The Scythe and the Seer, Book 3 of the Enchanter's Cycle

Don’Yoku found himself in hostile territory, an alien in an alien land named Carthspire.

A winding network of tunnels all around him, large enough to contain small villages, teemed with life. There were odd fat-leaved trees with winding roots, conical flowers with dark green fluorescent petals, and huge lipped plants with teeth that closed about and entrapped winged insects, dissolving and digesting them in an organic acid.

Moisture clung to everything; the subterranean rivers made small cracks in the stone above, providing a constant mist that fed the flora, which in turn fed the fauna, who then in turn fed the flora.

The surface of the planet, he knew, was nothing but sand-blasted desert, a legacy of the Skraul’s ancestors. The Grand Matriarch, a legendary figure even of that time, had penetrated the planet’s atmosphere, causing the natural stores of oxygen to deplete over time. The natives, simply named Carthspirians, had saved themselves by transporting their great cities underground with magicka.

Still, millions had perished, and the ancient ruins dotting the surface served as a testament to Botsu’s unfettered wrath.

Don’Yoku, ever a philosopher, would have much preferred to spend his time on the surface. The tunnels seemed so...dirty. Insipid. The dampness clung to his armor, saturated his cloak. His Morningstar would’ve been reduced to a rusty lump of metal by now had he not kept it constantly fortified with his own magicka.

But he endured. It was his penance to claim Carthspire for his mistress, who would sacrifice its remaining inhabitants to God Death.

His failure to neutralize Kaileena and her worthless friends had reduced his standing with his god. That shame stung him profoundly, as had his banishment from his home before its due time. But he would regain God Death’s Favor, and he would watch his planet die. He would watch all planets die. He would endure his last moments as the last living thing in the universe. Then, and only then, would he die satisfied, content that he had existed for a reason that truly mattered.

Don’Yoku traded his thoughtfulness for elation as his Renmei Keiji subordinates, arranged about him in a circle, finally broke through the defenses of the Carthspirian fortress they were targeting; a perfect sphere of stone that housed one of their cities, the only ingress a series of metal doors and vents.

With magicka, however, all matter could be made a means of ingress...

With the dark powers God Death had bequeathed to him, Don’Yoku sent a tendril of virulent shadowy energy into the city, infecting the fortress from within. The natives, also called Gnomes; akin to Humans but a third the size, with stubby fingers, yellow skin, and huge eyes, telepathically resisted his intrusion and neutralized the deadly spell a few seconds after its activation.

Still, dozens died, their life energy converted and absorbed back to him, strengthening his next attack. He repeated this process three times; each utterance of the spell magnifying its potency, thus, multiplying those killed before the Gnomes could counter him.

Don’Yoku giggled, a gesture incongruous of his station but irresistible in the face of so much vital energy, “Embrace death. Become filled with it. Accept it.”

As he readied his next utterance, the draping vines present all throughout the caverns fell upon him and his allies. Cursing with irritation, he tried to brush them away, but they held fast like ropes.

A woman cried out, and suddenly the magicka that infused his being muted, muffled...distant.

“Inevitable? No, no. Death certainly doesn’t become me.”

“You again?” He cursed, forcing the bothersome vines away with a burst of power, withering them to the root, all the while defeating the effects of the hex through sheer concentration and the strength of his faith in God Death.

At that, the woman shrieked, “You dare harm my plants?!”

Something clubbed him in the side of the head, but his iron mask absorbed much of the impact and prevented his neck from snapping. He parried the next strike with his Morningstar, emitting a deadly cloud of putrescence that, upon further reflection, he should have warded his allies from. They died with the surrounding foliage, rotting into mush, but, infuriatingly, not with his foe.

“You stink.” The Kamiyonanayo groaned, eyes watering, “Like a skunk. Yes, yes.”

“A pleasure to see you as well, Nu.” he replied with a grimace, not at all savoring the thought of battling the immortal lunatic. Even he had his limits.

She crouched nearby, atop a pillar. At first he had though it clay, but the rough consistency more closely resembled tree bark. As he watched, fungus spores released from the bark, surrounding him with a noxious green cloud.

“I can make a stink too...” Nu said coolly, her expression darkening. Ashen skinned and covered with winding blue runes, Nu was garbed in a slim green robe without sleeves and scalloped plates of armor which looked like amber, and an ornamental headdress with golden filigree. A staff of plain rosewood covered with chips of amber and obsidian rested in her hand, and surrounding her was a swarm of those carnivorous insects he’d observed earlier.

“Go get him.” she commanded, motioning her hand in a dramatic flourish and, dominated by her druidic arts, the beasts obeyed, swarming him.

Immune as he was to poison, Don’Yoku shrugged off the effects of the spores and attacked the insects, and their mistress, with a cone of concentrated shadowy energy. To no effect; his spell manifestations broke upon until-then undetectable protective spheres.

“Return him to nature.” the Kamiyonanayo demanded, and the insects latched onto his armor, their serrated pincers biting deeply.

“What did I do to deserve you?” He groaned, readying his next offensive spell. At that moment he sensed a distortion of magicka, as no less than a dozen of the Gnome Wizards, practitioners of magicka far beyond the normal ken of mortals, converged on his location.

“So be it.” Don’Yoku cursed, “I know no fear, for it is my destiny to bring death to all things.”

Channeling the raw might of the Dread Hammer, his body doubled in size, hardened to the consistency of titanium, and emanated pure virulence, corrupting the plant life around him which in turn animated to his will, and dozens of vines hardened into stakes, launching at his foes. Dozens of trees in every direction sprouted pustules, burst, and filled the air with choking decay. The animals perished, and rose anew as wraiths; temporary animated undead.

The wizards didn’t even flinch at the necromantic display, though their barrier spells groaned in protest at the onslaught of semi-corporeal fangs, pincers, and beaks as his undead menagerie descended upon them.

As one, crimson robes whipping to and fro, the wizards surrounded him with a hemisphere of roiling plasma, obscuring the sights of battle.

His armor melting, Don’Yoku snarled as the hemisphere filled with intense static discharge, flummoxing his next spell, which would have simply teleported himself outside of the plasma’s radius.

He managed his next spell, barely, dispersing his body and re-assembling it in the Faded Veil. The wizards, the Kamiyonanayo, and the hemisphere all followed him there.

Nu spun her staff like a baton, and the animal wraiths dissipated, the energies maintaining them extinguished. His armor flowed away completely, leaving his hardened flesh white-hot, glowing with inner radiance.

“A more direct route, then.”

With shadow magicka he animated his slain Renmei Keiji servants as more powerful temporary undead; Matriarchs could revive the recently deceased, but unfortunately, he did not have the skill to raise bodies destroyed by his spells.

They joined him in the Faded Veil as true wraiths and attacked the wizards. An interesting divergence from mortal practitioners called Magi, the Carthspirian Wizards could channel a spell indefinitely. But such power came with a price; unlike him, they needed to focus on that spell to the exclusion of all else.

As his ghoulish servants attacked them, forcing a few to focus on defensive magicka, he began to advance through the hemisphere, Morningstar drawn. The crackling static overcharged, buffeting him, but Don’Yoku was a being beyond pain. He broke through the fire, his footsteps burning the ground into glass, weapon raised with thunderous elation.

The rest of the wizards aborted their spells, and instantly a burst of distortion blinded him. His eyes refocused, affixing upon a summoning portal.

“Yslargu!” a wizard shouted in his terse, squeaky voice, “Destroy the invader.”

At that, a terrible entity emerged from the portal; a deformed birdlike creature that towered over him, its shoulders level with the tunnel ceiling. Three beaked maws opened and shrieked with unnatural intensity, ablaze upon an amorphous body with barbed claws and feet. Three winds spread, and propelled the abomination to him.

“An Elemental Lord?” Don’Yoku gasped, “A child of Rel’Gaarmathar?! But-”

“It bows to my will, fool!”

The Elemental Lord pounced, its mere proximity bubbling his titanium flesh. No mundane heat could compare to the living embodiment of pure elemental fire...

Nu waved her hands in a complex gesture, activating a peculiar rune magicka, and a wave of fluid washed over him. Instead of extinguishing the fires it amplified them, sending up hissing smoke and crackling filaments of his titanium skin, which swiftly reverted back into flesh, then into ash.

“Oil...” he wheezed as his body began to weaken, his magicka depleting. Suddenly, he felt phantom echoes of the searing heat all across his skin, as if he suffered raw sunburn exposed to daylight.

“Mistress, shield me.” he whispered, genuinely concerned, and the resulting effect was far more violent than he anticipated...

Larlax, Archwizard of Carthspire, shielded his eyes as a corona of darkness engulfed the alien creature. His strongest wards activated, he targeted it and the air around it, and split the lot apart into individual atoms.

Or so he thought. Nearly microscopic filaments burst from that space, impaling him thousands upon thousands of times. A sphere of crackling energy sprouted into being, and reversed localized time, returning the Archwizard to the point before his death.

It still hurt...

Gasping, he saw the space the fiend had occupied; a winding cocoon of thin strings the color of blood.

“Betsuno jikan, osoraku...” the alien replied smugly, before being consumed by shadow.

His summoned elemental lunged, but struck only empty space. In his frustration Larlax recast his de-atomizing spell upon his own minion, reducing it to vapor. He summoned an augury, but its divining powers were clouded. So then, the fool was gone.

“Nu!” Larlax snapped, looking up to the Djinn of Surthath, “You could not destroy this...thing? You allowed it to attack our city!”

Nu, leaping off her bark pillar, landed beside him, her wings retracting into a peculiar fold on her back.

“Cannot see what is not there. No, no.” she replied sadly, eyes glistening, glancing about the ruined subterranean forest, “And I have to look after the whole planet. Yes, yes. Took some time.”

“Not good enough!” he snapped, “If Surthath sends only one they should be able to aid us, not prance about waving a stick.”

Nu looked back to him, her expression veiled, and he sighed. The pride of the Djinn were second to none, and they were dangerous creatures indeed if provoked.

“That...what do you call them...Human? That Human slew many of our own today...that he also was foolish enough to kill...err how many is that?” he asked, looking to the black robed corpses, “Six? Six of his own in the process. I will not accept that trade.”

Nu cradled something in her hands as she faced away, tense as a bowstring, and his intuition said that it was a ruined plant. Some people’s priorities...

“No matter.” Larlax noted, scratching his narrow beard, which reached in a long, fine cord beside twin moustache lengths to his belt, “We know his appearance now, as well as his name, which Eular recovered over the course of the encounter...”

(The apprentice’s face flushed at this, for he had been divining for far more than that but had otherwise failed, his frustration reverberating across the communal mental link)

“...Don’Yoku, High Priest of the Renmei Keiji Cult of Teikoku. We will know when he approaches again. And this time, Nu, you could be so kind as to kill him before he attacks a settlement.”

That said, Larlax teleported himself back into the city. To see to the dead was a grim and sacred task in their society. And there were a great many dead to see to on this day...

He drifted through dust and shadows in atrophy. His thoughts were not idle, however, for he had spent nearly every moment tempering his volatile emotions, his ceaseless anger; the indignation of the cruelly betrayed.

Alcharon, Patriarch of the Vol’garla, seethed with hate, reduced to a shapeless spirit, unable to live yet unable to pass into the void. But absorbing the thoughts and memories of those mortal worlds he passed, Alcharon had grown, learned. Hidden, dark secrets had been revealed to him.

All he needed was a body to inhabit. Flesh-shaping, necromancy, and this new concept of artificial life...he had many tools at his disposal now.

His people, now twisted beyond recognition, were lost to him. The Dread Hammer held them too deeply in his sway. Their honor had been lost; the ancient ideals that he’d instilled forsaken.

Botsu, the witch, had done this. For that she would die. For that, all of them would die. Alcharon the Traveler would see to it.

All he needed was his body...

It was another beautiful, sunny day in Moonshadow.

The flora, a menagerie of blues, violets, and purples, rustled under a gentle breeze. Trees, dappled with broad, spade-shaped leaves, swayed, and their bright red fruits, which looked a little like pine cones, were fat and ripe. They had a vibrant, lemony taste, tinged with cinnamon, and made a lovely cocktail.

The sun, as brief as its appearance would be, brought regular pulses of warmth to her skin. Floating arcane crystals; the lifeblood of Moonshadow’s energy recycling, hovered overhead, some the size of her fist, others that of a small mountain.

Lifting her hand, Elurra siphoned off much of one such fragment’s stored charge, and it banked lower, expended. Her magickal runes, faded, began to glow with increased intensity as her body’s natural magicka restored at an increased rate. Soon they would again attain their true luster as she slowly healed from her abuse at the hands of Dekeshi, a now deceased matriarch.

She sat beside Vilaseth, leaning against him as he cast his fishing rod, sending a line and baited hook into the pond behind their cottage. He’d insisted on building it with her, though she could have made it with a single complex spell...and thus it had taken several weeks to complete.

It’d been an interesting diversion; as a Djinn, or Kamiyonanayo as her race was sometimes called, she could lift what would have required four Humans, and it had been an easy thing to bring in the support columns and foundation.

And as a Djinn, stronger and more gifted in the arcane than she ever could have been as a Human, and immortal to boot, Elurra had never imagined she would ever feel vulnerable again. She’d thought that as Surthath’s champion, a final battle with Dur’Artoth the Dread Hammer would be a simple thing; a titular battle of good and evil like in the old days.

She hadn’t imagined how small a part she would end up playing; that a new generation would assume the role of heroes.

“Barely a few centuries in this life...” she mused dazedly, catching Vilaseth’s attention, “And I already feel old. How can that be?”

The elven assassin pondered that for a time, humming a jaunty tune she’d heard once or twice from somewhere, then shrugged, “It’s the way of the world. Neither of us grew old. We grew up. That, and things have hardly been sedate lately.”

True enough; battle, rebellion...their ancient foe Dur’Arteth ending up one of their most stalwart allies. Her capture and torment.

Things were so eventful again, so unlike the timelessness of Moonshadow where they’d spent almost two centuries after the fall of the Dreadborne. That was the curse of the place; one became separated from the events of the Veil at large, and lost themselves in a dream. Surthath’s dream.

“No wonder the Djinn acclimate to this place so well...” Elurra mused distantly, “For them, whole millennia must seem like the passage of a few days.”

Vilaseth shrugged again, manipulating the line with the fingers of his other hand, teasing the lure, “Why so sentimental all of the sudden? It’s unlike you.”

She sighed, “I don’t know. We did our part; Dekeshi is dead, and you even managed to help Ryū when he was in a bind. And yet...”

“And yet...” he prodded her, to which she sighed, “...And yet the war still wages. It seems wrong to me that we can relax here while others still fight. We never would have done that before.”

“Aye.” he said, “But you need to heal. A weakened warrior does not win battles.”

“I am healed.” Elurra protested, “As much as I can be. We should return to Teikoku.”

Vilaseth set aside his fishing pole, looking at her thoughtfully, “I just brought you back, from hell and high water, for sure. But I should have known you would want to set out again.”

He smiled at that, “To hells if you aren’t as stubborn as I am. I don’t want you to go into harm’s way again...but if that’s what you want, we can leave tonight.”

“It is what I want.” Elurra replied, angling her head in such a way that one eye could look him squarely in the face, “But you...”

“Not a chance.” he replied, already sensing her thoughts, “You fight, I fight. Just because you can’t die doesn’t mean I would let you fight while I sit here on my ass. We’ve been through worse anyways.”

That was true; Sottarfar had been a far less pleasant prospect than what remained of the Skraul. At least vampyres usually stayed dead.

“Fair enough.” she conceded, “I’ll take down a few more crystals...and then we can start to get our things ready. No need to hurry. Another day won’t hurt.”

While his wife set off to meditate and replenish her stores of power, Vilaseth decided to check up on his potential ally.

He’d researched the Skraul, at least as far as their original incarnation, from the varied texts available in Moonshadow’s famed libraries, especially on the subject of their weaknesses and their Blood-Forged enchantments.

Technically, it was impossible for a non-vampyre to wield a weapon endowed with a Blood-Forged enchantment, but Koukatsuna, a warrior of some renown among the Te Fukushu, had defied this by carrying Waru and Saku into battle time and time again.

They say, or at least the assassin had intuitively inferred, that the fellow was more than unusually hot-tempered and reckless, probably a side-effect of his weapons’ sentience bleeding into his. And the Silkrit had taken his swords from a low-ranking Broodlord. It would be a risky business contending with the intelligence and power of a matriarch’s weapon.

Nonetheless, Vilaseth was determined; he’d been lucky, springing Elurra from the flagship. Even then, he’d wound up with a half-severed leg, from which he would have perished were it not for his wife’s expedient recovery.

And he might not be so lucky the next time; other people’s enchantments only got him so far. If he was to fight beside his beloved, he would need to become stronger, more capable, more powerful. For that, he needed Musekaeru.

In their room, in the closet, he recovered a beaten chest, containing most of his personal belongings. Old habits had left him with little in the way of material extravagance; he kept his fishing pole, a few plain tunics of the silky material that the Djinn favored, a few breeches and leggings, a pair of weathered old sandals, and his wedding ring.

Other than that, he had his old gear; his armor, his weapons, a few vials of poison and sedative, and now a second, smaller wooden box, lined with velvet on the inside.

He set himself down on the bed, box in hand, palming a vial of Vitrium as he did. Taken from the spoils of the original Skraul, it had been a difficult acquisition given the revolting specifics of its creation, but he’d convinced the Djinn of his dire need.

Opening the box, within lay the sword. It was a fine piece; a narrow, double-edged blade of darksteel, acid-etched to give it a rough, almost sandy texture, a handle of dark bone, petrified almost into stone, and a narrow, flat iron guard and pommel, almost geometric in their simplicity.

Twisting the pommel, or, he imagined, a command word, would detach the blade, revealing a length of wire, magickally durable, to choke and tangle an enemy. More than that, the sword could bestow the ability to become living smoke, mist, or shadow, rendering the wielder immune to physical attack, or even undetectable.

A perfect weapon for one of his skills...

Uncorking the vial, Vilaseth dabbed a small amount of the Vitrium onto the length of the sword. Instantly he received a response; the blood dissolved, and he felt a curious presence nudge him. It was subtle, like a chill when he was fast asleep.

He accepted it, focusing onto it, and found himself suddenly in a dark hallway. Lining the walls were cloaked figures, dressed in black, their features hidden by low hoods. At the end of the hallway before a wall of darkness so profound as to appear tangible, stood a woman. A Skraul, of which there could be no doubt, she was somehow threatening and diminutive all at once.

Beside the more bestial attributes of her species, she possessed a rounded, cherubic face, with large eyes and a small forehead. She was short and a little thick. Her hair was cropped short, just below the ear lobe, which gave her a slightly disheveled look at odds with the fine red gown she wore. A scabbard was belted to her waist, and it was empty. That made sense; the woman was in fact the sword, as much as it was a mirror of Enshi; the matriarch Ryū had slain outside the temple of Argosaxx.

“At last my jailor speaks...” Musekaeru said coldly, eyes filled with raw dispassionate loathing, “He who has murdered my wielder. He who will now barter for my powers by threatening my continued existence, or by bribing me with fresh blood to sustain myself. Well then...I wait patiently.”

Shrugging, Vilaseth looked over his shoulder, noting a curving arch of light; a doorway back to himself. Good; an out if this got messy.

“It’s a matter of necessity.” he replied; “I need power, you need blood. Is that not an acceptable offer?”

“It is not!” Musekaeru snapped, her hands balled into fists, “My wielder was far more to me than just that; she was half of my being, as I was half of hers. I cannot forgive you for killing her, even to prolong my own life.”

Confused, Vilaseth listened as the sword continued, “Enshi feared Dur’Artoth, and loved Mother. That’s why she served them both, not for their quest for power and destruction. She was...precious, to me, as was Kogoeji-ni, ere the powers that be separated us from her and Toshisha. What have you to offer me, that I would not seek to follow Enshi to the void?”

“This isn’t going like I thought it would...” Vilaseth noted, which seemed to frustrate the sword further, because her expression hardened, “I am not like most to which you would compare. Do not waste my time; be gone.”

Shaking his head, the assassin considered, then, “You mentioned Kogoeji-ni...that’s Vala, right?”

The sword perked up immediately, “Yes. Does she still live? I heard nothing of her since she killed Uejini, the worthless cretin.”

Vilaseth nodded, “She wandered off. But I don’t think there is anything in Teikoku that would have brought her down. How about this; you fight with me until Dur’Artoth is defeated, and I will bring you to Vala.”

The sword frowned, thoughtful, and seeing his opportunity, he pressed the advantage, “You must have been upset when the other Matriarchs deposed her and stole her powers. Would you perhaps want to help her get them back, help keep her safe, if she was on such good terms with you and your wielder? To be used alongside Toshisha must sound appealing to you.”

Musekaeru scowled, but her eyes glistened, “Damn you, mortal. I agree. Feed me the rest of that Vitrium in your hand, and I will show you how to wield me in battle.”

“But...” she added, smiling in such a way that her fangs peeked out from under her lips, “Betray me, and you will find me more akin to my brethren than you’d care to think.”

The swirling motes in the scrying orb focused into a coherent image. It was the morning changing of the guard in Hitorigami City which occurred every three hours on the hour.

The armored soldiers in and surrounding the palace, directed by enchantment, were almost mathematical in their precision of movement. The entire process there took only a few minutes.

Taking careful note to search for the subtle emanations that suggested illusions, Kaileena found nothing amiss. Just as well. Teikoku’s capital had been invaded once too many times already, and until she departed it would certainly not happen on her watch.

“Leave them be.” Arteth, her dearest friend, lover, and, as of four days prior, husband, whispered in her ear slit, “We have a coronation to attend.”

Tail flicking in surprise, for she’d been intently watching the orb and had thought him to be outside, Kaileena turned and stared into his great blue eye. How she still got lost in its depths, even if he could only look directly upon her with one eye or the other due to the shape of his head. For Arteth was a Kamiyonanayo; an alien in the realm of Humans.

As was she, being born a Silkrit and more recently “evolving” (for despair struck when she considered it anything else) into a homunculus; a unique living construct unlike anything ever created save perhaps an undead lich. Maintained by the Phoenix Stone, her true form which housed her soul, Kaileena’s body was little more than carbon transmuted from raw Fifth Element, the power which fueled all life.

Still...it was a perfect mimicry, and she felt Arteth’s hand brush her cheek, felt herself shiver at his touch.

“I’ve said it before. You are you. I would know if it were otherwise.” he replied, as always perfectly following her line of thinking.

“That’s the problem.” Kaileena replied sadly, “I know I am me. But I no longer know for sure who or what “me” is.”

She gasped as Arteth lifted her off her feet and pressed her against his nine-foot, four-hundred pound form.

“You were more at ease during our wedding.” he stated, a question hidden beneath the words, and Kaileena sighed, “It was a wonderful wedding, hmm? It feels like so long ago. Too long.”

“My love...” Arteth whispered, “...Do not fear and fret so. Remember, I am your shield, your wall, your fortress. I will take you away from these needless doubts.”

“How can I refuse?” Kaileena asked with mock sarcasm, then laughed, as did he, setting her down, his breath a bellows, “Alright, then. Let us attend the ceremony, my little fox. You have a sword to present to its new owner.”

“...I have a sword to collect...” Vala breathed, and the vampyre chattel squirming in her grip paled.

That surge of fear as she looked into his eyes gave her all the leverage needed to burrow into his thoughts with her mindbreaking abilities, flaying apart layers of his memories like peeling an onion.

His pain saturated the telepathic link, his limbs struggling to worm their way out of the telekinetic bindings she used, but she pressed deeper, and deeper, until...

“You know nothing.” she replied coldly, systematically forcing the synapses in his brain to shut off, “And are thus useless. Farwell.”

Fangs extending, Vala bit into his throat, and gorged on his Vitrium-rich blood as his altered brain told his organs to cease functioning.

Tossing the fool aside, next to three of his allies, equally dead, she sighed, and fell to a seated position in the dirt, massaging her temples. The sky was overcast that morning, but at least having been fed she endured it with minimal discomfort.

Her leathers and cloak were far more travel-stained since she’d left the trading post, wherein she had found a home of sorts with a simple Human farmer and his family. Her katana; a dark brown, single-edged sword with an elegant blood groove, rested diagonally sheathed across her back, its edge finely honed.

But her true weapon, an animated whipblade called Toshisha, had been stolen, along with the majority of her vampyric powers. She endeavored to reclaim it and sorely punish the one who had stolen it, but the trail had gone cold.

It was good the sun did not pain her; her frustration at yet another failure already grated abominably. Hardly a Skraul anymore in her own right, she still knew how to track others blessed (or cursed, the emphasis depending on how her mood struck her), with the dark gift by scent. Three other such groups, no more than marauding fragments of the great Skraul armies, really, had died by her hand, but in spite of their definite proximity to the current wielder of Toshisha, they knew nothing useful about the bastard.

If the unthinkable had happened and Toshisha had submitted to its new wielder, it would be quite possible for the fool to deflect such detection attempts and evade her indefinitely. If so, she would have to find him soon, before he wandered too far from her path.

“I will find you, worm...” Vala growled, fingers digging into the hard, frozen soil, “And I will repay you in full for the hardship you have brought me.”

Suizei paced to and fro, desperately seeking to moor himself in the roiling tumult of confusion that had become his life. Damn Itaku and his schemes!

He’d been summoned from the family safehouse by the man three long days after they had buried his father’s ashes in the capital. One of Itaku’s messenger birds had appeared in his room with a proclamation that he return to the capital at once to attend his coronation. His coronation!

With the notice had been a small coin; a new currency, minted in his likeness, with the imperial Kamon on the obverse side.

Forcing himself to lean on the dressing table in the center of his temporary quarters, slamming the coin flat, he sighed, forcing his breathing to stabilize as his martial arts mentor had taught him to do. Until he’d learned of his father’s death, Suizei had been fiercely training his body and mind, conditioning his endurance and stamina for pitched battle. It’d paid off, at least in this inner battle he now waged.

Still, the pale, angular face that stared back at him from the mirror looked haggard, tired, his brown eyes glazed, his cropped black hair messy. He detested that, as he did this indignity at Itaku’s hands.

He’d never actually considered his candidacy for Father’s throne. Sure, he’d fancied it as a child (and how sad that statement was, for he was still in his sixteenth year), but never once had he truly aspired to rule. After everything had happened, it’d been a grueling race on horseback to the capital, one that had left him unable to sleep the whole while. As was, he hardly looked capable to rule his own body, let alone a nation.

“I should have been a sword smith.” he decided, sulking, “Or maybe a sailor. Yes, that would have been enjoyable; sailing the seas with nothing but the wind as my guide.”

He didn’t know what to do. Not only would he be hitting the ground running as the ruler of a nation, he would be immediately engaging a powerful enemy, though the Skraul attacks had lessened since the battle of Shimobashira Inaka. Already he stood in the shadow of a tactical genius, who outmaneuvered a vastly superior enemy; a war-hero who perished in the defense of their land.

“Itaku...” Suizei cursed, “Why did you not choose Yamato? Or Hikoimasu?”

Suizei had not fought in battle... Certainly, he had nurtured and developed his skill in tactics with the Hitorigami’s retired generals, and knew a good bit about pitched battle strategy. Sure, he was well trained in the use of his fists and his trusty naginata, Chokuto, itself a relic of the first Hitorigami. He must have impressed someone to have that weapon bequeathed to him.

But he had expected to fight this war as a lieutenant or field commander, in fact, he had demanded entry into the military when the war started, but his mother and her counselors had denied him.

“Perhaps Itaku thinks I am the proper choice because of my philosophy...” Suizei pondered.

He was hardly devout in the nation’s iron-clad traditionalism and magicka-phobia; more focused on resolution than battle or the subjugation of enchanters. He’d studied teachings of warriors, poets, scholars, and all other sorts, and had developed his own code of honor, which involved doing all that could be done to avoid battle, not for cowardice but rather the unwillingness to needlessly shed blood. His writings had been published some years ago, and perhaps Itaku had read them.

“That must be it...” he decided, grimacing, “Damned by my own words. So be it. If this land desires me then it shall have me, body and soul.”

Ringing the servant’s bell, he decided that some sake might calm his nerves...

“I don’t have to feel confident about it. I just need to look like I do.”

For the last few days they had remained sequestered in their home, reviewing the information of several scrying orbs and divinatory devices.

Usually, after a battle, Lady Illuthien preferred a several-day period of relaxation in the hot water springs of Moonshadow, each night punctuated by aggressive bedroom antics that sometimes involved additional females, or even males.

Instead, they had remained in near-constant communication with Lord Kiromichi, Commander Itaku, and Captain Shirudo after the battle. The reports coming in were not encouraging.

“This is wrong...” Farcia said quietly, her short tail flicking to and fro uncertainly, “Very wrong.”

Illuthien, her mistress and mate, nodded, “The Skraul have ceased all organized attacks. All we’ve seen are hordes of slave-soldiers, not standing armies.”

After Kiromichi’s brutal ambush of the Skraul fleets, which had changed the course of the defense of Shimobashira Inaka, the vampyres had seemingly lost the taste for open combat. Vala had been sighted to the south, but otherwise nothing more than an occasional arbiter had been engaged in battle.

“Dur’Artoth is not a foe that would submit to defeat...” she said aloud, “...But the bulk of his forces are no longer in Teikoku.”

“Nu has reported in from Carthspire.” Illuthien noted, “A facsimile of the Cult of the Dreadborne was located there. But no vampyres. At least, not yet.”

“Why Carthspire?” she asked, and her mistress shrugged, “That world was nearly conquered by the original incarnation of the Skraul, and its people had fought the vampyres off, eradicating them utterly. Or so it was believed. Perhaps the Dread Hammer wishes to settle old scores.”

It was possible, though not probable. Dur’Artoth was a creature of madness, but also cold logic. He would not have abandoned his conquest of Aurora, even having claimed his trinket; the Scythe of Argosaxx. That he possessed it, they had no doubt. But thanks to her mistress’ clever subterfuge in possessing the bodies of two high-ranking Skraul lieutenants, they had sealed the weapon’s power from him and his wretched bloodline.

In their hands it was no more than a useless twig. Certainly, the Old One would have been forced to ponder his next moves...but the silence was troubling...especially because none of the Djinn in Moonshadow sensed Surthath’s presence anymore. It was like he’d just disappeared.

“We should help our sister in Carthspire then...” Farcia suggested, but Illuthien shook her head, “Not without knowing where Dur’Artoth will strike next. The girl should be able to handle a few demented mortals, yes? Surthath named her a prodigy, after all. Likewise, we can let these mortals settle for a time. They probably need it.”

Koukatsuna spun Waru, good as new, in his hand, its tip grinding into the floor, gritting his teeth as he strove to control his bloodlust, un-sated even by the battle that had maimed him.

Even before repairing the blade, both of his Blood-Forged weapons, which drank blood like the vampyre that’d created them, had been pressuring him for combat, wherein they could feast. Now their demands were incessant. If only he could be put back together so easily, for he was in no shape for a fight.

He was seated in a foreign style leather-backed chair, his ass sinking into the cushioning as the weight of his splinted leg, resting on the table, transferred back to his waist. A fresh new bottle of rum rested on the table as well. He’d bought it that day, but had yet to open it.

How long did he still have to wait to satisfy Ryū’s bet? Was it over already?

The bottle stood in a ray of sunlight seeping through the cloth-veiled window frame, glowing brown-orange, teasing him with the promise of release, taunting him with his need for it.

Koukatsuna was not the sort to suffer insult. With his other foot he kicked it to the floor. It didn’t break, rolling into a corner and wedging against the wall.

“What do you want from me?” Koukatsuna growled, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. There was no reason to bother. Minamoto was still buried, Koukatsuna having failed to protect him in that terrible moment when Lord Tetsyyubo had tossed aside her helm and proclaimed herself Byo’Ku, Matriarch of the Skraul.

His use had expired. He was broken, his honor stolen, his body crippled, just like it had been before when she...

No, what was he thinking about?

That Matriarch had tossed him aside like a bug. There was no way he would get another chance to kill something like that. His legacy had peaked. He was no longer the great warrior he aspired to be. Just a minor footnote of the war who killed some who-gave-a-shit lesser matriarch not worth mentioning.

His pride rankled at that; that timid little thing Kaileena had slain two matriarchs, one being the First and strongest among their rank. She had even converted the bastard Yokai, making him a tangential ally.

“Never envy the success of others...” he chided himself, “That path leads nowhere.”

Around and around, Waru spun, carving little circles in the wood, swirling with his turbulent thoughts.

Not since the arena had he ever felt so...pointless? Purposeless? Yeah, that sounded right. At least then he hadn’t been so helpless; screaming and bloody and chained, but gods be damned if he wouldn’t have torn everything in that place to shreds if he’d ever broken those chains on his own!

There was a knock on his door, and Koukatsuna nearly fell out of his seat. Someone had come to see him? His Te Fukushu buddies wouldn’t check in; Shirudo would send word of his reassignment when his wounds healed, but for the moment he was stuck in Fusestu. Maybe it was just a servant delivering his meal.

“Be sure to check for spit.” he grumbled to himself, then, “Enter.”

He just got more confused as a young woman came in. Her clothing was too nice for a servant; a layered kimono of dark forest green and white, shiny and smooth the way that told him the material was silk; one of the more expensive fabrics that Humans favored.

She was short, plump but pleasantly so in a way that some females could manage, with long dark hair, blue eyes, which were rare for the Humans in this region, and a pinched face. She was very young, probably about Aika’s age, or perhaps younger. Her expression suggested she didn’t know whether to bow or strangle him...

“Can I help you?” he rasped, his voice scratchy from the cannabis he’d been smoking the last few days, and the woman nodded, “I have wanted to speak to you for some time. Greetings, I am Rinshi.”

Cursing under his breath, Koukatsuna started to force himself up, recognizing the name of Lord Minamoto’s second daughter, but she stopped him, “You need not bow. You are hurt.”

“I’ve been hurt worse.” he protested, gasping as his leg sent sharp spikes of pain up his back as he applied pressure to it without the crutch, “Besides, it’s customary to bow to nobility even without the stain of my failure.”

The woman sputtered at that, “I...never mind. Forgive me for disturbing you.”

With that she practically bolted from the room, closing the door behind her.

“Well that was odd.” he mused, halfway between seated and standing. Well...he was already up. Sort of. Might as well get breakfast. Definitely had to remember to look for spit, though.

Iki-o-Korosu rested on the mantle of the fireplace. For the moment he didn’t want to touch it.

Ryū sipped his tea; fine black leaves with chamomile and a hint of blood to make it edible, watching the embers hypnotically crackle below the Blood-Forged trident.

Aika had been in earlier, looking for tutoring. There was no more he could teach her with a spear or blade so they’d practiced the lyre instead. She hadn’t left before managing consistently clear notes, which had pleased him.

But he hadn’t been up for other things so she’d departed after a small meal. Each of them was ready to take things slowly; being an immortal killing machine had hardly left him capable of jumping right back into things. The constant thirst for blood was easily tempered during casual doings...but if Aika got too close to him too quickly...

Well...he would be able to wean off of those impulses when the time came. He would just need some practice.

“You should turn her...” the Blood-Forged trident whispered in his mind, “If you want her forever. Bite her. Provide the Blood Kiss and be done with it.”

“I would curse no one with my affliction.” Ryū replied coolly, “Let alone her.”

“How are you to keep her, then?” Iki-o-Korosu persisted, “When you intend to-”

“Silence!” he hissed, “That matters not for now. Leave it be.”

“You are such a defeatist.” the trident persisted, “Admit it; you set yourself up for misery, chasing after a mortal.”

“Perhaps.” Ryū conceded, “But it is no concern of yours. Be silent. Let me enjoy my tea.”

“As you wish.”

Sighing, the Silkrit-Vampyre finished his drink, then claimed the Sitar; an imported instrument from the Pirate Lords, from its stand.

A monstrously large design, its long neck comprised most of its mass, ending in a stubby, heart-shaped body, all dark brown wood with white engravings in the shapes of whorls of smoke. It had metal inlays called frets, the distance between each fret lengthening with each one, until nearly the width of his hand separated them.

With his middle and ring ringer he plucked the strings, testing for proper tuning, the notes high pitched, almost metallic. Onto his right index finger he placed a specialized plucker, allowing cleaner string manipulation.

Preparations made, he quickly moved into the style of Evening Raga scale as he’d studied in a book that had come with the instrument. It involved notes of multiples of five, six, and seven, which could be either ascending or descending. For each melody he used only one string, his hand dancing from one end of the frets to the other, producing a drowsy sounding cadence, the speed decreasing over time, until he only pressed one note for over four seconds each.

Ending with a soothing monotone and a rapid tap of three notes, Ryū set it down for a moment, thoughtful, before shifting to the Night Raga, where his fingers hardly budged from a single note near the end of the neck, teasing the string to its limits as it squealed in protest. He alternated between this and removing his left hand entirely, striking the string in its purest note.

Satisfied, he rapidly ran back down the frets, ending in a blinding flourish that would have left him sweating were he still mortal. The strings wailed, then snapped with violent retort, startling him.

He looked down, bemused, at two rent strings waggling in protest, then set to replacing them, “Still needs some work...”