I reached the edge of the Forest Issatesh swiftly. Thanks to my sweetwater goblet, I could travel through areas of Kharsoom that were impassable for others. I could find the muddiest puddle poisoned with the noxious blood of some slain Kharsoomian beast, and once I dipped the magical goblet within, the water would be as clear and rejuvenating as that I had in Iarveiros, the land of the elves.
A millennium ago, the Forest Issatesh had once been verdant and filled with life. When the gods died, the leaves were stripped form the branches and the trees turned to onyx. I wondered what Shu-Turul must have thought as he watched his homeland wither and die like a gangrenous limb. Had he felt shame for what he had done? Or was he content that it served his grand designs to be emperor of all Kharsoom?
I believe that what curiosity was for me, ambition was to him. No doubt during his quest he believed he was reshaping Kharsoom in his image. What horror to see that he stripped it of life and turned to a bleak and decadent wasteland? What horror when he realized he had succeeded in his goal? Or was this his design all along?
When I found the site of his great victory, perhaps I would learn what was in his heart. I had no way of knowing what sort of remnant he had left, but the death of a god had to leave a scar on the world. He had slain an entire pantheon. This was a madness so all-consuming I could scarcely understand it. I held no particular faith, of that I have been clear, but I would never hunt a god down for the purpose of slaying it. So I thought then, but time makes fools of us all.
At that time, I had encountered two gods by my count, or beings close enough that such distinctions were academic. I lay with one. I accepted the daughter of another as a mate, partner, and charge. In short, I had dealt with them in a spirit of friendly curiosity.
These thoughts occupied me as I beheld the deathlike landscape of Issatesh. I found a Kharsoomian road winding into the trees, and I followed it into the funereal silence of the stone forest. I was low on supplies and thought to sell my services for food and a bit of coin to the first town I encountered. In Kharsoom, there was always work for a boldisar.
Ahead I found a castle looking out imperiously over this section of forest from a perch on a short hill. The castle was a modest one, the kind that clans used when away from their seat of power. They would likely have referred to it as a lodge, but for a man who had been sleeping on cold ground, it might as well have been a palace. The thought of laying with a willing bedslave danced in my head and I gave Ksenaëe a slight nudge in her flanks. She protested but obediently sped into a trot.
The gates of the castle were open and immediately I sensed something was wrong. The landscape had put me in a somber mood, but it was not merely the environs that raised my hackles. The walls about the castle were bare of men. An evil scent lingered in the air. The soft susurrus of animals came from within but nothing that could have come from a human.
I took Ur-Anu in hand, ready to do battle. No threads reached me, but I remained alert. It was death I sensed, hanging in a miasma about the castle. I knew death well. It had become a constant companion during the Turquoise Conquest, and stayed close by me during my wanderings.
As I rode through the gates, I found the source of my uneasiness. The courtyard was a charnel house. Fighting men lay butchered in the dirt. The leathery scavenging creatures of Kharsoom had found the bodies and were already devouring the softest parts. As I rode in, a few lifted their scaly heads to utter baleful hisses, but none thought to try for fresher meat.
Someone had attacked this place, that was plain. Human, xerxyss, perhaps even one of the scattered tribes of orcs I had heard troubled the wastes but never saw with my own eyes. If it was mere brigands, it would have to be a full clan of them. Kharsoom was filled with such groups, all ready to kill for the meager resources of the wasteland. Sacking a castle, even a small one like this, would require an impressive host.
I dismounted, and Ksenaëe immediately began to forage, chasing a few of the flapping creatures from a corpse. I needed food as much as she, but I had a more discerning palate and went in search of the castle's larder. I felt no sentimentality for what had happened. The Red Wastes were a brutal place that could drive gentle souls to brutality.
I found the larder easily and was surprised to see that it was almost entirely full. Breads, cheeses, dried meats, even a selection of spices were mine for the taking. Though I did not curse my good luck, I noted it strange. Kharsoom was a land of scarcity. No one would sack a castle and not pick the larder clean. For my part, I ate my fill, and was in the midst of filling saddlebags with provisions that would see me across the wasteland, when I heard the squawk of a qobad in the courtyard. I knew my own bird's squawk, and this was a newcomer. A qobad likely meant a rider, and a rider could mean trouble.
I dropped the saddlebag in the larder, and taking Ur-Anu in hand, made my way to the courtyard. As I emerged into the afternoon sunlight, I saw the source of a sound. A Kharsoomian woman led a qobad, whose livery was purple, a silver scorpion as a device. I did not know which clan this signified. The woman stared at my qobad, who was pecking at the corpse of one of the fighting men. Ksenaëe's saddle betrayed her as a domesticated beast.
The woman was a warrior, that much was evident from a first glance. Her harness was spare but well-made and she carried a longsword and shortsword, both of Kharsoomian design. Her jewelry was modest, with only bracers, anklets, and an elegant slave collar, all in gold. Her coal black hair was cut short, the front over the eyes, the rest at her chin. Her body reminded me of the acrobats I had lain with at the Silken Labyrinth, for every inch of her was covered in lithe muscle. She was as lean and graceful as they, more like Halitet than Ra-Nom, but long of limb and slender of hip. Her breasts were small, sitting high on her chest. Her jaw was square, her chin stubborn. Her amber eyes were narrow and keen. A single tattoo, a purple scorpion, its tail reared, encircled her taut navel.
Her senses were keen as she turned as soon as I stepped into the courtyard. Her face contorted in hatred. "Brigand," she spat. "Come to this place to plunder, have you? This is the last mistake you will ever make." Her blades whispered into her hands.
"You misunderstand," I protested, but my words lacked conviction, at least in part because she was right. I was plundering the castle. Though not in the way she likely assumed. Regardless, I didn't get a chance to explain, and I do not believe she would have accepted my words anyway.
She leapt into battle with the lithe grace of a jungle cat, and I was instantly on my heels, desperately battling for survival. Threads showed me the pathway of the battle, but they changed so rapidly, I couldn't follow a single one to its ending. I'd start the path, and she would make a minute adjustment, a tiny difference in her footwork, an unexpected parry or thrust. She read the battle as I read my threads.
Her skill was incredible. The only opponent I faced who was close to her was Iron Rhayn in the dirt of the hippodrome. I had been able to find her pathway, been able to read the thread to her death. I could not with this fighting woman. She was too unpredictable, but at the same time precise. She was the pinnacle of Kharsoomian fighting ability.
"Who are you?" I gasped, scarcely parrying a slash.
"I am Shaluvia, warmaid to Princess Tanyth of Clan Abibaal, and you have fought your last."
She might have been right. I judged I had but two advantages. I held an edge in strength and size, and my weapon gave me reach. The second she was adept at countering, constantly stepping inside my range and forcing me back. I would learn that this was because of Clan Abibaal's style of fencing. Unlike most Kharsoomians, Abibaal fighters used their longer blade primarily for parrying, and the shorter for attacking. It made them especially adept at handling spearmen, and resulted in her pursuing me all over the castle.
"Your comrades abandoned you," she sneered deep into our duel. "Was it cowardice?"
"I have no comrades," I said. "I am alone in the wastes."
"Then you die alone."
We fought our way to the ramparts. Fatigue had begun to slow us both. We were both glistening with sweat. It stung my eyes as my throat burned for a drink of water. Ur-Anu grew heavy in my hands and I knew that there would come a moment when my parry would be half a heartbeat too slow. That was more time than she needed to end me.
Her crimson skin shone with exertion. She controlled her breath, but it had become a battle for her. I stepped back to put her at the edge of my range and she made her first mistake. She took a step she shouldn't have and I punished her for it, slamming the butt of my spear into her ankle. She cursed and stumbled.
"Enjoy your hit, jagkru. My rage will not be sated."
"Madwoman! I did not attack this place! I am but a hungry boldisar!"
"Then you're a thief!"
"I steal from the dead!"
"My lady is not dead!" she shrieked in rage.
This time her attack was frenzied, lacking all semblance of the impeccable style and control she'd exhibited thus far. A thread struck into my mind's eye. I saw myself taking a step back, a feint to her left, and then a decisive thrust through her heart. She would be dead before she could blink. This time the threat remained, shining and silver in my mind. She had not made her adjustment that would send it away. I had my pathway. I could end her.
Something stayed my hand. I am a killer, yes, but I do not kill for its own sake. Her anger with me seemed to be centered around something I did not do. She seemed to be on a noble quest. And yes, the thought of slaying such a beauty turned my stomach. I am, as ever, a fool. I have never hidden this fact.
I stepped back, feinted to my left, and she took the bait. The thread blazed in my mind, demanding to be made manifest. Then, spinning Ur-Anu, I caught her chin with the butt of the spear, dazing her and knocking her to the floor. A quick spin and the obsidian blade was at her throat. I was still, save for my exhausted breathing.
