The Witchthrall

In the months that followed the peace conference, the isle of Khedes fell to the Heacharids, and Elepetra was teetering on the edge of conquest. It was a time for madness. Spending two years at war had eroded my sanity to the point that madness was the only soil in which my plans would bloom. Madness might have been the seed of my plan, but revenge was its water and sunlight.

Reports of Lysethe the Heaven's Fire on Khedes sparked my attention. It was not Theophilia Bardane, the envoy that truly raised my ire, but Lysethe had strayed often into my thoughts. The Heacharid witchthrall was the author of the worst wound I ever suffered. At the time, the scar was still a raw disk of pale white flesh on the right side of my abdomen, just above the bones of my pelvis. It has since faded, the skin taking a tone like that around, it but it can still be seen. Its contours make it somewhat resemble an eye. Appropriate, as it showed me my mortality.

I wanted revenge on her for this wound. Zhahllaia, in her great wisdom, had this to say of revenge: "It is an empty purse. Count it. Eat it? Go hungry. Seek it and go mad." She was right of course, but I had not yet heard this advice, and I was already mad. Perhaps Theophilia would have been preferable, but even I had not fallen so far that I would slay a woman expecting my own child. Lysethe would have to do.

I approached General Thaodora, the commander of Melisis and told her of my idea. "I will go ashore in darkness with only my hetairoi. The Heacharids will not detect so small a party. We will ambush a garrison, and I will make them mine. Then I will attack another, and another. And when I have a host, I will march upon Herantis itself." Herantis was the name of the only city upon the isle of Khedes. If we took Herantis, then Khedes would once again be under Axichan rule.

Thaodora watched me, her eyes keen. "We cannot afford to throw you away on suicide," she said finally.

"General, you misunderstand. I will go with your blessing or no."

She sighed. "Then you will go with my blessing. And you will go with a guide. One who can help you slip past the Heacharid defenses, and choose an underbelly soft enough to strike. Promise me, wizard, you will wait until I provide you this guide."

"Very well. My ships will not stray far from Melisis."

"Good. My adjutant, the Lochagos Eineira, will contact you when I have procured this guide and you may commence your mission."

That I could make this promise was in itself an ill omen. The Heacharid noose had closed, leaving only three islands truly free. I could hunt enemy ships and never lose sight of the capital. Dark times indeed.

True to her word, Thaodora got a message to me barely a week later. As I sailed into the harbor at Kleogara, I found a shape upon the docks, waiting by a sloop of shallow silhouette. She was an amazon warrior, tall and more slender than most, her body muscled like a dancer rather than a soldier. Her skin was a deep bronze, her hair a fiery copper. Her golden eyes watched me as I approached. Her face was fine-boned, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin.

"Lochagos Eineira?" I ventured.

She gave me a curt bow. "Belromanazar the wizard, as though you could be anyone else."

"I am to understand you have my guide?"

"More than that." She nodded to the sloop by her side. "This

The Shrike

, a scout vessel. One that can move about undetected."

"I will take my ships."

"With respect, you will not. The Heacharids know those vessels and fear them. If they prowl the waters off Khedes, they will be seen. No, you take

The Shrike

here."

"As you wish," I grumbled. "Where is my guide?"

She gestured to the deck of the ship. "She awaits you on board."

I turned, and any annoyance vanished. The tiny shape of Alia of Freeport emerged from belowdecks and hopped up onto the gunwale, lightly clutching the rigging. I called her name, running up the gangway. She leapt into my arms, wrapping her arms and legs about me in a tight embrace. "Bel, you're a sight for aching eyes."

"I've missed you," I said, kissing her softly.

"Don't get me started here. We'll have a couple days on the water for loveplay," she murmured, running her hands through my hair.

My hetairoi boarded, looking at the diminutive rogue with amusement. Alia was easy to underestimate. She was tiny, both short and slender. She was however deceptively strong, a her body a tightly packed coil of lithe muscle. She boasted control over herself that most could only dream of. Her hair was fiery red, and rolled into long plaits, gathered into a single tail. Her eyes were bright green and large on her elfin face. Her former adventurer's costume of green cloth and brown leather had been added to and altered, incorporating a bracer of Heacharid design and a pauldron of Axichan, both stained a deep night-gray. She wore two magical blades on her hips, Fire and Ice, and she was a terror with them.

Contrasting that with my hetairoi, both were nearly of my height, and muscled like warriors. Their bronze skin was tattooed with turquoise patterns between every joint that, when in movement, looked like marching soldiers. Their hair, Kallea's brown and Einoë's bronze, was cut close to the scalp, with only slightly longer locks on the crowns of their heads. They wore the armored breastplates, kilts, greaves, bracers, pauldrons, and helmets of amazon warriors. Each carried a spear and shield, Einoë also wearing a shortsword on her hip, Kallea a folded net. They were sworn to my defense and I have never felt so looked after.

"This is one of your companions," Einoë said. "I remember her from the Symposium on Paiari."

"Alia of Freeport," she said, holding a hand out. Each amazon clasped her wrist in turn.

"I was told we had found a guide you would trust!" Eineira called from the dock. "May Xenethestra watch over you!"

The crew ably got us underway, keeping to the narrow straits between minute islands on the way to Khedes. Though central in the archipelago, Khedes was itself the smallest of the main islands, and important mainly for its port. Its fall had effectively cut off Elepetra, making that island's fall inevitable. All it would take is the success of my plan, and I believe why Thaodora was willing to gamble.

"What are you doing here?" I asked Alia.

"Since our arrival, my job has been to slip into Heacharid-controlled areas and...hasten the local commander's meeting with his goddess. It's quite effective." She broke into a grin. "They've taken to calling me the Crimson Ghost."

"The Heacharids do love their nicknames."

"You don't need to tell me,

Dreadstorm

."

I felt my face growing hot. "Yes, well. I wasn't consulted."

Alia explained the plan to myself and the hetairoi. We would be sailing close to the eastern side of the island, where innumerable small coves made accessing the interior easier than anywhere else. While we could get close, the final distance would have to be swum. Thus, the hetairoi would have to leave behind the bulk of their armor, as well as their spears and shields.

"The first garrison we find, our tent brother will win us new arms," Kallea said mildly.

"In the meantime, we will make do with sword and net," Einoë added.

Alia was correct in her assessment of the time we would have.

The Shrike

was small enough that we were obliged to share a cabin, something that none of us minded terribly. Alia was always enthusiastic about exploring a new woman, and for my hetairoi, the combination of Alia's strength and size prompted them into ever more unlikely positions. Alia was tireless as well, exhausting the three of us and still wanting more.

As with Velena and Xeiliope, something had changed in Alia. She was more single-minded in her pursuit of pleasure. She had always been playful and inquisitive, but now there was more focus on bliss, a hardness to her loveplay, that was different. Still, I would treasure every time I lay with Alia, and this was no exception.

The Shrike

bobbed in the tides off the coast of Khedes. The night was moonless, the only light coming from the stars, with barely the dimmest edge of the celestial river shedding a light purple glow over the sea. We were ready to swim, each of us nude, a watertight pack containing our clothing and the bare minimum of supplies on our backs.

We bid goodbye to the captain and dove over the side, swimming to the shore. What I wouldn't have given for Thalalei in that moment. Her kiss granting me the ability to breathe water, her touch bearing me through the brine with preternatural speed, and her body giving me a lovely companion. Instead, I was forced to make my way through the surf, swallowing too much of the salt water, and only making it to shore bedraggled and enervated. Oddrin, the little beggar, alighted on me only when I was out of the water.

"Tired from your flight, were you?" I said to him. The night eft could only purr in response.

We rested on the beach, the chilly night air drying our skin, before getting dressed and moving inland. Other histories have documented the step-by-step of the incursion. The first garrison, slaughtered with lightning and storm, the advance over the interior, the building of my force of stormwights. Both the sequence of events as depicted in

The Fourfold Chronicle

as well as that in

The Lament of Axichis

are broadly correct. I should say that Phanio Maior, who penned

The Fourfold Chronicle

somewhat exaggerates Alia's valor. Yes, she was brave. Yes, she was instrumental in the victory. She did not slay the Heacharid General in single combat.

It might seem strange that I choose to correct the historical record in this regard. My affection for Alia of Freeport is obvious. I think of my companions in the Mythseekers, it is Alia who came closest to blossoming from lover to love. Yet she was mortal, and it is in accuracy that our mortality is preserved. In this way, I show not only my love for her but my deep respect.

Alia guided us along secret trails, she helped us draw close to Heacharid encampments, and when she could, she ruthlessly cut throats, sowing chaos in the enemy ranks. She was their Crimson Ghost, their figure of nightmare.

What is important for this tale is that by the time my sortie marched on Herantis, the only major city on Khedes, the Heacharids knew we were coming. We had remained undetected for a long while, though booming thunder and the tread of a legion of stormwights will be detected eventually no matter how careful one is.

One of the quirks of Axichan cities is that they do not feature land-facing walls, for what enemy would ever attack that way? All that stood there were the temporary fortifications of the Heacharids. Far from nothing, but not the equal of good city walls. My stormwights surged over the defenses, putting their former comrades to the sword. I finished the survivors off with lightning, the corpses rising to join the inexorable march of the dead.

I strode in their midst, carrying the sword of a Heacharid Alia had butchered like a pig. My hetairoi were on either side, carrying Hearcharid spears and shields. Alia ran ahead, through the dark, hunting Heacharids like animals.

The bay was chaos, filled Heacharid ships trying to bring reinforcements to shore while others tried to flee the city. They never managed to mass for any kind of defense, and every group we overran only swelled our numbers. The whisper of Diotenah that still twined around my power was exultant. I could picture her lissome form, erotic and terrifying, writhing in glee with each new stormwight.

The Heacharid defenses, such that they were, surrounded the old lighthouse by the mouth of the bay. This appeared to be where the forces of the city was attempting to make a stand. At the top, I saw my quarry. Lysethe the Heaven's Fire stood upon the roof where the pyre would be blazing on a foggy night. The clouds of the day parted, shafts of burning sunlight washing over her and spearing into the ranks of the undead. A cohort of Heacharids had formed a protective cordon about the entrance, locking shields and leveling spears. We slaughtered them without mercy, and then we were fighting our way up the staircase that spiraled around the inner wall.

Above I saw a familiar face. Cerularius Phrantzes, the paladin who had been my opposite number at the conference, was at the top of the stairs. He swung a sword blazing with holy fire, each swipe sending another stormwight to its eternal rest. Our eyes met, and for a moment we were back on Elepetra, glaring at one another across the negotiating table while the diplomats spiraled in what amounted to nothing. Recognition passed between us. This was always where we were supposed to meet.

My stormwights fell from the staircase like rain. The center of the tower was piled high with dead men in Heacharid armor, stilled by a blade blazing with the light of their goddess. Cerularius descended the steps, felling a walking corpse with each swing. Ahead of me were my hetairoi, Einoë first, then Kallea.

Einoë's knuckles went white beneath the turquoise tattoos as she gripped her stolen Heacharid spear. "Looks like this one thinks to harm our tent brother," she said through gritted teeth.

"He will have to come through us," intoned Kallea.

I hurled lightning at the paladin, but the bolt twisted, catching the sword, playing over the flaming metal, crawling over his enameled plate, and dissipating harmlessly into the stone at his feet. His goddess would protect him from me.

With the final stormwight removed between Cerularius and Einoë, the battle was joined. Her spear was swiftly broken, cut in two and cast onto the pile of corpses. She drew her shortsword, defending the paladin's swipes. Perhaps he would have defeated her in a duel. No, there is no perhaps. Cerularius was Einoë's superior in combat, a remarkable statement if ever there was one. But she was not alone. She was never alone.

Kallea used her spear expertly to attack over her tent sister's shoulder. But it was the net that spelled the paladin's doom. She entangled his ankles, and he fell to his knees. This was enough of an opening for Einoë to jam the shorsword in the gap of his armor behind his head, between helm and breastplate. He uttered a choked cry and was still.

"Another blade for your collection, wizard?" Einoë said, stepping over the body.

I reached for the weapon, now cold, the metal bleeding only a few wisps of smoke. I gripped the handle, and agony bolted through my hand. With a howl, I dropped the weapon to the stone.

"I don't think Xomera likes you," observed Kallea.

I cradled the hand, throbbing with fresh pain. "Perhaps if I send more of her children to their rewards she will amend her position."

"He talks like an amazon," said Einoë, her grin feral.

We charged up the last of the steps, bursting out of the trapdoor onto the roof. The top of the lighthouse was a central area for a bonfire, then a walkway all around. This is where Lysethe the Heaven's Fire stood, directing her magic out over Herantis.

Once again, I was struck by her terrible beauty. Perhaps, in another context, she would be merely alluring, but here, she was death incarnate. The scar in my abdomen throbbed with the memory of agony. I wanted my revenge. I wanted

her

. I had planned to slay her, but now, a more dangerous plan unfolded before me. I can only say that the war had driven me mad.

She was in the midst of a spell, and I knew the feeling, exulting with the power, riding it because it was no longer truly in your control, but beautiful and terrible for it. I would have created a storm, with flashing iron-gray clouds and lightning stalking over the earth. She brought down sunlight from the heavens, its kiss turning rock into liquid and sand into glass. Where it passed, stormwights turned to hissing vapor. I saw with horror that she had managed to thin my horde significantly, and were I not on the tower, she perhaps would already have triumphed.

She was lovely, a vision of power and beauty. She wore the uniform of the witchthrall, red enameled plate armor to her mid-bicep and mid-thigh, a red loincloth and another cloth about her breasts, and finally her true marks of her slavery: the iron collar and crown. She was shapely, though I noted that the deprivations of war had come to her as well. Her ribs rippled beneath her flesh and her muscles were lanky and taut. Her skin was snowy white, her long, straight hair the same color.

For a wizard, the most uncanny thing about her was the lack of a familiar. No small creature fluttered about her shoulders or crouched at her feet. She should not have a link to magic and yet she did. A mighty link, for she was perhaps the most powerful spellweaver I had yet encountered.

The wound she had burned into me gave another twinge, the queasy tendrils of fear reaching out from it. She had bested me before. I knew that if I succumbed, that would be it. I could never face her, and the next time, retreat would be easier. This confrontation was what I had needed. This was the place I would heal.

I do not know what I would have done without my hetairoi. Einoë and Kallea spurred me to action, surging past me to attack. Lysethe turned in time, but they broke her concentration enough that I was able to bring my magic to bear. And just like that, the fear bled from me. And with it, the magic. A storm rumbled overhead, choking the shafts of sunlight she used to burn.

The four of us battled upon the lighthouse. This time I had the upper hand and she had nowhere to run. Our battle ended with a shaft of lightning pinning her in place, the energy crackling over her skin. She fell, unconscious, threads of smoke rising from her snowy flesh.

Einoë stepped up, ready to cut the witchthrall's throat. "Hold!" I called.

"What? Did you want the honors?" She deftly flipped the shortswrod in her hand, offering me the handle.

It is hard to describe what I felt when I looked upon the unconscious witchthrall. Pity was one feeling, desire another. An ineffable need to be merciful, to find something that wasn't awful in this war. I knew that I could not kill her because she was me. Had I been born in the Heacharid Empire, I too would have worn their collar and crown, would have been their dog of war. The initial urge that had struck me returned, and its grip was iron.

"Belromanazar?" asked Kallea. "What would you have us do?"

Without further hesitation, I knelt, hefting Lysethe onto my shoulders. The witchthrall was light. "She is a prisoner. My prisoner."

Einoë shot her tent sister a grin. "You see? He is an amazon."

Kallea looked out over Herantis. A ship had landed, spilling reinforcements into the city. The stormwights, thinned by Lysethe's magic, were easy prey. "We need to go."

"A ship," I said.

I called to my remaining stormwights, to cover our retreat. I carried Lysethe on my shoulders. Einoë and Kallea forged ahead. We emerged from the lighthouse and made our way down to the docks. We seized one of the ships in the harbor, the last of the stormwights crewing it. Alia revealed herself then, appearing as if from nowhere. Blood streaked her features. None of it was hers. We struck out for open water, confused Heacharid ships unable to mass and prevent our escape.

I brought Lysethe belowdecks, and took her armor and crown from her limp body, and then I clapped her in irons. Chains went from her neck, to her wrists, to her ankles, manacles enclosing each. I could not remove her iron collar, and so it stayed. Lysethe stirred then, her eyes fluttering, then opening. They were red and at that time contained only hatred. Oddrin glared back at her from his perch upon my shoulder, hissing at the witchthrall.

"Why do I live?" she croaked in accented Akleona.