by Alex Raizman
Tythel looked away from Tellias, hiding her anger behind her hair. “I’ll believe it when I see proof of it,” Tythel said. “It seems an odd topic of conversation when an Alohym nearly killed us.”
“A human working for the Alohym, you said. Three of them.” Tellias shook his head and sighed. “I’m…you know, you’re right. This is a poor topic of conversation right now.”
“Glad we agree on that,” Tythel said, and then took a deep breath, softening her anger. “I’m sorry, Tellias. I just…you caught me off guard.”
“And interrupted you,” Tellias said, “what were you going to say before I rudely butted in?”
Tythel nodded in appreciation of the change of topic. “I just grow tired of needing to cause damage to the landscape to survive. Destroying to ensure my own survival…it’s not what we do.”
Tellias flipped up his faceplate so that Tythel could see him. He had a growing bruise of his left eye, and his face was turned down in a frown. “Which we are you referring to?”
“Dragons,” Tythel said.
“Uh…I’m no historian, but I’m pretty sure that…well, I mean, there are plenty of accounts of-” Tellias looked nervous.
“Burning the countryside, kidnapping heirs, razing kingdoms for their treasure? That was the old way. The ways of the ancient dragons, like Grejax the Necromancer and Selevij the Voracious and Infernal Sjackix. We know it left an impression on humanity and was part of why we preferred out isolation.”
Tythel reached down and began to idly scrape the stone beneath her with her talon, the way she’d used to run her fingers through the dirt when thinking as a child. “We only really ever exited our lairs to help defeat the evils that plagued mankind. Figured it was a good way to rebuild trust. And one of those tenants was that we don’t do that sort of thing anymore. That we were better than that.”
Tythel’s nictitating membranes flashed, fighting back tears that were starting to form. “And here I am, torching yet another countryside for my own benefit. I wonder what they’ll call me? Tythel the Scorcher? Tythel the Vicious?”
“Tythel the Regal, perhaps,” Tellias said, putting an armored hand on her shoulder. Tythel leaned into the gesture, taking comfort in the touch. “I won’t let you think of yourself as a monster. Being in this fight means that we have to do things that go against our nature for the sake of the greater good. You are no worse than any of us, Tythel.”
Tythel took another deep breath and nodded, leaning back against Tellias’ armor. He looked surprised, but wrapped the arm around her.
They sat there like that for a time, letting the fire rage overhead.
***
At some point, Tythel had fallen asleep leaning against Tellias’ armor. When she woke up, there was no more light coming in from the hole above, and the crackling sound of flames had died down. The only thing she could hear was Tellias gently snoring and a pair of heartbeats. The second heartbeat was in the shadows that were too deep for Tythel’s eyes to pierce. “Eupheme?” she said hopefully.
“Of course,” Eupheme said, stepping forward into the light and rubbing her eyes. She looked exhausted and haggard, and parts of her dark cloak were burned away. “I was hoping one of you would wake up so you could take a turn at keeping watch.”
Tythel gently extracted herself from under Tellias’ arm. He murmured something in his sleep and shifted, but didn’t awaken. “Are you alright?”
Eupheme sighed. “Close enough, I suppose. Uninjured at least. They lost track of me pretty quickly.” She settled herself down on a flat stone, stretching her back. “How’d you know there was a cave down here?”
“I didn’t,” Tythel admitted. “It was the only place I could think of that might be safe from the flames – I was planning to tunnel a bit to keep us out of sight from above. Having to crawl away a bit was…well, the next best thing. I thought you were going to the rendezvous?”
“That’s what you told me to do,” Eupheme said, bringing her hand up to work her neck. “I decided that was a fine thing for you to want, but there was no way I was abandoning you for that long.”
Tythel bit back her initial retort. She was struggling to read Eupheme right now, more than usual. She was tense, that much was clear at least. “Are you-”
Eupheme shook her head before Tythel could even finish the question. “That was different. You made a heat of the moment call, and it wasn’t suicidally stupid. You didn’t deliberately shove me to safety and then poison the air so I could jump back, you just told me to leave – which meant I could ignore you if I wanted to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not thrilled with it, but…well, we were well and truly flashed if you hadn’t done that.”
Tythel blinked in sudden relief. “How did you find us?”
Eupheme shrugged slightly. “While you were pretending to be dead, I stuck a sliver of shadow to your foot. It’ll fade with next sunrise, but it seemed prudent.”
Tythel’s eyes crinkled with understanding, followed by a surge of guilt. Something was clearly bothering her friend and Tythel was busy basking in the relief that Eupheme wasn’t angry with her. “What’s wrong? Does it have anything to do with that other Umbrist?”
Eupheme nodded mutely. For a moment, she only stared at the cave floor, so long Tythel was about to break the silence when Eupheme spoke. “I…I saw her in the Inn. I knew she was a Writ Hunter, but I never imagined she…I didn’t expect her to attack you. Shadows damn her for making me…she knows what this means!”
“Making you what?” Tythel asked.
“I am sworn to deal with any threat to you, your highness,” Eupheme said. The anger from her last sentence was starting to fade, replaced with a creeping numbness. “No matter who she is.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tythel said, walking over and putting an arm around Euphemia’s shoulders. She could feel the other woman shaking, and a terrifying realization crept over her. Eupheme was silently crying. Eupheme. It was as if she’d seen an Alohym binding an injured child’s scraped knee while cooing tender words. Alien, unnatural, and deeply disturbing. Tythel thought she was better equipped to see Nicandros return and start crying then she was for Euphemia’s tears.
At least she knew what to do here. She wrapped her arms around Eupheme and pulled her in close, so Eupheme could cry into her shoulder. She waited until Eupheme finally wound down. “Who is she?” Tythel asked gently.
Eupheme shook her head against Tythel’s shoulder. “I know it’s hypocritical, I know I should tell you…but I can’t. Not yet. I can tell you what you need to know about her, but who she is…I’m not ready for that.”
“It’s okay,” Tythel said. “Light and shadow, I’m the last person to judge someone for keeping secrets.”
Eupheme laughed, a desperate, choking sound, and pulled her head away. “I guess I can’t argue that.” She wiped her eyes. “Her name these days is Leora Dimici. She’s an Umbrist. You know that, you figured that part out already. But she’s not like me – she chose to forsake her vows. Said that even if the Royal Family returned, they failed to protect us from the Alohym. They didn’t deserve our protection.”
Eupheme started to fiddle with the hem of her cloak, winding her fingers through the frayed threads. “She started using our gifts for profit. Theft for her own gain, murder for hire, and Writ Hunting for the Alohym. It’s an abomination. We fought about it. She said one day I‘d see the truth. Then she…then she left. I haven’t seen her since then.”
Tythel blinked sadly. “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing how weak the words sounded.
Eupheme seemed to appreciate them. “There’s a reason we have our oaths,” Eupheme said with renewed vigor. “I can go virtually anywhere. No wall can bar my passage; no gate can hold me back. Even without my cloak, the only reason the Alohym cell held me was because shadows had not yet formed. When night had fallen, I would have been free. Any wound that does not kill me will heal in time with no permanent damage. Only death will stop me, and given how close we are to the
Shadow, sometimes it declines to claim us when it otherwise would a normal man.
“Maybe you can understand where no one else did. The castles and walls of mankind could no more stop a dragon than it could an Umbrist.” Eupheme gave Tythel a hopeful look.
Tythel didn’t even need to consider. “Absolutely. It was why we withdrew from the world for so long, only emerging to defend humanity.”
“Exactly,” Eupheme said, snapping her fingers in excitement. “So you get it. However, we didn’t want to withdraw from society. We also didn’t want to stop teaching our gifts to those willing and able to learn. So we made the Oath – to serve a power greater than us. Many of us chose the Crown. Some swore to other kingdoms, or to the Church of The Cycle. A few even swore to the Deep Lords of the Underfolk.
“It didn’t matter who we swore to serve, so long as we swore our service. It leashed us, so we went from wolves among the sheep to faithful hounds guarding them. We were still feared, but we were also respected. What my – what Leora is doing – goes against that. It’s abhorrent. In times past, every Umbrist would have taken a Leave to hunt her down and kill her. It had happened a dozen times in our history.”
“I’m surprised I never heard of it,” Tythel admitted. “Every Umbrist…”
“We keep our history secret. Especially those traitors. We had them purged from the annals of history so they would be forgotten for their crimes. Only we know their hidden names. And Leora will be…she has already claimed her title. Leora Dimici. In the Hidden Tongue, it means ‘Thirteenth Forsworn.’ I had thought…” Eupheme took a deep, ragged breath. “I thought that I’d never need to find her. Never need to administer the Shadow’s Embrace to her. But…but now she’s working with the Alohym. The same ones that hunted most of us down.”
Euphemia’s tears started to come again, and Eupheme gave her another fierce hug. She imagined if there was still another dragon, and that dragon was serving the Alohym.
Tythel made a promise to herself, right then. If someone had to slay this Leora, Tythel would take up that burden – if Eupheme would allow it.
For now, she allowed Eupheme to sleep and took watch over her companions.
Chapter 31
Poz hated Horseflesh. For such large and powerful animals, one would think it would be a sure and confident form. That was not the case. Horses were still prey animals, and their flesh carried the memory of that fear. He would jump and want to run at sudden loud noises. Movement in his peripheral vision sent a surge of fear down his spine. It was also a dull flesh, as was the case with most animals that fed upon grass. Nowhere near as dull as Grubflesh, but after so long with the sharpness of crowflesh, it felt like a cloud over his mind. There was one thing Horseflesh was good for, and the reason he endured the dullness and fear.
Horseflesh was for running.
Poz’s feet pounded on the ground, his legs longer and stronger than they had been. They thundered in his ears, a steady beat like a drum line. The landscape flew past his vision, and Poz felt as if he could gallop his way to that horizon. His hair, now grown halfway down his back in a pitch black mane, flowed behind him like a flag. His heart was pounding in his chest, but his breathing remained steady and even. Horseflesh knew how to maintain its breathing for long runs. He could cross a dozen leagues in an hour at this pace.
The flying Alohym was not close by. Not that Poz could tell at least. He had last seen it in Fetanial, the day before. Hunting for him. Always hunting for him. It had been getting to the point that Poz was considering repeating his sin, consuming Manflesh, and letting the bones fall in the darkness. Had he been certain that Manflesh would allow him to best the flying Alohym, he would have broken that night in Fetanial, with the flying Alohym buzzing over the town, hunting for him.
Two things had stayed Poz from delving into that forbidden act. First had been his fear that it would not work. Manflesh gave him some great abilities, but he could not be certain it would allow him to overcome such a deadly foe.
The second was that his journey was coming to an end.
He remembered the meeting well.
—
The inn was the Screaming Baron, built a century ago on the spot where a rebellious Baron had allegedly been tortured to death for unspeakable crimes. Poz found that hard to believe. Crimes so horrific they were called unspeakable were usually the ones that people spoke of most frequently. He’d gotten some odd looks upon entering, and muttering had started.
This far away from any of the major caverns, his people had not exactly been common, but most would go more than sixteen years between sightings. Some of these patrons had been mere children when the Underfolk had slunk beneath the surface. The youngest of them, on the cusp of adulthood, might not have been born.
“I hear they eat the dead,” one of the younger men whispered to an older man beside him. “They eat the flesh of things that had once been alive.”
The man nodded grimly. “It’s true, lad. The Underfolk feast exclusively on the flesh the dead. It’s terrible, nasty thing to do.”
“Oh yes,” said the young woman sitting across from the two of them, her face turning downward in a scowl. “Terrible thing to do, tear the flesh and sinew off an animal and eat of it.” She held up the turkey leg she was eating and, without breaking eye contact with the older man, bit into it. “I can imagine how terrible a people must be to engage in such a barbaric practice.”
The older man scowled in response. “Listen here, you smart mouthed little wench. If you want to keep travelling with us-”
“I shall beat myself round the head with a plank of nails, for clearly I have taken leave of my senses,” the woman responded, standing up. “And lad? The Underfolk eat the flesh of the dead, same as mankind does. They just eat more dead things than you prissy lot can handle.” She whirled and stalked over to the bar, sitting next to Poz. “Flathing humans, am I right?”
Poz eyed her with growing concern as she finished the large tankard in her hand. He was still full on Crowflesh, so knew his confusion was not the result of a dull form. “Forgive me, but are you not human?”
“Sure am,” she said with a bright smile. “But I’m not proud of it. Being human is easy. You just have to survive birth and have parents that didn’t kill you for being a ‘smart mouthed little wench.’ No input into it. If someone had given me a choice, I certainly wouldn’t have chosen human.”
Poz blinked. “That is…certainly an interesting way of looking at the world.”
“I imagine it is for you. After all, you do get a choice, don’t you? Depending on what flesh you eat, you get to be a little bit of something else. I think if someone had given me a choice, I would have chosen to be one of you. Then I could be something else whenever I want.” She offered her hand. “Call me Cyd if you want. If you don’t, then come up with something else.”
“Cyd is fine,” Poz said, taking the proffered hand. “Poz.”
“Poz what?” She asked. She was tall and slender, with dark skin and black hair that was held back in a ponytail that poofed out behind her head.
“Uh…that’s my name. Poz.”
Cyd nodded thoughtfully. “Poz. Pozzz. Interesting name. What brings you to a hole in the dirt like this, Poz?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Poz admitted. “An old friend. Someone who’s help I dearly need.”
“Ahh, the truest sort of friend. One you turn to when times are their worst. Perhaps I am your friend, Poz.”
Poz laughed. Something in this young woman’s absurdity was infectious. “I doubt it. He’s far older, and more grizzled, than you. Also, his name is Nicandros, not Cyd.”
“Oh,” Cyd said, looking thoughtfully into her empty mug. “You’re looking for him.”
