humming as we continued on our way.

* * *

The world felt small, I thought, walking beneath the darkwood’s towering black boughs. I had become accustomed to the open plains and lively forests of Elthysia, and after a few days in the darkwood, I began to yearn for the sky overhead. I wanted to see the sun and the clouds, to know the time and weather. But that was not the only thing I found unnerving about the place. There was something about the way the trees swayed and groaned that seemed… not alive, exactly, but willful. It was as though these branches overhead were grasping fingers, like the knots in the wood were eyes.

I asked Aryssa about it, and she gave me a knowing smile. “Stains, Valhera. You feel the stains.”

I rested my hand on Elegy and hoped she would explain further. I didn’t know how to ask the questions burning within me—not with words, anyway.

She looked around pensively, passing a hand over gnarled bark. “This place wasn’t exactly green, ever, but it was a proper forest, once. There were towns up and down the darkwood, but most ended up flattened or burned by Elthysians during the time of Gilgaroth.” She trailed, eyes wandering up to the canopy. “War feeds the soil, at first. Bodies become dirt, and blood nurtures the plants. But eventually, the death was too much. The weight of souls… became too great. It descended on these trees, and… made them their own form of undead.”

The darkwood groaned, as if in response. Aryssa began to sing as we walked, ethereal voice settling into the quiet of the wood.

There rests, upon the darkwood boughs,

The bind of bygone chains;

The weight of western soldiers’ vows

Of conquest to attain.

By sword and spear and arrow flung,

The blood fell down like rain,

And in its wake, without a tongue,

These trees speak of their stain.

They sing a song that can’t be sung,

A dark and mute refrain,

Of dying breath, trapped in the lung,

Of deeds and deaths profane.

The silence that followed was heavier than it had been before. Chills ran up my spine and my hairs all stood on end. Aryssa brushed my arm reassuringly, and spoke little louder than a whisper.

“The song goes on, but you understand. It’s a beautiful thing, I think. We can see the ways the dead touched our world. In some ways… they’re never truly gone. And, in our time, we leave parts of ourselves behind. In a place where you can see the past almost as clearly as the present… does anyone truly die?”

The scars burned along my back, then. I had stained the world with death… and those dead men would stay with me, forever. I was, like these trees, carrying the burden of those gone before.

I started to think of the darkwood the same way I thought about my scars. Twisted, gnarled, never quite healed from the wounds of the past. Every waking moment, I was conscious of them all. And when I lay down for sleep, my nightmares bled them anew.

As days went by, Aryssa noticed. She asked me about it, but I only told her that I’d seen a fair bit of death. I skipped the details like I had that night in Black Orchard, and similarly, she didn’t press me to reveal my secrets.

Regardless, my nightmares were growing worse. One night, I only caught mere moments of sleep before their terror wrenched me back to the living world. Hemma was the one keeping watch, then, and she paid me little mind as I occupied myself, reluctant to return to the dark. I drew, first, but images of peace and pain did little to avert my mind. In the dead of night, rather than risk my dreams once again, I took up my sword and stepped outside the light of the campfire.

Swordplay had a way of clearing my head, and fighting in the dark required every ounce of my focus. Silent, I marked every root and trunk in my mind’s eye and started my deadly dance. Balance was delicate, especially on such uneven terrain, but every time my feet clipped an unseen root, I adjusted my swings to compensate. A time or two, my blade bit one of the darkwood trees, and each time, I redoubled my focus.

I wasn’t sure how long I fought invisible foes, but that had been my intention. Anything to avoid my own racing thoughts and the ghosts in my dreams. In time, the sun’s first glow filtered through the canopy, dim accents of orange and red showing the dirt I had trampled and the bark I had scored. In the feeble light of not-quite-night, I walked back to camp. My adrenaline faded, and the strain of the night settled upon my weary shoulders.

Such was the fatigue of the body. When I stopped, I knew fatigue of the soul. My distraction had been temporary, and now, waiting for the others to wake, doubts and fears crept back into my head.

I sat against a tree at the edge of the firelight. Leaned against it, I felt the bumps and gnarls of its bark like a mirror to my own twisted skin. A deep breath, and I tried drawing, again. I decided to draw Aryssa, lute in hand, smiling at me with that impish grin. Three strokes, and I found it difficult to continue.

Luran was watching me from the orange glow of the fire. He had his knife out, carving a length of darkwood. I couldn’t see what shape it was taking, but decided not to ask. Rather, I watched the flames, hoping they would distract me—and they did, for a time. But my mind returned, and I redoubled my efforts to put something on the page.

It was nearly time to wake the others when Luran broke the silence. “Sleep at all?” he asked, and I could’ve mistaken his lack of expression for apathy.

I watched him, folded my legs against my chest, and said nothing.

“You don’t look well,” he continued. His knife caught on a root, stopping him short.

“Thank you.”

“You need to sleep, Valhera. Everyone has their limits.”

“Oh, then let me just shut my fucking eyes.”

He paused, holding my stare levelly. A moment, then my irritation dimmed to a feeling more dire. I sighed, wanting nothing more than claw out the aching part of me.

He spoke again. “It’s hardly my place to say so, but… I know that look.”

I hardened my eyes in response. That only seemed to reinforce his intuition.

“Right. I suppose I’ll simply ask—you killed someone, didn’t you?”

His words startled me, abrupt as they were, and my exhaustion burned into anger. “So perceptive. What, do you accuse all your companions?”

“It’s not an accusation. I’ve seen people in your place before. Happens a lot in my line of work.”

I glared at him until he turned his focus back to his whittling. “Doesn’t matter if the man was a brigand or a beggar or some desperate fool with an axe.” He spoke slowly, as though choosing his words with utmost care. “When a rookie sheds blood, it… changes them. Sometimes, the guilt is enough that they crawl back to whatever hole they came from. Sometimes, they grow numb. A few even enjoy it. But for others… it builds.” He looked at me, icy eyes hard and cold. “Until it turns into madness or gets them killed.”

My tail twitched in agitation. “And which one are you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I just think you ought to know that whatever you’re feeling… it has to go somewhere. Everyone has a breaking point.”

“Then what do you propose I do?”

He shrugged. “Talking about it can help.” He saw my wary look and averted his eyes again. “It wouldn’t change my perception of you. If that makes you feel any better.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“And you don’t know about me, either.” His stare grew even icier, somehow. “Here’s the mercenary’s first lesson: here and now, those are the only things that matter. Here and now, we are allies. We have each others’ backs. Nothing in the past… can change that fact.”

“Then you’d trust a murderer?”

“It isn’t about trust. It’s about accepting your situation for what it is and trying to make it out alive. Intact, too, if you can help it. Playing the hand you were dealt… for better or for worse.”

I tensed, leaning my head against the tree. Luran didn’t say anything more, and rather than speak, I listened to his knife dragging across wood through the crackle of the fire. The sound had a steady cadence, like a heartbeat. Following it helped my own pulse start to slow.

It wasn’t long before dawn came over us. Luran stood, sheathing his knife, and walking closer to the fire. I looked up, supposing that the he looked less sinister in the brightening sunlight.

“If you need an ear, I have two,” he said, tossing his carving between his hands. “Or you can bottle it up until you burst. Up to you.”

He turned. In one casual, fluid motion, he dropped the carving into the fire where its impact kicked up myriad sparks and ash.

He woke the others, and soon, we were ready to leave. My companions wore their concern at my growing exhaustion, but I denied them the chance to express it. Instead, I tore into my breakfast and found myself operating on adrenaline alone for much of the day.

That night had me as restless as the one before. As dusk fell, I retreated into the forest and practiced with my blade. It didn’t take long for my pulse to pound and my breath to falter as fatigue bit me down to the bone.

Still, I kept at it as long as I could. When it came time for my watch, I settled by the campfire, mind and body heavy as lead. I watched the flames for my entire vigil, finding their pattern hypnotic—the only thing that could distract me. But Luran had been right. The body has its limits. And, even as I fought it, I couldn’t keep my eyes from closing. I fell into deep, unwilling slumber.

I woke to commotion, movement, the feeling of falling—my collar clenched in closed hands, jostling the sleep from my body. My first instinct was to lash, to fight, so I seized my assailant’s wrist and pulled back my fist. My waking eyes focused onto a familiar face looming over me, and I paled as I realized what had happened. Azareth held my shirt in his hands, mouth a thin crease, regarding me with unmasked disdain.

“Get up,” he said. As I rose, the faint light of dawn leaked through woven trees. I looked around, moving to gather my things, but found that something was missing. My pack lay to the side, undisturbed… but Elegy was nowhere to be found. I searched, frantic hands sifting through roots, dirt, and graying grass, longing to feel the familiar chill of its bluish metal… and another presence besides.

That blade was my link to my father. It was the only piece of him that I had, and I could not suffer to lose it. I continued my search, treading and retreading the same area a dozen times, the fog of panic steadily creeping into my mind.

I turned, finding that the others were awake as well. Hemma didn’t have her weapon, nor did Luran. Aryssa hadn’t been carrying anything more than a small dagger, but it seemed like that was missing too. Hemma seemed naked and uncomfortable, being disarmed, as did her husband—Aryssa, however, seemed at ease. She came forward, crouching next to me.

“It’s gone,” she said, hand on my shoulder. I bristled at her touch, but that tension broke away. I tried to hold back tears, but my unwilling sleep had done little to curb my exhaustion. I hid my face, straining to keep myself steady as the first few tears blossomed in my eyes.

“Does anyone have a weapon?” Azareth asked, to which Luran grunted. I swallowed my emotion, watching as he pulled a knife from his boot, two from his shirt, one from his sleeve, and one from his belt. The number would have been comical, had I not been reeling from the loss of my own weapon. Each knife was roughly the same size, though different in their craftsmanship and wear. A few looked barely used, blades a clean, shining silver, while the two he kept closest were tarnished, worn, but nonetheless keen.

He gestured that we come closer, and he distributed the knives accordingly. He kept the most weathered one for himself, passing the second to Hemma. To me, he offered a rather ornate piece, housing a glistening red jewel in its pommel. Its blade was a few inches longer than the one I kept in my belt, so I nodded my thanks and buckled it to my side.

“I… am no fighter,” Azareth said, waving the offered blade away. “Perhaps another of us would be more effective with two blades than I with one.”

Aryssa took the knife, flipped it over, and raised her brows. “And I’m only a bard,” she said, handing it back. Hemma took this one, though she wore a look of worry.

“Isn’t this place dangerous? How have you lived this long, travelling alone, if you don’t know your way around a blade?”

Aryssa sighed. “It isn’t that dangerous if you know your route. Besides, not even the most violent warlord would dare hurt a bard.”

Azareth spoke up. “And the undead?”

“Blades are effective against very few of them, anyway. And you’ll find that they often appreciate a good song, just as much as any living soul.”

“Hmm.” Azareth’s face tightened, then he knelt, closing his eyes and touching the barren dirt. “I can sense them. Undead,” he said, nodding. “They came in the night.”

My scars twinged in response, and I noticed a weight in the air. I’d grown accustomed to the feeling of Khaldara, and the darkwood had its own atmosphere. But there was something else, now, something that felt… somewhat like what I’d felt that night in Gazmere, staring down the undead. It was subtle, and had Azareth said nothing, I doubt I would’ve noticed it, but as I focused on the presence, I found it as tangible as the gaze of darkwood trees.

“What use do undead have for weapons?” Luran asked, uninflected.

“That’s just the thing. Very few would even think to take up arms.”

“Wights?” Aryssa chimed in, adjusting her lute.

“Are they common in this part of Khaldara?”

She pursed her lips. “These are the grounds of the old wars. There are hundreds… maybe even thousands of mass graves in these woods from that time.”

“This doesn’t seem like behavior fitting a band of wights,” Azareth replied.

“You’re right. They wouldn’t have left without cutting off a few heads. Especially you three…” she trailed, gesturing at the Elthysians. She flicked her tail and gave a wry smile.

“If they fell in the old wars, I don’t doubt it. Hatred burns strong in the undead.”

“You know much about them,” Aryssa observed.

“I do.” Azareth said, almost eager to agree. “But I know little about this darkwood. Are there others so common?”

“Hmm. On my way to Black Orchard, I found myself surrounded by a small group of strays. But they only wanted to hear a song.”

Azareth thought for a while. “This may be their sort of mischief. Would you agree?”

She shrugged. “What use do children have for swords?”

“Perhaps that will be made clear in time. Regardless, they can be found in this wood?”

“Sad as it is, they’re relatively common all across Khaldara.”

He nodded pensively. “They can be particularly difficult to cleanse, I know. However, this may be a fruitful place to start our search.”

He looked at the rest of us as if just remembering that we were there. “We’ll look for strays,” he said. “They are children who died, lost, alone, separated from their families… orphaned, abandoned, or as runaways. They are most often seen playing with living children, or… pulling pranks on adults.”

Stolen story; please report.

“Hell of a prank,” Luran muttered. Aryssa nodded in his direction.

“It’s true. I’ve seen them pelt people with fruit or tie their shoes together, but outright theft is rare.”

Azareth’s face tightened ever-so-slightly. “Please, enlighten me if a better idea crosses your mind. Until then…” He turned to Luran. “We ought to exercise our particular skills to track this quarry. Luran, I believe this is your expertise?”

Luran dipped his head in a slow, affirming nod.

“Then imagine we are looking for a small group of children. I would think them easy prey.”

Luran nodded curtly and started circling the camp, eyes scanning up and down, left and right. He crouched to see things more closely while the rest of us stayed put, intent to not blunder over a clue and ruin the trail. I fiddled with my hands, feeling exposed without Elegy by my side. Luran’s knife, while sharp, was a poor replacement. It didn’t have that familiar weight… that aura.

It didn’t take long for him to find something. The subtle disturbance of dirt, the configuration of sparse undergrowth, and the scuffing on the gnarled roots. It was clear to Luran that several small bodies had passed through, even though I struggled to see the signs. He led the way, feet falling quietly. The rest of followed, Azareth walking up beside me, voice a careful whisper.

“I did not think I’d have to say this,” he said, deadly low, “but we cannot afford anyone sleeping during their watch. There are greater threats than strays this side of the Lesmyne.”

I flared my nose. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“The dead men… they haunt you still?”

My scars burned at his words, and I knew the answer was plain on my face. Azareth grunted.

“I should have expected the nightmares to grow worse. I can help, you know. If only for the night.”

I hesitated. In no way did I wish to rely on him. Even so… what I wouldn’t do for a peaceful night.

His next words pulled me from my musing. “But learn from this mistake, Valhera.”

He stepped away, then, and I shivered. For once, though, I had a distraction at the ready. Rather than contemplate the interaction, I looked for signs of the undead. Luran was far better at it than I, and my search proved fruitless. Still, it was better than walking in silence.

Then, I thought I heard something. A faint rustle, a muffled laugh, or a distant voice. Turning my attention upward, I expected to see something in the canopy. There was a darting shadow, gone as soon as it had come. I tried to follow it with my eyes, but to no avail. The moment lingered in my memory, alongside the sound. With them, a simple feeling lodged in my heart, no less piercing and painful than an arrow.

I felt like a child again, if only for a moment. Lost and alone.

I dismissed it as exhaustion. A snag in my tired heart. Even so, I couldn’t quite shake the presence of something bleak and cold.

* * *

Time was a fickle thing in the darkwood without the sun visible overhead. I did not know how much time had passed since we’d started on the strays’ trail. Regardless, I felt more and more vulnerable without a sword by my side. Even though the black forest had been nearly barren of anything dangerous, every rustle and crack sent chills arcing up my spine. The trees’ constant groaning seemed to take on a more malevolent tone as if our weapons had been taken by the forest itself. I knew it was a ridiculous thought, but the trees almost seemed to be biding their time, poised to strike while I could not retaliate.

Eventually, we crossed a small brook that flowed in channels between the eroded roots. Each of us paused to slake our thirst and fill our waterskins before proceeding. I was the first to finish, leaned against a tree, tasting the brook’s earthy flavor. While the others collected it for later, I kept my eyes on our surroundings, vigilant even as I fought my weariness.

I felt something, in that silence. Emotions that were not my own—memories, perhaps, of another mind. There was longing, first, and an inkling of fear. My own thoughts could only turn toward my father, but instead of seeing his craggy face in my mind’s eye, I saw someone else.

It was a young direling woman. She wore a simple dress with dark hair, like mine—deep blue eyes, like mine. She was very tall, an inch or two below my own height though softer in the jaw, with horns scalier and smaller than mine. I heard her heartfelt laugh, dancing through the air, and felt her warmth as I remembered myself in her arms. It was enough that my own skin started to heat, and I wrapped my arms around myself. This was a particular feeling, I thought—one that I had felt rarely, though it was not something to forget. There is a special warmth that comes from a parent’s embrace.

For half a second, I wondered if some long-lost memory of my own mother had resurfaced—if this darkwood had pried it from the deepest depths of my mind. But that was impossible. I had met my father as a red, wrinkled newborn, at a time before memory. I returned my focus to the physical world, and understanding came over me.

There was a tiny direling girl looking up at me. She wore tattered clothes with debris stuck in her matted hair, and her pale skin was rendered dark by dirty stains. Tiny two-inch horns poked out above her head, nearly covered by the filthy hair. She was thin, too thin, with ribs and bones showing everywhere her threadbare dress didn’t cover. Her eyes were wet, dripping as she watched me, and I understood the image that I’d seen.

She was a stray. I looked like her long-lost mother. From far off, maybe she’d hoped to have finally found her way home. But now, closer, it was clear I was not that woman. She began to cry more openly, making no sound even as her body shuddered.

I crouched, shrinking closer to her height. I offered my hands, palms up, and strove to remember myself at that age. The times, few and far between, that my father had held me after a long day. The assurances he’d whispered in my ear—promises of safety, warmth, and love.

The girl’s eyes went wide, and I knew that she felt it. Little hands wrapped around herself, she fell forward into my arms.

She was cold, ice cold, though felt light enough to lift with my little finger. Her body felt fragile, ethereal, as though made of glass and smoke, ready to shatter or dissipate with a blow of the wind. A torrent of her emotions poured into me, then. Longing was the strongest—the desire to go home. But there was also fear. Her friends were in danger. She was in danger. She showed me memories of men staggering around a campfire, raising hands in abuse. There were other children, dirty, emaciated, offering them arms. I felt her apology, begging forgiveness for their theft, then looked into her watery eyes and vowed that I’d take care of the men.

She smiled briefly, then her face darkened, looking behind me. Turning, I found Azareth peering down at me. He looked at the girl, clinging to me with her icy grip, and raised a questioning brow.

“Much like children, strays tend to fear unfamiliar adults,” he said. “Hiding from strangers, they can be… particularly difficult to find.” The girl pressed her body closer to mine, as if hiding within my arms. I winced as that freezing head pressed against my neck, but I managed to respond to Azareth.

“I look like her mother.”

“You can communicate with her?”

“She spoke to me first, I suppose. I listened… and answered.”

He chewed his lip, eyes making their unspoken observations. I gasped as the girl held me tighter, cold hands taking the breath from my lungs. I pushed back a bit, making it more bearable, but she didn’t seem keen on leaving yet. I saw another of her memories—finding and stealing my father’s sword. I felt her heart pang in recognition, seeing my face, though the dim light had hidden key details. I knew her hope, that maybe her mother had found her after all these years. Then the sad realization that she had to return with the others, lest they find punishment.

“She took our weapons,” I said, blinking back to the present. “She and the other strays. They’re… collecting them for someone. Soldiers, maybe.”

Azareth’s brows furrowed sharply. “I hope this does not lead us into conflict with the local warlord.”

Aryssa spoke up, a few feet back. “There’s slim chance of that. There’s little here in the way of resources, so the vast majority would rather fight over the eastern mountains. Not to mention that the fog of Avernus makes western campaigns futile at best… suicide at worst.”

“Surely, this land must belong to someone.”

“It does,” Aryssa nodded, “but as you’ve seen, he’s nearly uncontested in his claim. The darkwood remains the most… peaceful part of Khaldara, as it has since the old wars.”

“Then why would soldiers stockpile weapons? And enlist strays to do it, at that.”

Aryssa shrugged. I spoke up.

“There’s something strange about them. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Azareth waved the comment aside. “Can the stray lead us to them?”

I felt fear, then, pulsing from her body. I imparted a few reassuring thoughts, barely managing to calm her down before she panicked and fled. I asked her Azareth’s question again, and though she was reluctant, she nodded.

Azareth smiled his facsimile of a smile. “Wonderful.” He turned, gesturing for Hemma and Luran to come closer. Once we were all assembled, the stray finally relinquished her hold on me. Standing, I rubbed warmth back into my limbs, checking them for frostbite but only seeing the deep red of a less destructive cold.

The girl led us on, tail dragging behind her as she walked us toward our destination. I followed, and she reached to take my dangling hand. I let her hold it as we continued despite the chill of her grip. And, for a time, I considered her terrible fate. I imagined myself, like her, my father taken from me while I was far too young to fend for myself or possibly understand death. Briefly, I considered where I would have ended up without my father, and figured it was more than likely that, like the undead, I would have died and never passed the Veil. The burden of that loss… it would have been too much.

She looked up at me, eyes wide. I was not her mother, but… I felt, in her, an ember that had long ago been smothered. I was not her mother, and yet I had given her compassion she hadn’t found since her dark and fateful day.

She almost slipped away. In part from fear, but… so too from peace. I, for the briefest of moments, had given her what she’d lost. And while that was not quite enough to allow her death’s comfort, she redoubled her grip on my hand and led me forward with all the more conviction.

Once we were done, I would help her, I vowed. At that, the ember within her burned a bit brighter.

* * *

The stray led our company through the darkwood, passing an entire mile underfoot. She was worried, I knew, imparting occasional memories across our peculiar bond. Those men would harm her friends if they noticed she was missing, and they’d hurt her even more if they found her helping strange adults. I inspected the dagger I’d borrowed from Luran, weighing it in my one hand not occupied by the stray. I did my best to reassure the girl that those men wouldn’t be a problem much longer. To myself, I wondered what kind of resolution would come about. I doubted it would be simple or bloodless.

My stomach churned at the thought. I was not a hardened warrior yet, despite my dealings in death. In many ways, I was just as squeamish as I’d been before that night in Gazmere—in fact, I was more so. After seeing violence and knowing its horror, it is difficult to once more cross swords with the intent to kill. Before… I hadn’t known what it sounded like when a man breathed his last breath, cut short by his throat ripped open. I hadn’t known what it looked like when he watched his own guts tumble out. The resistance of flesh against steel, the grind against cartilage and bone. Sounds of panic, absolute fear… and the feeling of it all They were stuck in my head.

Before, I’d feared things unknown. Now, I feared something familiar and more horrible than I’d imagined. So even despite the cool air of early autumn and the ubiquitous shade of the woods, I sweated as if tied to a plough beneath the noonday sun. Even though our pace was easy on account of the stray’s tiny stride, my heart thundered and my breath was gone.

Eventually, the stray stopped. She relinquished her grip on my hand and crouched low, pointing at something just barely within sight. There was sunshine ahead, not dim and dappled like most of the darkwood, but bright and unimpeded. There was also the smoke of a camp, and while it was difficult to see between the myriad trees, I observed the occasional flicker of movement.

Ahead, the knotted roots unraveled, clearing the way for a more permanent camp. There were lean-tos made of branches and moss spanning the gaps in the trees. Dry smoke curled upward from the central fire ring, disappearing in the canopy. On first observation, I spotted five humanoid shapes, though I found their utter silence unnerving. They each had gliding tails and horns in various shapes and sizes, some broken or chipped, exposing the bone beneath.

We ventured closer, and I took note of their thinning hair, dirty and unkempt. The closest one had an enormous gash in its body, running from the right shoulder through the collarbone, almost to the left hip. When it moved, its top half precariously shook as if only kept together by clothes and scabs.

The stray curled up in the crook of a root, holding her knees tight to her chest. I tried to ask her where her friends were, but she only shook her head. The feeling that came across our link did nothing to give me an answer.

Azareth stopped next to me and whispered as quietly as he could. “Wights. In a way, I was right.” He looked to Aryssa who raised her black brows.

“In a way,” she said with a dismissive tone.

“I have never seen them subjugate other undead.”

She hesitated. “They’re soldiers, still. This is new to me as well, but I can imagine… soldiers tend to take whatever they need for war.”

“Weapons,” Hemma muttered, holding her knife. Aryssa nodded.

“They’re warriors. Stuck reliving the war that killed them.”

“Right,” Azareth replied, turning to ensure he had everyone’s attention. “But most importantly to us, they are creatures of flesh. They are among the undead that are affected by ordinary steel.”

“Can they be killed?” Luran asked.

“Kill is not the right word, but… if dealt a grievous wound, they will not arise for some time. Look closely and you will see the wounds that ended their mortal lives, half-healed.” I thought of the one cut shoulder-to-hip and grimaced. “You’ll find them most easily cut down by similar strokes.”

I thought on that for a while. Luran grunted, pointing at something within the camp. There, sunlight gleamed on sharpened steel—weapons resting in a pile near one of the shelters. There was a wight crouched beside it, sorting through them all. My heart sank when it lifted a long, slender, bluish blade.

“What’s our plan of attack?” Azareth asked. I wanted to spring forward, then, to pry Elegy from the undead’s grasp, but I found my restraint. Aryssa answered first.

“I haven’t seen you fight,” she said, tucking hair behind her ear. “But you’re outnumbered. And these were soldiers, in life. They know how to hold rank and file.”

Azareth smiled. “I have faith enough in these three. But your advice would be well-heeded. I don’t know how much death has dulled the soldiers’ reflexes, but they can fight with little fear of wounds.”

He looked us over, cogs turning in his head. “I have a plan,” he said, locking my eyes. “You—Hemma, Luran—know as well as I that Valhera is a gifted swordswoman, trained by one of the most accomplished warriors in all of Elthysia. However, I know little of your training.” He turned his eyes to the mercenary couple. “I believe that, should she take back her mithril sword, she could make short work of the entire camp.”

“There are six of them,” Hemma said, a worried crease on her brow.

“And I have seen her triumph over higher odds.”

I went crimson, then, half from embarrassment, half from rage, and made to hide my face. Even in the shadows of the darkwood, I think my expression was clear. Azareth faced me with a cold smile. There had been seven men on the streets of Gazmere. Though he neglected to mention that they had been simple farmers, wielding hatchets and pitchforks instead of proper weapons.

Luran gave some sort of appreciative grunt, but when he looked at me, a mixture of confusion and sympathy broke through his usual indifference. Aryssa’s eyes went wide at first, then she frowned when she saw my reaction. Hemma watched me a moment, then shook her head.

“I believe it,” she muttered, no doubt remembering our various spars. “But she hasn’t been sleeping.”

“She has fought through worse than exhaustion.”

I remembered the undead’s wail, that night in Gazmere. I had only prevailed because of my demon-fire’s madness, but of course Azareth knew that. He looked at me, a suggestion in his raised brows.

“Valhera, to the left,” he said, and I closed my eyes. “Luran, Hemma, to the right. Distract as many as you can for as long as you can.”

I barely processed what he said. Wordless, I moved to take my position at the edge of the clearing. I set my sights on the undead wielding my father’s blade, then looked at the dagger in my hand, so tiny in comparison. It would be difficult, sword against knife, but my father had not neglected to teach me about the smaller blades. I only hoped that the battle would be quick. I supposed cutting down undead was preferable to ending a life, and knew that I would find clarity once the steel started swinging. Still, the anticipation, the knowledge of what loomed, weighed me down.

I tasted black ichor rising in my throat. I felt the red creeping into my eyes. Gritting my teeth, I shoved it back. I would fight with my own mind, my own actions. My curse, my demon-fire, might not stop once victory was won. There was a chance, I knew, that it would turn my blade on my companions once my foes’ blood was spilled. Beyond that, I didn’t want others to see that part of me. My father never held it against me, but I would not expect the same of strangers. I guessed that Luran would be unbothered, but I didn’t want to ruin my budding relationship with Hemma or Aryssa. And, thinking of the latter, my heart burned. I thought… she wouldn’t be able to help but see me differently, if she saw that side.

Thankfully, movement gave me a distraction. Luran sped from his hiding place, burying his knife in a wight whose back was turned. The blade sank into its blood-crusted skull where it seemed to have been cloven before. Just as the other undead took notice, Luran withdrew, pulling his second knife from its sheath. Lifeless again, the wight slumped to the ground while the other five drew their steel. Hemma stepped forward from the shadows, moving to cover her husband’s flank.

My target turned its back, raising my mithril blade toward the two mercenaries. My adrenaline throbbed, overrunning doubts and anxieties. My father’s maxim—Thoughts have their place before and after battle. In the fever pitch, there is only instinct, reflex, and the weapon in hand.

I surged forward, vaulting over a barrier of roots as my pounding feet found the path. The wight heard my approach and turned, mithril coming to bear, but it was too late. Summoning all my strength, I thrust the dagger into the creature’s wide, bloody scar.

It groaned and hissed, turning to wrench my blade from its sour flesh. It swung Elegy in a frantic swat, so I yielded some ground and tried to analyze my opponent as best as I could.

It was obviously wounded, but hardly seemed deterred by the fact. Even as cold blood gushed from its shoulder, it held my sword in a practiced grip. Years of training had taught me how to size up a fighter from their stance alone. This one had the starts of good form, but it was heavy on the heels, hands too close together. Competent, but not nearly expert.

Still, I had six inches of steel where it had nearly five feet of mithril. Even if the wight was a novice, this fight would present its own challenges.

The wight’s dying gash cut through its entire body, likely dealt by a heavy blade, maybe even swung from horseback. My dagger could never replicate that wound, as it was far too short and light to cleave through bone. I looked to the weapon pile for another option, but I would’ve been hard-pressed to reach it without suffering the bite of Elegy’s blade.

My opponent advanced, getting over its surprise and seeing my disadvantage. It stalked forward, keeping deadly mithril pointed in my direction. It took the first swing, twisting the blade in a tight arc, but I stepped aside. Having missed, the wight turned the motion into a wider sweep that I deflected off my dagger.

I stood, light on my toes, trying to memorize its motions, its tells, its strategy. I knew that in order to close the gap, I’d have to read its intentions and take a high-stakes lunge. This undead may have been a soldier, once, but I doubted it had so rigorously trained to fight alone.

It thrusted, then brought the blade right to try and catch my dodge. I pivoted in time, letting it glide inches past my body. The wight redoubled its grip and brought the blade down, but I saw the maneuver coming. I twisted around the deadly length, turning the dodge into a lunge. I aimed my knife at bloody flesh, but the wight lurched back and nearly cut my flank with a sideways slash.

Elegy afforded the undead a large zone of control, and the creature seemed to know how to leverage it. I also knew how easily mithril could pierce my gambeson, so I could not rely on my armor to weather a blow. I took a step back, but my ankle twisted on a darkwood root. The wight advanced, trying to catch me while I was vulnerable. I staggered, catching the strike on my dagger, and pulling my small knife from my belt with my offhand. But before I could even regain my balance enough to press forward, the wight had stepped out of reach again.

Frustration bubbled within me. I knew I was the better swordsman, but this disadvantage was proving too much. I glanced to where Hemma and Luran held out, knowing that they could not keep their defense forever. I needed time to break this creature’s defense, and yet, time was not a luxury I could afford. Besides, the thing wielded my own sword against me. The last piece of my father… the weapon stained by his past, his grief, his love. It angered me to see it in hands other than mine, and my curse used that anger as a foothold. I growled and shoved it away. The wight made another attack, and I stepped around it. It swept the blade sideways, and again, I had to disengage.

There was a presence in my mind. It carried Azareth’s cocksure smile, his self-assured pose. I’d felt it before, in the Order’s temple, in that tavern in Elthysia. “Against drastic odds, perhaps drastic measures are appropriate.”

I whirled, finding him crouched behind cover a few yards back. I mustered my response and shot it at him—anger, annoyance, and the assertion that he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

“Oh, but I do,” he returned, raising a brow. “I saw you that night, remember. And the butcher of Gazmere would be more than able to annihilate these undead… even with her empty hands.”

I redirected my focus to shut out his voice, but heard the pounding of footsteps. Turning, I found the wight charging forward, sword aimed for my gut, and I barely brought my weapons up in time to deflect the strike.

The blow glanced off my steel, skidding upward, but the wight kept going, crashing its wounded shoulder into my chest. I hit the ground hard, winded, and gasped for air as the wight stabbed down at my abdomen. I rolled, then tried to kick out its legs. My feet hit its knees, but only hard enough to make it stumble. It raised the sword again to try and lance my neck, but I batted the weapon aside and brought forward the knife. My blade cut deep into the creature’s forearm, opening it down to the bone. It snarled as it fell, knee in my stomach, wounded hand reaching to break its fall but finding my elbow instead.

I wheezed from the impact, struggling, then the wight seemed to realize its position. It held my mithril blade sideways and brought it down toward my neck, bloody hand pressing on the edge while the intact hand held the hilt. I got my knife up just in time, holding the wight’s entire weight on my steel, inches above my throat. My defense trembled as that bluish blade inched closer.

“Your father called it a curse, but consider the reality. It is a tool that could be the difference between death and survival. Fear is no reason to ignore such a gift. Fear is no reason to die, rather than survive.”

I managed to muster enough strength to push off the wight. I spat aside black ichor and reeled, head throbbing from the encroaching madness. Rolling over, I lifted myself on all fours and tried to catch my breath. I wasn’t expecting my opponent’s quick response. Rising from the ground, it swept Elegy in a frantic, hasty, upward cut. The stroke was clumsy, but I nonetheless felt the sting of a bloody edge as the tip sliced through my armor and nicked my side.

“Fight it any longer, and you may as well throw yourself on the blade. Its power is no more wicked than the sword, wielded in defense.”

I kicked the wight away while scalding drool oozed between my teeth. Azareth was right. And that fact pissed me off. But all the anger added together. More fuel for raging demon-fire. Its heat and fury spread, casting aside my rational mind.

I twisted, whipping my tail into those dead eyes and snapping back its head. My muscles surged with fiery strength, and I grabbed the hand that held my father’s sword. I crushed those fingers in the vice of my grip, then slashed the knife across tendons in the wrist. The wight had no choice but to let go of my sword, and I ripped it from the weakening grip.

I drove my heel into its knee, cracking something and sending it earthward. The wight made to rise, but I stomped on its belly and crushed its lower ribs. I flourished Elegy’s gleaming blade and swept it down with all my force. Its keen edge seemed to sing as it passed through air, biting through flesh, carving bone, and slicing through dirt. It carved its path along the wight’s bloody scar, bisecting it completely.

I panted, wiped my lips, and snarled at how the spittle stained my sleeve black. To the right, more sounds of battle. There, the other undead assaulted a man and woman.

Two wights were lying in the dirt at their feet, one with a cloven skull, the other with a dagger stuck beside its sternum. That left three more—one with a bloody line across its neck, one with guts barely held in, and one with a puncture wound above its eye, all exchanging blows with the two frantic defenders. Luran was fast—very fast—weaving between strikes and deflecting blows by mere inches. Hemma was decidedly slower, but the sheer strength of her attacks sent her opponents reeling, never allowing them to slip under her guard. Still, the pair was on their back legs. I surged toward the melee, spewing ichor between clenched teeth.

For the first adversary, I cracked my blade against its back, forcing it to stumble and turn. Before it could find its footing, Elegy’s edge flashed across the exposed throat, leaving the head attached by inches of skin and sinew. The second turned to confront me, but I drove my blade into the bloody abdomen until it stuck out six inches on the other side. I twisted the blade, wrenched it free, and opened a flood of rotten entrails. As for the third, it raised its blade to attack, but I moved faster. My own weapon struck against the other, wrenching it from my opponent’s grip. The wight barely had time to flinch before I lunged, mithril tip boring into the wounded eye.

It hit the ground with a deadly finality. My blade was stuck for a moment, then I managed to pull it loose with a wet, ringing sound. I blinked, let the black drool drip for a moment, then looked at the two that I’d defended.

They stood yards away with cautious faces and unsheathed blades. Slowly, Hemma raised hers as if daring me to cross it. At the sight, my madness started to fade, and the tip of my sword dropped into the dirt. I looked at my hands and felt regret and relief in the same breath. The first, that I had resorted to demon-fire… the second that I had stopped short of slaying my allies.

Azareth pressed into my conscious again. “Good. With you by our side, we are sure not to perish.”

Then he spoke, not to my mind, but to my ears. “My faith was not misplaced,” he said, coming from the treeline to join us.

“What… what in all of Elthys’s mercy was that?” Hemma asked, an uncharacteristic waver in her voice. A cut on her cheek, shallow, leaked a stream of blood.

“Valhera has a gift. Be glad for it—it won us the day.”

The two mercenaries watched me warily a while longer, then Luran turned away. He touched the blood on Hemma’s cheek, taking her attention and softening his icy eyes. She averted her eyes and pressed her healing hand against her cheek, stitching shut the shallow wound. She looked at me once more, worry plain on her face, then took a deep breath and seemed inclined to repress whatever inhibitions had settled in her heart.

“Demon-fire.” I heard Aryssa’s voice behind me, soft and low. Turning, I met her eyes agleam. “I never would have guessed.”

Wiping the last remnants of black drool from my lips, I sighed. “Guessed what?”

“That you’re a Furor. They get rarer, every generation. There aren’t very many left.”

I blinked at her tiredly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The… blood of demons. The strength and fury of their fire—"

My teeth ground together. “I’d rather not talk about this, Aryssa.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She looked around, seeing the others occupied, and stepped closer, voice dropping lower. “I know a dozen songs about Furors and their conquests. Their red-eyed frenzy. Invaluable allies, terrifying enemies—”

“Right,” I growled. “What else am I good for?”

She took breath, an apology in her eyes. I shook my head, turning away.

“No, Aryssa. It’s… okay. Just… leave it be, for now.”

“Valhera… I didn’t mean it that way.”

I offered no response, only moving to sit in the clearing. She noticed the wound in my side where the wight had pierced my armor. In the madness, I had forgotten its sting, but looking now, I saw that a bloodstain had billowed. Aryssa knelt beside me and touched it, drawing forth a grimace. “You bleed red like the rest of us,” she said. “Are you really so different?”

She rummaged through her pockets and offered me a handkerchief. I took it, opened my gambeson, and jammed the cloth against my side, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. “Thanks… Aryssa.”

“Of course,” she said, cocking her head. “What would I do if you bled out?”

I smiled, wan, adjusting to be more comfortable, to catch my breath and steady my racing heart. She sat beside me while the others combed the camp, sifting through the stolen weaponry and claiming what was theirs. I closed my eyes, focusing on the little things—the texture of the cloth, the smells of smoke and wood—but after a few moments, Aryssa stirred me to attention.

“Valhera,” she said, shoulder nudging my shoulder. “Look.”

I opened my eyes to find the stray standing five feet in front of me. Some distance behind her, hiding among the trees and roots, there was a number of other children similarly clothed, similarly dirty. As I watched the girl, however, something crept into my heart. Her gratitude. And, beneath that, a question.

The question was hard to articulate, but she did not ask it with words. She wanted to know more, to see more of what I had shown her when we had walked side by side. My childhood, adolescence… the peace I had found in quiet moments with my father. I extended a hand for her to take, and hesitant, she stepped forward, placing her tiny hand in mine.

With Elegy once again by my side, I felt the stain my father’s life had placed upon it. I showed the girl my father’s love, how it had protected me as a child… and how it protected me, even now. It was, I think, the one thing that kept me sane among the death and bloodshed I’d been a part of. The thing that helped me believe, deep within… that I was not lost. Throughout the years, even faced with my crimes, his faith in me had not wavered. I was lucky, I knew, that my father was a good man. That he did his best, even when it was not enough. That his love was unconditional, and that he had taught me well how to exist in an unkind world.

The girl’s eyes began to water. She asked if my father was gone, like her mother. I didn’t have a good answer. In truth, I didn’t know for sure if I would ever see him again. I felt… tempted. To tell her that no one is ever truly gone, lying like loving parents do. But my father had told me hard truths. All things… All things have an end. I did not know how long ago the stray had died, but something within me knew… her mother had been dead for a very long time.

She wrapped her arms around me, hanging onto my body. My hesitant hands embraced her back. I felt, in her heart, the great pain of acceptance… an agony that every child suffers, when they discover their world’s illusions. No child wants to know that their parents are mortal. They don’t want to know… that safety, comfort, love are not guarantees. But these things must be learned. And there is peace, in knowing the truth, in seeing past even the happiest lies.

Her tears snaked down my neck like freezing, frigid rain. She… seemed to understand. And as she found that understanding, her touch grew warmer. No longer like ice—now only the lifeless chill of the dead.

I pulled back my head, and she moved no more. I settled her on the ground, watching her wide, lifeless eyes. Confused, heartbroken… I thought that I had killed her.

“Valhera,” Azareth said, behind me. I looked first at Aryssa, sitting by my side. Her eyes glistened, not with her playful spark, but with something more tender. Then my eyes found Azareth’s, his face solemn, reverent, like it had been in Gazmere’s graveyard.

“She has passed the Veil,” he said, a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks to you. She has found… the peace of the dead.”

I knelt over the body. I reached a hesitant hand, closing her eyes with two fingers. My own tears crept up, partly for her tragic fate, and partly for the truths that had allowed her final rest. I had not thought them so profound or so painful… but reflecting again, hand on Elegy’s blade, they echoed within me tenfold.

The others were ready to depart, but I decided to take my time digging her grave. Luran and Hemma watched the wights warily, but Azareth and Aryssa stayed with me. We said no words since none felt appropriate, but before too long, the girl’s corpse had been buried with all the proper rites.

When I was done, I looked again to the treeline. There, three more strays watched. I wanted to reach out to them, to comfort them or… offer them the same thing I’d offered their friend. But Azareth’s voice pulled me back to the clearing.

“You have done enough, Valhera.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” I said. “Letting them go.”

He dipped his head, as if in prayer. “There is something all acolytes learn at one point or another. It is… that you cannot cleanse every wayward soul. This girl… you said you resembled her mother. Perhaps that is why she was so receptive to your heart. I doubt the others would be so inclined.”

I held his gaze for a long moment. For once, I saw nothing artificial in his expression.

“How can you offer a child the things it requires?” he asked. “It is like these wights. How can we restore a fallen warrior’s honor? These questions take time to answer. Time that we… simply cannot spare.”

I looked at my hands. “It’s your… duty. Isn’t it?”

“One man’s influence can only stretch so far. And no single man, woman, or direling can cleanse the entire world.”

My tears ran more freely, then. I bit my lip, nodding, as he gently pulled me along.

“Come, then,” he said. “You helped as you were able. You… have saved a single soul from the torment of undeath. That is enough.”

Though my heart fought against it, I followed him away.