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Chapter Text

1 A Hish in the Grass

The mid-summer heat made everything sluggish. The air hung thick and heavy as the late-afternoon sun beat down upon the grasslands. Even the mosquitos seemed to slow as they lazily buzzed above the marshy ground. The great, rolling plains stretched out over the land, clusters of forest and stunted swamps dotted the landscape in shallow valleys. Rivers and streams of liquid silver flashed through the sea of yellow-green, catching the light of the high sun. Great flocks of birds, of all different kinds, would erupt into the air only to settle back down again instantly - almost as if the air were too dense to fly through. The grasses and heather of the plains had yellowed over the waxing summer, the green delight of spring now mellowed to a wan brown.

 It was too hot for the deer and antelope, who would only emerge from the shade of the trees late into the evening and even then, to only drink from the almost dried-up streams and pools. But no deer would venture near to this particular spot, no matter the desperation for water. The smaller birds which often flitted about the reeds and stalks in search of flies were no where to be found in this particular patch. Those creatures which did venture toward the area were seen to turn back or leave a wide berth as they passed. There was no movement in the air, no breeze to stir the long grass or cool the brow of a weary hunter.

Palanor was crouched down in a thicket of feathery reeds which grew in patches where the soil was damp. He was uncomfortably hot, sweat dripping down his neck. His hunting mask clung to his face, the hammered bronze - which lined the snarling wooden mask - felt as if it were burning his cheeks. The mask had a mane of feathers and tassels of fur that hung down about his shoulders, trapping the heat about his head. He had been half crouched, half squatting amongst the reeds for some time now, staring intently into the grasses. He had left the village in the cool of the dawn, crossing the streams, dangerously low in the height of summer, to venture out and hunt his prey. He had carried out his usual patrol of the tribe’s territory, sweeping back and forth across various areas used for hunting or the limited farming they practiced. Palanor kept his magical senses open all the while, feeling for anything out of place. He had circled about the marshy ground for some time, noting the subtle twinge he felt as he had gazed out over the grassy plain. A twinge like the niggling of a loose tooth, the ever so faint scent of burnt metal upon the air. Or hot blood for that matter.

The lack of birdsong in the short, thorny trees which clustered together along the banks of the watercourses which ran through the area was a sure sign something was up. The way flocks high up in the air would turn away and veer around the swampy thicket. Palanor had stood upon a low crest nearby, scanning for signs, checking if it was merely a lost traveller or trader, bogged down. When no such trader emerged, Palanor had stripped off his tunic and donned his mask. He had wandered down to the edge of the wetland to cover his arms and chest with damp clay, mustering some weak protective magic to guard against the corrosive nature of the creature he hunted. So now he was crouching in the grass, still as the air itself, having barely moved in the last few hours, watching, waiting for it to emerge.

By the dead it was hot. No shade to be found here in this open swathe of grass and reed, Palanor thought. There wouldn’t even be a true night this day as it was mid-summer, the day where the sun would not set in the sky, and instead would make a journey all about the cardinal points. No night meant no respite from the blistering heat. No matter, he thought, focus on catching whatever this being was and then head back for the celebrations, and a dip in a cool stream.

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t one of the Dead. The intense sunlight directly overhead would have dissuaded even one of the Greater Dead from being out in the open. The Dead shunned direct sunlight. But such sunlight in the summer dried up the streams of running water which also kept the Dead at bay.

No, Palanor knew this was one of the Kindred. The Kindred are beings of magic, their forms are often inimical to life, corrosive to any flesh that comes into direct contact with them or stays in their presence too long. They are beings that are not of the stuff of life. Some take strange forms which can shift at will, others appear as elementals – beings of rock or water or ice, but all are dangerous. Many of them are intelligent, holding great power and know of many secrets about the world of both the living and the Dead.

Palanor recalled his lessons from his old mentor, Mala, a Shaman of great renown for having died of old age – unheard of for someone in his profession.

“These beings will often attempt to trick you, or bargain with you, Pala.” Mala’s wizened features wrinkled up as he squinted at the young boy not yet twelve summers old, “Never listen to them, and never trust them.”

That had been six summers back. Mala was gone, his bones laid to rest along with his spirit in the great barrow, but the task of protecting the tribe’s lands had fallen to those he had taught.

Palanor brought his attention back to the task at hand, daydreaming here could get you killed. He felt as though this was a lesser Kindred, a Margrue or Hish, deadly enough against the average human, but not Palanor. Its presence was weak but sometimes greater beings could hide or mask that unmistakeable aura they exuded until it was too late. That stench of hot metal, that unmistakeable tang of fresh blood, the waves of sickly heat that would wash over those who were close to such beings. Palanor knew this, of course, but they would be no glory or honour in going back to the Village for assistance. Plus, the risk always made it exhilarating. He wanted to return to the Village triumphant once again, with his precious cargo, see the faces of the tribe as they would watch him climb up the ramp from the gate, make his way through the village all the way up to the ziggurat on the hill. He could already see the faces of the young lads of the village looking in admiration, see the respect from the older warriors and hunters, see the pride in Ashath’s face.

Focus! Palanor shook his head and the feathery mane with it. Whatever it was in there hadn’t come out for him yet, so he would have to draw it out. The best way to draw such beings out was no different to drawing out wolves or bears - with blood.

Palanor set his ivory-tipped spear down in a slow and careful manner, before reaching round to behind his right hip where his bronze sword was sheathed. He drew it with equal care, keeping quiet and trying to still his movements to all but the most essential needed to carry out the task. A mistake here could see him attacked before he was truly ready.

The sword was surprisingly heavy for its size despite its short length, its blade measured as long as Palanor’s forearm- from fingertip to elbow. It was Palanor’s most precious belonging, having been a gift of the tribe from the previous summer, cast by the metalworkers especially for him. A real sign of respect for one so young. He had worn it on his hip everyday since, taking it everywhere with him. He kept it sharp and clean, and so had no issue running the ball of his thumb and palm along the hammer-hardened edge, producing a fine, clean cut from which welled his red blood.

Almost immediately he sensed the Kindred being shift, his magical intuition could feel it bring it’s attention to bare on his now bleeding left hand. He re-sheathed the sword one handed, flipping the point down in his hand to be sent into the scabbard with a swift motion he had practiced for months. The creature was moving now. He could feel waves of heat washing over him now, the familiar sense of nausea rising in his throat as he scooped up the spear, as tall as he was, tipped with a carved shard of ivory taken from the leviathans of the deep seas far to the east. The ivory was another essential weapon for him and his duty, but the real strength of the weapon lay in the blessings he had laid upon the blade of bone just that morning. Blessings that had burnt his tongue and filled his nostrils with acrid smoke, but nonetheless would hold up against the kindred being he now faced.

It appeared before him, stepping out from behind the stalks of grass and reed. It was indeed a Hish. It was hard to see, on account of its impossibly thin physique, as if a tiny person had been stretched out so that were almost invisibly narrow. It’s arms looked as if they were mere strings of leather, hanging limp. It could have been some awful puppet made of naught but leather thongs had it not been for the flashing eyes of silver fire that even now glowed brighter with every lurching step it took.

But it’s size and shape belied an incredible strength and power within it. A Hish could kill a man with ease, it’s fingers and arms ripping flesh as if it were dry leaves rather than muscle and bone. But some men were harder to kill than others, and Palanor was one such man.

He summoned up his will, his spirit of might that lay within him, that sometimes took over his mind, baring his teeth as he rose from his crouch, spear in hand. Forcing that fiery will outward, pushing out at the stench of hot metal and crashing against the magical force emanating from the Hish.

All beings of the Kindred responded to will and power. Some, like the Hish, could be controlled, dominated in a way and made to serve, other more powerful beings would control and dominate humans, enslaving them or using them as cattle. It came down to the power and might of the two opponents, the human sorcerer and the magical being. Whichever of the two was greater, the other would typically submit or lose the fight entirely - often with catastrophic results.

The Hish resisted as Palanor’s will forced it to take a step back. It had smiled – or at least attempted a smile – as he had arisen from the ground but now it snarled in frustration, its prey was not as weak as it had hoped. The air shimmered about it’s frail form as it gathered it’s strength, and the nausea got worse, the tang of blood and rank smoke heavy in Palanor’s nostrils.

He leapt forward, spear thrusting forward from his right hand as one limb, straight and true. The point pierced the leathery body, sparks showering from the wound as the Hish froze, it’s tendril arms hung mid swing. Now it’s mind was in panic, realising it had severely mistaken its prey. Palanor could feel the emotions of the creature as it found itself now trapped, unable to move – so long as the ivory spear remained firmly embedded within its magical flesh.  He could hear it within his mind as it tried to speak with him, to plead or bargain, but he was well accustomed to this and blocked out the words of temptation it spoke.

 He carefully lowered the butt of the spear so that it rested on the floor at an angle, the point still running right through the thin form of the hazy creature before him. Although the nausea was great he did not hurry in his next task. From a small pouch he produced what appeared to be a rough looking rock, black in colour, with a small hole drilled into it. The Hish was making garbling sounds now but he exerted his will with gritted teeth and it became silent. Placing the rock on the floor he snarled, face matching the animalistic wooden visage he wore as he now forced the Hish down, compressing its size and shape, shrinking it down. It submitted quickly, having realised it’s defeat, meekly allowing its now miniature form to be scraped from the spear blade into the hole carved into the rock – the rare geode crystals inside would hold the creature without requiring any spell or charm. Palanor fitted a stopper made of silver, which the tribe always clamoured for when the rivermen came calling. Even the smallest of ingots would cost many pelts or sacks of horn, and the traders were always overburdened when they went back to their boats, smiling at how little silver they had handed over.

As the stopper slid home the nausea faded. The stench of hot metal and blood seemed to evaporate into the air and Palanor could breathe properly once more. The waves of sickly heat were replaced almost at once by the sticky heat of the summer sun. He lifted off his hunting mask, dropping it to the floor, as he tilted his face to the sky. Another victory for him and the tribe.

He stood a moment longer, savouring the excitement of the encounter, the thrill of power flowing through him. Then he gathered himself, chastising himself for such pride, Mala had always preached humility as the best path to take. Pride would lead to corruption in the end, losing his mind and his spirit. Stooping down he gathered his possessions, tucking the geode safely into the pouch from whence it came. He did not don his mask again, instead carrying it and the spear in his left hand whilst he made his way out of the marsh.

He had hung his buckskin jerkin on a branch of hawthorn at the top of small rise, along with his other supplies; a waterskin, fire kit, some dried strips of venison, and large leather pouch that held two game birds he had managed to catch early in the day.

It was still too hot to consider putting on his jerkin, so he bundled it up and shoved it roughly into the sack with the birds, and the rest of the kit, tied it all to his spear shaft and slung that over his shoulder. Should anything else attempt to attack him he still had his sword. He took one last look out over the rolling, yellow and brown landscape before turning back onto the track which led home.

Chapter Text

The sun had begun it’s lazy dip in the sky by the time Palanor had reached the edges of the village. It wouldn’t set this night, rather it would kiss the distant horizon due north before rising again at midnight, not truly setting for another few days. This night would act as a cosmological reminder of the power of light, fire, and life for the people of the Land.

Palanor heard the village before he saw it. He knew every inch of the tribal territory of course so it came as no surprise to him, but the preparations for the upcoming celebration of the midnight sun seemed louder than normal evening activities. Liberal amounts of the strong honey-wine and grain beer, brewed in large clay vessels by certain members of the tribe, may have contributed to this change.

The track Palanor was following was well worn, the vegetation cut back and grazed by small herds of goats and hair sheep on their way to greener pastures. Often the young boys and girls would be in charge of shepherding them to and from the forest pasture about the village, sent out with a couple of sturdy sticks and slings to keep foxes at bay. They weren’t in much danger so close to the village, but even so, sentries were always posted out beyond the grazing and farming grounds.

The path widened out to a huge clearing, the forest ground opening onto a patchwork of crop fields and grassy pasture, rickety fences built from deadwood encircling some areas but not others. Shallow irrigation ditches had been carved into the rich, red earth - all the way from the river - but these were merely damp due to the heat of the summer sun. In the distance the village proper could be seen, rising up on it’s rocky crag, a hill of heather dotted with juniper which obscured many of the huts.

He had already passed sentries on his return journey. Others like himself who had the power within to face down the kindred or the Dead should they venture onto the tribe’s land. All wore the hunting masks, carved into snarling animal faces of various kinds, lined with hammered bronze on the inside to protect the wearer from the corrosive effects of their prey. Some were returning from their posts, masks removed as Palanor’s was, dangling from tired hands, or slung over an aching shoulder.

Others would keep their vigil during the celebrations, ever watchful of both the ground and the skies for enemies, for threats to the village and tribe.

Hunters were well respected within the tribe. They kept the village safe as well as doubling up as actual hunters, bringing back food to supplement the rudimentary farming they practiced, as Palanor had done. But they also gave their lives for the tribe, in more ways than one. Not only were they the first line of defence, their duties of hunting – and capturing -  the kindred, shortened their lives drastically. Even with the blessings, spells, and protective masks and lotions, the regular contact with the Kindred always corrupted the flesh in the end. Their inimical presence could not be denied. Those who did not fall to their prey would eventually die, withering away regardless of whether it was a famine or feast time of the year.

But Palanor did not dwell on such an end. This was the way of the tribe. The hunters and warriors gladly gave their lives so that the tribe prospered. Without their sacrifice the territory would shrink, invaded by Kindred who would claim the lands for themselves, or other neighbouring tribes who would see the opportunities for more grazing or hunting grounds.

Once Palanor had crossed the cleared ground he could hear the river – the great natural fortification and lifeblood of all the peoples of the land. The river protected all the life of the world, as very few Kindred, and none of the Dead, could cross running water. As such, all the villages of the Land – that Palanor knew of in any case – were built on either islands, islets, or next to rivers. Palanor’s village was built on a hill topped by a rocky crag on a large bend in the Great Eastern River, such that the village was protected on three sides by a wide, fast flowing river, all year round. Even in the height of the hottest summers the river level was high, flowing past the village, past the edges of the tribe’s territory, and out to the eastern sea.

To fully protect the village, Palanor’s ancient ancestors had built three defences into the landward side of the hilly village site; thistles, gorse, and a drystone wall twice as tall as a man.

Thistles were able to pierce the hide of many of the Kindred with little to no resistance. In a pinch, a thistle could be lashed to a stave and used to defend oneself from a Hish, Dwerllin, or Margrue. As such, thistle patches were cultivated as natural “safe” spots, despite the scratches you would receive from crouching in such a patch, they were often used for lookout positions for the sentries or were encouraged to grow around the bases of tall, easily climbed trees. The village had a line of thistles running from one side of the meander, to the other and it was thick enough to prevent even the most athletic warrior from jumping it.

Behind this was a thick, continuous hedge of Gorse. Although gorse had no magical properties its thorny leaves and branches were so thickly woven that it discouraged most other predators, be they animal or human. It flowered all year round, and in famine times the flowers were picked and eaten to keep the tribe fed.

The third defence, a large drystone wall, was originally rammed earth. Spanning across the spur of land, around the base of the hillock on which the village sat it had been added to over the generations and now sported drystone reinforcement front and back, with wooden palisade towers at both banks, and a large gate which could be opened and closed from above.

There was a ramp leading up to the gateway. The red earth was cracked, dusty, and dry - stamped with various prints and tracks from both animal and human. It led straight up, rising through the wall into the village.

Palanor halted before the gate as custom dictated. The gate was always manned by hardened warriors who would not flinch at casting spears or shooting arrows into any who attempted to enter the village without permission. Some of the Kindred were cunning tricksters, able to steal the voice of another or even take their form and wear their face as their own. It was not unheard of in the tales of travellers for a distant village to have been raided by one appearing as an infant or lost child or even a stray dog!

“Halt and be known!” The familiar command was barked from the gateway above. Palanor thought it sounded like Hallin, a brutish young warrior 5 summers older than Palanor who had taken delight in bullying him for his talent in magic at a young age. Ashath had often come to his aid, her little fists pummelling the ugly brutes back to no avail. It was only when Mala had taken him under his wing that it had stopped. Palanor thought that Hallin was still envious, they had both received their own swords at the same time, despite the age gap. Palanor’s smirk was hidden behind his hunting mask.

“I am Palanor, son of Iscar, born out of Hilti.” He paused as he retrieved the geode crystal with the entrapped Hish, ensuring his movements were slow and deliberate.

“I come bearing Quarry, bound as is the way!” He held the geode above his head with both hands, so that the silver stopper could be seen from the gateway.

“I see the Quarry, but deny you access until you prove you are who you say you are! Perhaps a dip in the river would do, I could watch from the eastern tower.” A few sniggers could be heard from somewhere out of sight, no doubt his usual crew of hangers-on.

Typical Hallin, Palanor thought. He had already expected some challenge, even experienced hunters and shamans get twitchy whenever one of the kindred is bound, there is always a chance something went wrong and it was in possession of the hunter. Normally crossing the irrigation ditches was enough for the more relaxed guards but not in summer, instead Palanor had snatched a thistle on his way in to save getting wet, he wasn’t at all afraid of the water, he fully intended on having a thorough wash before the celebrations, but not at this prick’s pleasure – or anyone’s for that matter.

He took the thistle head he had snatched up on the way in and swiftly prodded himself in the hand whilst gripping it tightly in his fist.

“Happy now Hallin?” A pause, silence for a moment, then a muffed voice Palanor was sure had said “make him go in the river” before another voice carried over the wall.

“What is this? Get off the wall now! Go and waste time somewhere else, this is the Village gate not some smoke hut. Hallin, who’s at the Gate?”

The voice was older, more experienced, Palanor couldn’t quite tell who it was but probably one of the veteran warriors who had fought in the Battle of the Rigg, they often shared the post of paramount warrior.

A face popped over the wall, haggard and wrinkled, with a grey beard. Selk. That was who it was. Only had 7 fingers on account of once having half his hand bitten off by a cave bear.

“He’s holding a damn thistle boy! That and there’s no reek to boot! Stop making issues and let him in! Come in Palanor.”

He spoke none of the gracious, elliptical speech that was typical of formal customs. Selk was not one for ceremony and pomp.

Palanor shook his head as he gathered his things, chucking the thistle into the Gorse bush behind him. Custom dictated now that he must carry the Quarry – the bound Hish – straight to the Ziggurat, which lay at the top of the crag and was built into it. Other than the Gate Sentries challenge, no other tribe members would acknowledge him until he was cleansed – purified - of any taint or magical corruption through ritual bathing.

Of course the children would still stare, and some of the women might glance over at the lean body when they thought no one else was looking, and the sentries within may still follow his path to ensure he didn’t divert.

It was more of a general guideline to simply avoid conversation and getting too close to an individual who was unclean, rather than an outright ostracization.

The village spiralled around the hillock it was built on, with huts on either side of the spiral. Many of the huts were made of a wooden inner structure with clay and earth thrown on top to create a surprisingly large dwelling that was cool in summer and warm in winter. Others were more temporary, wooden frames with a covering of stitched elk skins, still used year round but more for cooking and living areas instead of comfortable sleeping shelters. On the edges of the village were the various specialist sites; smiths and their forges, the training ground for warriors, the fishermen had a small jetty with coracles tied up to it and so on. At the top of the hill was the sacred ground and the Ziggurat. Only those with the Elder’s permission could go there, mostly the shamans and the hunters such as Palanor.

A picket of wind flutes dotted the top of the rock crag, stuck at odd angles into cracks and flaws within the rock itself. They made no noise except during the worst storms, when Palanor was sure he could hear their sorrowful tune. But their tune was not for him, it was for what was within the Ziggurat. The only other place wind flutes were used was the Barrow, the final resting place of all the tribe, which was located well away from the village due to the risk of the concentration of death.

The very top of the hill was flat, perfectly so as it was actually carved into a great circular stone platform or disc with a wedge taken out of it. Along the sides at regular intervals were deep holes bored into the rock disc.

As Palanor approached the wedge section, two incredibly large men rose from where they had been sitting. Each man was muscular, broad in the shoulders and chest, their forearms writhed as they clenched long weapons, stretching fingers and tightening their grip. Each man had a stave of Rowen as long as he was tall, which flared out into a large “U” shape, a small silver spike nestled in the crook to create a sort of trident which could be used to hold back an enemy and pin them to the floor whilst piercing them with the silver point.

Their faces hardened into a look of grim disdain.

Palanor took his mask off with a grin.

“Tul, Dara,” He nodded to each in turn as he spoke, wiping sweat from his brow. By the dead it was still hot under that mask.

They returned his grin in kind, their stoney visages cracking open as they visibly relaxed, tense muscles easing back into a more settled posture. Palanor reached out and greeted each man as a fellow warrior, a hand slap up and then back down followed by a brief grab of one another’s wrist. Palanor was strong, and could be even stronger in certain situations, but the brothers’ grip on his wrist felt like it could crush his entire arm.

Out of sight of the rest of the tribe, and amongst those experienced in magic, the customs involving ignoring one another until cleansed tended to go ignored.  

“Another catch?” Tul spoke first, propping his trident up against the great stone disc and dusting off his sitting mat.

“This little fox is now a mighty lion brother, but does he know what it means to be a true man, yet to make a woman out of Ashath I hear,” Dara grinned again and winked, teasing Palanor was probably the best part of their day.

“I know more about it than you two combined!” Palanor laughed along. Tul and Dara were good friends, “All Ashath ever hears from Catha is complaints! Do YOU know how to make a woman happy Dara?”

Tul snorted on a swig of his water skin. “Not from what I hear,”

“Put that damn thing away then and we can catch up after, not seen you in a while.” Dara turned and picked up a large log that had been stripped of its bark and worn smooth. He placed one end into one of the deep holes bored into the side of the great stone disk. Tul did likewise on the other side of the wedge before taking up positions facing the same way, bracing themselves against the wooden logs.

Palanor stepped back, leaving the rest of his kit, he took only the geode containing the Hish.

“Together,” The brothers grunted in unison before half lifting, half pushing at the logs. The strain made their faces blush almost purple in effort as their entire bodies heaved at the rock, neck and arms taut like the ropes of a riverboat in full sail. The rock shifted, slow and deliberate with the effort of the two hulking men, the ancient runners the great disc sat on were greased with animal fats regularly but still the effort involved was almost too much. Each brother slowly tottered forward, feet shuffling as they half lifted, half pushed the stone disk round.

The wedge began to roll over a section of inky blackness, before revealing a step cut into it below. Once a large enough hole had been revealed the brothers stopped, resting against the logs but by no means did they seem tired or on the verge of collapse.  

“That’ll do, you can fit down there,” Panted Dara.

“Aye, good job you’re small, and weedy,” Tul huffed.

“Should have asked for my help.” Palanor replied.

The brothers glanced at one another for a moment as Palanor descended into the Ziggurat, holding the geode before him.

Chapter Text

3 Ashath

The Ziggurat was actually a set of inverted, concentric rings of rock each cut smaller and deeper than the one above it so that the space beneath the great circular capstone of rock was like a small, shallow amphitheatre. Geodes of all sorts of shapes and sizes were placed on the various rings, often (but not always) increasing in size the further down one went. In the centre of the Ziggurat stood a lone geode, almost as tall as Palanor himself, shaped like a long, thin pear. The only light was that let in by the wedge-like opening in the rock disc above, which was enough to see by in the light of the summer evening sun. Each ring of the Ziggurat held different types of Kindred, Hish – being of the lesser ranks – were placed on the outermost shelf. Legend held that the being trapped in the centre geode was bound there before the ancient ancestors of the tribe had even settled the area, and when they had discovered it, had treated it as a god.

Palanor took his time in edging round the outermost ring, stooped over due to the low ceiling of the rock above him, he placed the geode down carefully in an empty spot.

Before climbing out of the Ziggurat he turned and observed the murky prison of rock, it’s captives silent, trapped in their crystal prisons until required.

He did not assist Tul or Dara as they closed the opening, heaving the great stone disc back round, as it was their duty and honour to guard this place and an attempt to assist would have been disrespectful.

The three of them sat on the mats and furs laid about. A small pile of wooden bowls and trays leaned over precariously next to the carved stone behind the two brothers as they both began to tuck into another meal.

“Is that just from today?” Palanor enquired.

“Mhm,” Grunted the pair of huge men, bowls practically at their mouths, scooping whatever food was in them directly into their mouths.

“You look like boar snuffling for truffles when you eat like that.”

“Mhm,” A second grunted reply before Tul finished his bowl. “Got to eat. Otherwise, we’ll end up like you, skinny little worm and then who’ll open and close the Ziggurat?”

Palanor ignored the jibe, he was no longer as small as he once had been, the last few summers had seen him grow lean and strong, but compared with the two giants sat before him, he might as well have been a worm.

“Yeah,” Dara chimed, “Six meals a day for us, makes us big and strong.”

“Fat more like,” Palanor grinned as he prodded the belly of Dara, it was as solid as the rock behind it.

Palanor had planned to discuss the events of the day and the upcoming celebration, but they were interrupted by the Shaman Vel’s appearance by the wind flutes.

“I’d better get cleaned off, see you at the festival tonight?” Palanor put his mask back on.

“Yeah, catch you later.” The two brothers spoke in unison, it was their habit since a young age, as they stood.

Palanor passed the Shaman, who was already in full ceremonial costume, deer crown and shortened antlers on his head, feathers and bones sewn onto clothing and plaited into his greying hair.

They nodded to one another but remained silent.

Palanor left the three to converse at the top of the hill, quickly passing the wind flutes and beginning the winding route back to his and Ashath’s hut to drop off his equipment and grab a few things for the cleansing ritual. The sun was getting lower in the sky but still had a good four hours or so until it dipped to its lowest point, when the height of the celebrations would commence.

His hut was not far from the elders, a mark of great respect to two so young to be placed so high up on the spiral. But both Palanor and Ashath were gifted with powers. Ashath was a powerful seeress, able to foresee the future, or possible futures. Palanor wasn’t sure how it really worked even though she’d explained it before, perhaps you just had to experience it to know.

But the visions came at a price. Ashath’s body would be weakened with each vision, she would go stiff and sore for days afterward, unable to leave her bed skins. She would mostly sleep for a week or so afterward, being fed by Palanor or one of the mothering women, before coming round and being well enough to stand or run.

She was fast when she was well. Palanor remembered how they used to race through the village, all round the spiral, her copper hair flowing behind her as she screamed with laughter when he was right behind her, about to catch her.

He stopped outside the hut for a brief moment, listening to see if anyone else was inside with her before dipping under the heavy flap that made up the doorway to the earth lodge.

It was cool inside, the smoke hole in the centre let in enough light so that no fire or lamp was needed this night. The wooden logs that had been interlinked to build the inner frame had all sorts hanging from hooks hammered into the wood. Small pouches made of leather, strips of dried meat hung above the empty firepit, herbs and bundles of twigs dangled against one wall. Opposite the door was a large bundle of skins and woven blankets which stirred as Palanor entered.

“What time is it?” Her little voice croaked from under the skins.

“I’ve not yet bathed.” He was concerned, she should have been boiling under those skins on a day like this.

“I don’t care about that. Come and rub my legs, they’re achy.” She turned over, revealing the burnished copper hair, bright even in the dimmer light of the hut. It was unkempt and tangled in places from being bed ridden but still she captured Palanor’s heart each time he saw her.

“You’ve got those eyes again.” She huffed, exasperated.

“I have not.” He changed the subject, “It’s evening time, a handful of hours to go until midnight probably.”

“Ugh, and I suppose I’ll drag myself out to be paraded around the bloody bonfire.” She sat up, red curls falling over her uncovered breasts. She looked at him through her brow,  eyes of burnt hazel glancing up, narrowed in mock grumpiness. He could tell she was pleased to see him really, she was just upset he’d been gone all day.

“Yes, and then drinking and feasting, and maybe even..”

“Nooo! Not to tonight! I’m tired, pleaseee..” She grinned but then pouted like a puppy begging for food.

He took off his mask and hung it on a wooden peg hammered by the door before running round the fire pit and jumping on the bed furs to snuggle.

“I missed you.” She croaked; half flattened under him.

“Missed you too,” he responded with a peck on her head before clambering off her, “Got to get clean, I’m covered in dried clay.”

“It was a Hish, wasn’t it?” Her voice had lowered to almost a whisper.

“Yes.” Palanor didn’t need to ask how she knew, she must have seen it, that was why she was so cold on a day where he could easily have foregone his trousers and opted for just a loincloth.

He grabbed a small pouch of herbs.

“I’m going to bathe, be back in a bit.”

She threw herself back down on the furs in a huff, frustrated by the sickliness of her own condition.

“Rub my legs when you come back.” She muttered as she slipped back into the half-sleep she had awoken from when he first entered.

Exiting the earth lodge Palanor made for the river, as the bathing pools would be busy at this time of day. It did not take long to get to the sandy banks on the eastern side of the meander, where the river slowed enough to bathe and swim safely. He stripped off quickly and waded out until he was half submerged before dipping his head under the water completely. It was cool, cold even, a refreshing shock that tingled across his entire being after the sweaty, sticky heat of the day.

He emerged from the water, waded back to the bank to grab a handful of the herbs in he pouch he had taken from the hut. These were a collection of medicinal herbs gathered from both the local area and traded for from afar. They had already been roughly ground but he rubbed them vigorously between his hands before smearing the gritty paste over his body, covering his arms and chest and face. He rubbed himself all over with the herb concoction, even putting some on his tongue, before taking another dip to wash it off.

Once that was done he scrubbed himself with his hands to ensure he was truly clean of dirt, then waded back to dry off in the late evening sun.

He shook his long hair out to dry it, its golden tones not quite matching the deep, russet copper of Ashath’s. He also scrubbed his patchy beard to get the water droplets out.  He was secretly proud of his beard, all ready full around the mouth and chin, but patchy on his cheeks and neck. Ashath had disapproved at first but when other young lads had mocked him she had scolded them for their paltry facial hair, since then she had encouraged him to grow it thick, and had even looked into herbs known for helping hair growth.

What a woman. Beautiful, lean, powerful, with a good head on her and a wicked sense of humour. She was not as tall as Shanna or quite as endowed as Brela - but to Palanor, she was perfect. Her condition didn’t bother him really, but he did worry for her with each passing vision.

He made his way back up to the hut, hair still damp but drying quickly in the warmth of the late evening. The people of the village were beginning to emerge from their respective huts and make their way down to the large open clearing just up from the gateway, the levelled area known as The Step.

This was where all the major trade was conducted and where the tribe held its ceremonies and largest rituals. In the centre of the flat area, a large bonfire had been built from seasoned wood, gathered the previous year. Stacked up to an impressive height; taller than four huts on top of one another. Later, it would be lit by the female elders, the givers of life, and all the tribe would dance and sing around it until the sun began to climb once more into the sky.

Palanor ducked back into the hut, once again grateful for the coolness of the interior. Ashath had roused herself and dressed while he had been gone, she was hunched over, busy applying a variety of coloured pigments to her face in various patterns, using a bowl of water to see her reflection.

“I’ll do yours next.” She murmured as she applied dark kohl in a band across and around her eyes, hiding the dark rings of sleeplessness caused by her gift.

Palanor saw to his outfit for the ceremony. Everyone had been repairing and redecorating garments the last few weeks in preparation for tonight. Palanor’s spare jerkin had been freshly washed and small holes or tears had been restitched with fine sinew thread. A swathe of freshly tanned wolfskin had been attached across the shoulders and back with raven and eagle feathers dangling from each shoulder. He looked quite the part of a young, proud warrior with it on, along with his fearsome mask with its mane of fur strips and feathers. He put on his belt and attached his sword and leather sheath on his right hip, and strung his stone knife in it’s woven sheath so that it sat on his left.

Then he contented himself with squatting down on his haunches, chewing on a strip of dried elk meat, patiently waiting for Ashath to finish her face paint and begin work on his.

She turned around as he was finishing the jerky. Her brow had been painted with ochre all the way from her hairline on one temple across to the other, giving all the skin above her eyebrows a deep russet brown colour darker than her own hair. A band of black kohl ran from each ear across and around her eyes over the bridge of her nose, almost like the markings of a badger, accentuating her eyes. Her cheeks, lips, lower nose, and chin had been covered in evenly spaced white dots in rows, applied using the tip of her little finger. Her neck had thick white stripes where she had run her fingers from her jawline straight down below the cut of her buckskin dress. With her hair partially tied back in an intricate knot at the back, two large eagle feathers had been stuck through it so they stood upright, other feathers and bones were plaited through the loose hanging curls.

All in all, she looked very much like the powerful witch she was.

“How do I look?” She tilted her head slightly to one side, stretching her neck out.

“Magnificent, like Morwen reborn.” He meant it.

“Thanks, I try. Now I was thinking war paint for you…”

He nodded.

“Sure, but make the kohl run down my face like long, pointy fangs. You know, how you did it last time.”

“Mhm,” She bent over him and began to apply the pigments.

By the time she was done Palanor had a similar band of kohl across his eyes, but this ran down in long, thin points to his jaw and a vertical strip of bright red ran from beneath his nose to his chin.

He placed his mask on his head so that his face was still visible, its snarling visage looking up from his crown rather than covering his fresh warpaint.

“Come on then.” He held the flap open for her as she stooped out of their hut.

“By the dead its bright!” She blinked a few times and turned away from the sun.

“Yeah, well, you have spent a week in that hut, no wonder.”

They proceeded down the spiral, mingling with others in similar finery to their own.

Chapter Text

All the Tribe had now gathered at The Step (excluding the sentries still out, watching over the outskirts of the village). They sat in tightly packed concentric rings, hunkered down, either sitting cross-legged or squatting, arms resting on knees. Every face was painted different to the next, each unique in its own patterns and colour combinations, even the children had been decorated and dressed up for the occasion. Mostly the organisation was in family groups, mothers with their children, but also a loose ranking system applied, with Elders and paramount persons closest to the bonfire, and younger, less skilled or experienced people further out. The main contingent of warriors and hunters sat behind the elders in a large wedge shape, fanning out behind them. They had the largest plumes of feathers and fur, and the most ostentatious decorations for their jerkins and armour.

The Elders themselves were more subtle but just as impressive, skulls of fierce pumas or wolves stitched onto shoulders of the old hunters, whilst the female elders had great necklaces of brightly polished beads, interwoven so that it was almost a garment in itself.

The various craft masters sat arrayed on either side of the elders, the fisherfolk, weavers, smiths, journeymen traders -who were rarely at home, potters, brewers, and more besides. All arrayed with special symbols and trinkets representing their particular craft and expertise.

Shaman Vel stood alone by the bonfire, consulting with a scroll of velum, intricate marks of ink scribbled across it. He kept raising his head to compare it to the position of the sun and the faint sliver of moon which had now risen in the blue sky. At one point he even held up the velum to try and map the plotted sky chart onto the scene before him. The rest of the Tribe waited with baited breath, hunkered down as they were, eyes fixed on the shaman or the lowering sun.

At last he nodded, swiftly rolled the scroll of lambskin up in his leathery, wrinkled hands, and beckoned the female elders into the centre.

The female elders arose, steady on their old, aching bones and made their way to the base of the great bonfire. One of them sat down, whilst others then presented the pieces of the fire kit to her; a long fire drill of mullein stalk, a hearth block in which to insert the drill, a dry bundle of tinder – collected from the trees about the village. The elder placed the tinder bundle on the ground, checking it was dry with her bony fingers. Then she placed the hearth block on top, with it’s cut out groove positioned over the bundle of fine bark and grasses. Lastly she inserted the long fire drill into a hole already carved and ground out. She muttered a quiet prayer before beginning to twirl the long stem of mullein between the palms of her hands, twisting the hands in such a way as to stop them from drifting down the stem as she twirled it. She quickened her pace and began to lean slightly forward, placing her weight through her hands and the drill, down onto the hearth block. A fine whisp of smoke began to curl up from the groove as powdery wood ash began to collect at it’s base. After several minutes of twirling patiently she suddenly changed technique, rapidly twirling the stick and allowing her hands to drop, pausing only for a moment as she reset her hands at the top to begin again. After several of these resets, she stopped, carefully removed the drill, placing it reverently upon the ground beside her, before peeling the heart block away. She gathered the bundle of grasses and bark up, cradling the ember she had created within it. She brought it to her pursed lips and blew. Smoke bellowed out of the bundle. She blew again, long steady breaths through pursed lips. At last, the bundle caught alight with a great roar the tribe leapt to their feet, stamping and clapping. The elder placed it in a hollow within the bonfire, filled with dry grasses and twigs to get the fire going.

Shaman Vel swept his arms wide as he spun slowly about, signalling for calm and quiet so he may speak.

With a booming voice he cried, “Now we celebrate the turning of the year.”

More cries, stamping, cheers, and clapping drowned him out, much to his annoyance.

“NOW we give thanks to the mighty sun, that watches over us and keeps us all the year.” He motioned to two herdsmen who brought forth a goat buck, great curved horns spiralling round it’s ears. A flat wooden block had been placed next to the bonfire and the Tribe stood transfixed as the Selk, the paramount warrior for this day, in all his finery emerged from the crowd. He had the lower jaw of some great beast hanging off his upper arm, and  a ragged scrap of bear fur on the other. In his right hand he carried a broad bladed bronze axe, in his left a long stone butcher knife, he handed the axe over to one of the herdsmen to hold. The goat buck stood nonchalantly by the wooden alter, looking about for something to chew. Swiftly Selk grabbed it’s horns, bent back its head and ran the slightly curving stone blade across the beasts throat. It barely made a sound as it’s back legs buckled, collapsing onto the large wooden block. The old warrior stuck out his hand, snapping his fingers once and the herdsman stepped forward and placed the axe in his outstretched hand.

Selk delivered a mighty, two handed blow to the beasts neck, severing it completely in a single swing, the blade of the axe embedding itself in the soft wood beneath.

He held the dripping head aloft and crowd now broke its silence. A cacophony of noise erupted as the sacrifice was complete. The body and head were tossed onto the now roaring fire to crackle and spit as the fat and blood dripped into the blazing flames below.

Palanor and Ashath had watched along with all the others. Palanor wasn’t sure if the sun really cared about a gift of goats at midsummer, but to say that out loud  would have been terrible luck, so he kept quiet. It was not that he minded, he himself hunted and slaughtered to provide food for the tribe year round, and had done so since the age of 10. But he just didn’t think it was worth the effort when he was sure the sun would keep on circling the Land regardless of what sacrifices were made. Afterall, it had been around before the ancients had emerged from caves, according to legend.

Ashath shared his somewhat disbelief, but neither would ever voice it to any others. They got to their feet and danced along with the rest of the tribe, enjoying the music, and fun of it just as much as the others.

Soon enough food was passed around, great bowls of thick, steaming stew, strips of dried meat, mashed roots, early harvests of fruit, and the rarest of treats – a small piece of honeycomb each. The children greedily snatched them up and swallowed it whole, whilst the adults savoured the sweetness, the chewiness of the waxy comb sticking in their teeth. It was a heavenly delight, saved only for solstices, the rest of the year honey went solely to the production of the honey-wine now being brought out.

Large clay pots as tall as a child were brought out, containing the sweet, fermented drink as well as brewed beer from last years grain. Cups and drinking horns were dipped into the pots to be swilled and quaffed there and then, or carried precariously back to others sat around the fire or dancing in smaller circles across the way.

Pipes and drums sounded continuously as many of the women and menfolk danced together or individually, clapping and stamping, weaving in and out with others to create continuous movement through the crowd.

Ashath only danced for a short while, her legs, sore and aching meant that she soon sat down with the mothers and elders to eat, drink, and watch the rest of the tribe celebrate.

Palanor had brought down some skins from their hut so she could sit comfortably, throwing a large deer skin about her shoulders before nudging closer to the bonfire for warmth.

Palanor kept dancing for a while with the other hunters and warriors, competing for height in leaps and even somersaults one after the other as the rest jumped and stamped. Hallin had just turned a full cartwheel in the air without using his hands, landing and opening his arms in challenge to anyone to top that.

Palanor rushed forward and leapt, throwing himself backward and tucking his knees up, flipping backward to land squarely on his feet.

Animal like barks and howls showed approval from the rest as the pace of stamping and jumping increased and the other warriors pressed in, enclosing the two opponents.

Spirits were high, and the combination of alcohol, frenzy, and fervour almost always led to confrontations of some kind. It was all part of the drama of the event after all.

“Think you can go up against me pallid Pala?” Hallin sneered, arms folded across his puffed-up chest.

“I could match you in my sleep.” Palanor squared up to him.

Groans and cries of “ooh” now erupted from the encircling men, their painted faces split into grins.

Palanor backed off a step as Hallin did the same, both crouching slightly on the balls of their feet, arms out, fingers wide. The pair leapt at one another, vying for purchase on the others clothing or body, a tangle of arms as they grappled with one another’s upper bodies. Palanor managed to drive with his legs so that Hallin began to slide back in the dirt. But then Hallin managed to twist and pull Palanor past him by his jerkin. Palanor quickly sidestepped, swinging round and then dropping down to tackle Hallin’s legs, grabbing behind with his free right hand to hook at Hallin’s left knee, attempting to sweep him over. But Hallin kept a grip on Palanor’s left wrist and managed to hop and steady himself. Palanor kicked at Hallin’s lone leg and managed to fall on top of him. But Hallin was like a fish, already slithering out and getting to one knee, his arms keeping Palanor off him and at bay.

Both young men had strong, lean bodies, and both had been taught how to wrestle, learning how to trip and throw and opponent and even lock their arms in painful positions. But there was one main difference. Palanor - whilst far more deadly with his sorcerers knowledge and might - had spent the last five years training more in the magical arts, whilst Hallin had spent twice that amount of time purely on the physical arts of fighting. Palanor was out matched and he knew it.

The idea of evening the odds by utilising magic hadn’t even occurred to him, it was so unthinkable and dishonourable. This was a contest of strength and skill, and he would win it fair and square and gain much standing in the eyes of the older warriors. He just had to keep his cool.

“Nice try, Pallid.” Hallin spat in between deep breaths, “But not good enough. I’m going to twist you up so you can’t leave you bed for a week. Just like your weakling of a woman.”

Hallin sneered.

Palanor’s hearing went funny, everything went quiet, distant, and fuzzy. His vision went all snowy and hazy.

The next thing he knew he was on his front, face down in the dirt, someone was on top of him and there were feet all around, crowding in. Ashath was stroking his forehead, kneeling next to him, humming from his favourite lay.

The pressure on his back lifted, and strong arms heaved him up to his feet.

Tul and Dara held him between them. That was odd, they hadn’t been anywhere near the fight. Palanor’s thoughts were slow, as if his mind was bogged down in a mire.

“You calm now brother?” Tul asked.

“What?”

Then Palanor realised what had happened, he had lost his temper, given in to his blood-fury. The events of the last few minutes came flooding back.

Hallin sneered.

Palanor stiffened, muscles bulging taut with the strain of control. His eyes widened in madness as he uttered a cry of pure rage. Not some deep warriors bellow but a screechy, roaring ululation. His fist connected solidly with Hallin’s shocked face with a swift snap, the pair of them falling over with the force. Then Palanor was on him. Beating with hammer fist blows like a smith at an anvil he pounded at ear and neck and face as Hallin tried to block the blows to no avail.

Hallin managed to catch a wrist.

Big mistake.

Palanor grabbed his wrist and locked one leg across Hallin’s chest, kneeling upright he heaved with all his might, twisting and tearing at the limb now trapped in his grip, pulling it back into his chest as he leaned further back whilst Hallin flopped like a fish, writhing in pain as blood poured down his face.

Tul and Dara had grabbed him at that point, before he tore the arm off.

“Shit. I lost it again didn’t I?” Palanor was pale and weakened, he felt dizzy, “How’s Hallin?”

Some of the crowd had gone back to celebrating, it wouldn’t be the last fight of the evening, but many lingered in a group not far off, presumably around the injured Hallin.

Tul grimaced, “He’ll live, his arm…”

“Will be just fine.” Ashath spoke over the hulk of a man. “I checked him over before I came to calm you down. I mean, it’ll mend.”

She looked tired and worried, her eyes, seemingly enlarged by the paintwork were anxious and bloodshot.

“Let’s go.”

Palanor shrugged out of Tul and Dara’s now loose grip.

The gigantic pair watched the two redheads disappear through the crowd.

“That strength brother, he almost broke free of my grip…”

Dara looked down at his aching arms as they shook slightly from the strain they had just undergone.

“Aye, I always knew he had the blood-fury in him, but to feel it, to fight against it…” Tul trailed off, shaking his head in astonishment.

Before Ashath and Palanor left The Step, Shaman Vel intercepted them, blocking their way.

His haggard voice rang out, “Come on you two, let’s go talk somewhere private.”

Chapter Text

Vel had taken Palanor and Ashath back to his own hut high up the spiral. His lodge was of a similar construction to their own, but its contents was slightly different. Far more pouches hung from the rafters, and there were many small baskets and clay pots piled around the edges of the earthen wall, each containing various herbs, minerals, or trinkets related to the magical arts.

Vel removed his headpiece, the bone crown and cut-down antlers of a stag, hanging it up on a far wall, ensuring it was straight, before easing himself down into a sitting position opposite the two young lovers.

“I have failed you Old One,” Palanor spoke with a resigned sense of remorse. Vel wasn’t actually all that old, but his skin was wrinkled and his lank hair had begun to grey, the hazards of his profession as chief Shaman. ‘Old One’ was an honorific title that came with the post.

“Let me be the judge of that.” Vel held up a wrinkled, bony hand to interrupt before Palanor could speak, “He’ll be fine, so you can stop looking all guilty about it.” Vel huffed. “Mala used to always chuckle about all the things you have to deal with as chief Shaman, he delighted in telling me he wouldn’t envy me when he finally went to the River.”

‘Going to the river’ was parlance for passing over into Death, as the realm of Death resembled a great, mist covered river. Shamans sometimes travelled there to perform specific rituals, the nature of such rituals depended upon the nature of the shaman, some good, some bad.

Vel took another laboured breath. “You young men, so puffed up with pride as a frog is puffed up with air!” He threw his hands in the air as a sign of his exasperation. “But it is the nature of young men. The nature of old men like me is to set you straight and sort you out!”

He chuckled but it turned into a cough.

“Old One, I promised to control my anger, to never let it rule me, I have failed.”

Vel seemed lost in thought for a moment before his eyes flicked up to look first at Palanor then at Ashath.

“Do you two know where the blood-fury came from? In our Tribe at least? No? Well, it was a gift.”

“It does not seem like a gift Old O….”

“Well I’m telling you it was a gift, so listen to me, who is wiser in these things than you young Pala.”

Vel seemed to clear his throat and settled himself.

“You of course know that long ago, the ancient ancestors came here, to this hill and settled it many generations ago. When they arrived they found what we now call the Ziggurat already here, and that inside they also discovered that it was occupied.” Vel was referencing the large geode in the very centre of the sunken prison. Ashath had never entered the Ziggurat but Palanor had told her about it.

“They listened to the stone which held the Being, listened to its whispers, tricksome promises and pitiful pleading. Well, eventually they agreed to release it, this Being trapped in the stone, in return for it’s promised reward, great power and so on.” Vel animated the story with his hand gestures, as he did with the children he taught during his history classes.

“Of course it was all lies, as the Kindred are not of life and can never be trusted. They were quickly brought under it’s thrall, fated either to be consumed by it, or labour under it as slaves forced to do it’s terrible bidding. Many of our ancestors perished, and for years they knew nothing but misery and torment and much bloodshed. The knowledge of the ancients was almost lost all together!”

Vel stared off into the distance.

“But then came the traveller. He who was known as One Eye! Learned in magic and mystery he tricked the dreadful beast, using cunning and trickery, he pretended to worship the being as a god, earning its trust. He begged only to work for the being if it but shared the smallest, measly modicum of its power with him. It agreed, and taught him much of magic, of Death, and all the secrets of the earth, until One Eye knew almost as much as the Kindred. Then he lured it back to its prison and bound it once more, freeing our ancestors.”

Vel clapped his hands to his knees, with a satisfied look.

“In return for his deeds, all the women of the Tribe lay with One Eye, and bore him children. Some of these children inherited some of his power, as magic often seeps into the blood and bones of its user.”

Palanor nodded, for this was well known. Ashath was a little sceptical.

“Really?”

Vel chuckled, “Who knows? Probably not but the ancestors did strange things sometimes you know, on account of it being an odd time back then.”

He continued with his tale.

“This is why our Tribe is remarkably strong in the magical ways. This is why we are gifted with many shamans, witches, and sorcerers like yourselves. Have you never wondered why our neighbours revere us? Why they have only one or two Shamans or witches? They are lucky if one is born in a generation, yet many of our clan-brothers and sisters have some grasp of magic no?”

Palanor and Ashath had never really thought about it, but now that Vel mentioned it, it was true.

“But the blood of One Eye contained a curse Old One.” Palanor whispered.

“Not a curse, a gift! You must listen Pala.” The wizened man shook a finger at Palanor but grinned nonetheless.

“The blood-fury is a gift, it grants you great strength and stamina, allowing one man to best many in combat, as your father did at the battle of the Rigg.”

Palanor nodded pensively, he knew his father also had the blood-fury, and had been a great warrior, only falling to the swords of the Tribes enemies after taking no less than thirty-two of their heads in combat.

“But you must control it. Of course. Lest it control you, and you end up a mindless beast of rage, like a poisoned bear.”

Vel paused.

“Hallin is your clan-brother, one of the Tribe as you and Ashath, and myself, and everyone here is. We all live and die under the same sun,” he gestured up at the light coming through the smoke ring above them, “We all work and fight to help one another survive, we can’t have feuds, not real ones. The odd scrap is bound to occur, but you and Hallin have history.”

“He started it, he’s always gone after Pala..” Ashath bit her tongue, her outburst louder than intended.

“I know,” He turned back to Palanor “But you are both men now, clan-brothers. That means you should be willing - regardless of whether you like one another - to lay down your lives for each other. This is our way. Otherwise it all falls apart and the Tribe rots from the inside.”

“Old One, I will go to Hallin, beg his forgiveness..”

“He should beg for yours..” Ashath muttered.

Palanor ignored her and continued,

“…and offer him the hand of friendship. As is our way.”

Vel’s face creased into a satisfied smile. Grey beard and lank hair framing the wrinkled, tanned face.

“Good, good. Off you go now, the pair of you. Soon the trading season will begin, busy times!”

Vel’s voice followed them out the door flap as the pair left.

Ashath was suspiciously silent as they walked back to their hut. Palanor knew enough about women to know something was up.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” The tone was enough to give it away. She was never normally one to be in a mood.

“You seem upset about something.”

She spun around to look at him, hair swishing about her.

“You shouldn’t have to go and beg that ugly brute for anything, he should…”

Palanor held her, stopping the torrent of words.

“I know, but it’s the right thing to do.”

“Why has he always been like that? The others left you be along time ago but not him?”

Palanor shrugged as they began walking again.

“Maybe he’s jealous of me.” Then he grinned, “Maybe he’s besotted with you and desires you for himself.”

Ashath pulled a face, eyes widened and nostrils flared in mock horror before breaking into a smile. She carried on, more relaxed now, swinging her arms about. “He goes with Brela, everyone knows that.”

“Yes but she doesn’t share his hut, nor have they been matched, why is that hm? Because he’s hoping one day I won’t come back and he can have you!”

Palanor thought this was funny, but Ashath’s face had clouded over, “You wouldn’t leave me like that would you? I always worry when you pick up that damn mask, I hate it.”

The sudden vitriol in which she spat the last words took Palanor by surprise. He knew she worried, as he worried about her, but he loved going out - the thrill of it. To hear her declare her hatred of it, he didn’t know what to think.

“It is my duty to the Tribe to patrol our territory, to bind the Kindred and guard our lands against their kind.”

“I know… but one day it’s going to take you from me.”

“As your visions will one day take you from me. But we shall walk together in the river and it shall flow to the stars and we shall be reborn again, as is known.”

They had reached their hut. Both of them were now tired, stifling yawns and scratching at unkempt hair, their face paint smeared from the events of the evening. Washing it off could wait till the morning. Ashath pushed through, stooping to enter the hut. Palanor yawned, stretched and followed her in.

Palanor dropped the mat back down behind him as he entered. Ashath was stood across the fire pit, gazing at him with doleful eyes.

He knew what that meant, his heart beat quickening.

For a moment they both just stood there, staring at each other in the half-light, faint noise drifting in from the smoke ring above of the ongoing celebrations at the foot of the village. Then Ashath slowly loosened her buckskin dress, letting it fall away to gather around her ankles. She stepped out of, holding his gaze, thrusting her chin out slightly, almost in a defiant challenge. Her copper curls fell loosely about her breasts, covering them.

“I thought you were tired…” Palanor muttered, in a gruff manner.

She shook her head slowly, maintaining that intense gaze.

He stripped off his own jerk, pulling it over his head, sleeves turning inside out as he chucked it to one side. He kicked off his boots, pulling at them, hopping around as he did so, before removing his trousers.

Then he approached Ashath, standing before her. She lowered her gaze to his lips. He leaned in and took her hungrily, nibbling at her lower lip as she kissed him deeply. Her scent was of flowers and grassy meadows. Then he enveloped her in his arms, and she pulled at him, dragging him down onto the pile of furs that served as their bed.

They rolled around for a bit, frolicking in the furs, their breathing heavy with anticipation. Then at last she opened and received him, pulling him in and wrapping her legs about his waist devouring him with her mouth and clawing at his back.

Palanor pushed up, surprising her as he broke away, before smartly flipping her over onto her belly. She let out a little laugh, easing her behind up, arching her back whilst her chest remained pushed into the furs below her. He entered once more, but deeper this time, the feeling almost too intense for Ashath, already light headed from lack of sleep. He thrust forward and her head bumped against the wall of the hut. His firm hand reached under her left armpit and took her gently by the throat, easing her up onto her knees, so that she sat back on his thighs.

She arched her back once more and twisted slightly to look at him over her shoulder. Shanna had told her to make use of her eyes and so she pulled what she hoped was a sultry look and let out short gasps and moans. He clung to her, one arm wrapped about her midriff, the other snaked under her left arm, gently squeezing at her throat in rhythm with the gentle bounces and thrusts.

It was too intense, her head was spinning as if she had drunk too much beer, despite not touching the stuff all evening.

With her left arm she reached back and held his head, her right hand slipped down between her own thighs to alleviate the heat that had built to unbearable levels there. She could feel him picking up the pace...just had to time it right. The two continued like this for a few minutes. 

At last he shuddered, and she felt his ragged breath on her neck as he lowered them forward, collapsing slowly on top of her. She followed a minute later, he knew to wait until she trembled and quivered before rolling off her.

He stared up at the smoke hole, trying to slow his heart down. The pair of them drew ragged breaths as they clung to each other, a sweaty mess on top of the pile of musty furs.

“Ah, where did that come from?” Palanor whispered.

“Don’t know.” She responded coyly, a sheepish grin on her face as she pulled the furs up and over her.

Palanor snuggled in beside her and promptly fell asleep, snoring somewhat loudly as he was prone to do.

Ashath could not sleep. Despite the exhaustion, and the physical activity she had just partaken in, her body would not rest.

She tossed and turned and eventually slithered out of Palanor’s embrace, careful not to wake him.

Palanor, however, slept deeply. He only awoke twice in the night; once when Ashath had another vision, warning him of some kind of dog he was supposed to meet, and again when she got up to relieve herself in the early morning.

As was typical, he fell straight back to sleep both times.

Chapter Text

Palanor awoke in a slow and groggy manner. Bright light shone through the smoke hole above him, the shafts of light indicating that it was already late morning. He turned over in the pile of furs, snuggling up to the warmth of Ashath beside him.

She wasn’t there.

He patted about the furs before sitting up, brushing his lank hair back with one hand.

She wasn’t in the hut.

Was probably off bathing, Palanor thought.

He sniffed. Got to his feet and pulled on some trousers and his buckskin boots. He left his jerkin hung up on a peg. The clear blue circle above him already hinting at the intense heat of the day just beyond the door flap.

He wasn’t wrong, it was already hot, the sun was high in the sky, shining down with bright white rays. He could feel the warmth of the dry earth through the soft leather soles of his boots. Squinting he looked about.

It was quiet, as he expected after the celebrations the previous night. Most people wouldn’t be up until past midday, groggy from drink and a late night.

He still had his face paint on, smeared from the events of the night, it had dried and cracked, parts flaking and peeling off as he rubbed at his face.

Palanor headed down the spiral towards the bathing pools.

After a brief wash he decided to find Ashath. He had hoped to spend the day with her, before heading out on a short hunt in the evening, when the chance of catching something was higher. With damp hair hanging loose, drying quickly in the heat, he checked in on their hut once more, in case she had returned from wherever she was.

The air of the hut was still cool, but a brief glance told him no one had been in since he had left. Ducking back out he wandered further down the spiral at a leisurely pace, soaking up the warmth of the sun on his pale, pink skin. He passed a few ragged looking celebrants, returning to their own huts from wherever they had spent the night. The only people fully alert were the sentries on the wall, and of course the handful scattered further out in the grazing and growing grounds beyond the defences of the village.

She was probably with some of the other women, he reasoned. She did have a few friends who she would spend time with, often when he was out patrolling the territory or hunting. What they got up to when they got together, this Palanor was not sure about, he suspected they gossiped about their men, or as some of them were known to be unclaimed as of yet, secret couplings.

Him and Ashath had been no different, although it had been obvious from an early age that they were to be paired off as adults. It had all but been confirmed once both their separate magical gifts had been revealed. The tribal elders authorised matchings within the tribe, but this was more of a formality, not an absolute law. Those found breaking their vows however… that was a different matter.

Ashath often spent time with Shanna. So Palanor called in to her hut, knocking on the outer post where the door flap hung.

A muffled grunt came through the plain, dusty woven mat that served as a door, followed by a clearer invitation to enter.

Palanor ducked in, pushing the mat aside, letting it fall behind him.

“Hey Pala.” It was Shanna, willowy and tall, she ran with the warriors but had no magical talent. Palanor thought she was a good fighter, for a woman. It was well known that she could cast a spear as far as most of the other warriors, and kept up with them on their long, loping runs out to the edges of the territory. It was also well known that she was much desired by a number of young men who wanted her.

She wasn’t wearing much just a shawl wrapped round her shoulders as she squatted next to the fire pit.

“Seen Ashath? She was gone when I woke up.” He surveyed the hut, but stood by the door flap, making no move to enter further.

He could clearly see others still snoozing under the pile of furs and rugs on the far side of the hut. Shanna shared her hut with another unclaimed woman. But there were two in the bed pile, and Shanna was squatting by the fire pit, coaxing a small flame into life for preparation of the morning meal.

“Not seen her this morning, had a good night?” She glanced up with a knowing look, not quite a smirk.

“Yeah, smashed Hallins face in at The Step as you well know. But I’m sorting it. Any idea where she is?”

It was at this point the bed bundle stirred and Hexi – Shanna’s hut-mate – sat up.

“Hey Pala,” She gave a massive yawn, mouth stretching wide before blinking a few times.

“Hey Hexi…” Palanor jerked his chin at the third person still asleep, gesturing his curiosity at their identity.

Hexi blinked and looked lost for a moment before glancing down at her bedfellow.

“Oh it’s Fralk.” She blushed slightly.

The brewer’s apprentice, eh? Palanor didn’t comment, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Shanna answered his earlier question. “I don’t know where she is, have you tried the bathing pools? It was hot last night, you know, could have been sweaty.” The same knowing look, piercing eyes fixed on Palanor in a friendly manner.

He shook his head, damp hair still dripping slightly.

“Just been there, no sign of her.”

“Maybe she’s with the Shaman? Has she had another vision?”

Palanor nodded thoughtfully, now that she mentioned it, Ashath had woken him in the night – as she often did – to tell him about a vision she had seen.

“Yeah, could be it. Thanks, I’ll catch you later.”

He turned and dipped back out into the sun once more, heading back up the spiral to Vel’s hut. Ashath would love to hear the gossip surrounding Hexi and Fralk, and possibly Shanna, he made a note to tell her all about it later.

Vel was sat in the sliver of shade outside his hut with a long pipe from which curled a single whisp of smoke. He looked more wrinkled and haggard than normal, matted hair sticking out in tufts from the side of his head.

He watched Palanor approach in silence, taking a puff on the pipe, holding the smoke in for a few moments before letting it out followed by a rumbling cough.

“Old One, have you seen Ashath?”

Vel shook his head, eyes screwed shut, trying to smother the coughing fit which threatened to erupt from his throat. It seemed to pass and he visibly relaxed.

“Not since last night. Why?”

“She was not there when I woke up, she wasn’t at the bathing pools, or with Shanna and Hexi in their hut, now she’s not with you… where is she?”

Vel scratched at the back of his head absent-mindedly, pondering the question.

“Well, she’s a grown woman, there are other places she might be.” He squinted up at Palanor.

“Where Old One, the Barrow?”

“Maybe.” Vel shrugged, “She could be gathering herbs, or gone to stretch her legs, or gone down to the river to wash out some old pots, how am I supposed to know?”

“She had a vision last night.”

Vel cocked an eyebrow, aware of the implications. Sometimes Ashath saw her visions as waking dreams, not able to tell reality from the potential future she experienced, she wandered about in a daze until the vision passed.

He tapped out he smouldering contents of the pipe bowl on the ground, and grunted as he struggled to his feet. He slapped Palanor’s offered hand away as he did so.

“That was a good bit of leaf that,” referencing the herb he had been smoking, “Typical, what a waste. Come on then, lets go ask the sentries if they’ve seen her leave the village.”

He pushed past Palanor and hobbled down the spiral.

It soon became apparent that the sentries hadn’t seen her.

And when more enquiries were made to no avail, a search of the village was organised with the handful of people awake and capable.

As the day went on and she didn’t emerge, Palanor’s angst, which had started at the Gate, began to grow into a quiet worry. He had enough discipline and pride to force himself to present an outward appearance of calm concern. But inside, his mind was racing, desperate to find her, hoping that she’d emerge from a tangle of bushes or step out of the shade of tree with a smile on her face and they could all laugh about it.

By the late afternoon he was stomping about the village, double checking where others had searched, convinced they must have missed something.

It occurred to him that one group of people within the village might know something about her disappearance. Hallin’s usual hangers-on had a vested interest in causing trouble, at least whenever Palanor was involved. After last night they might have decided to get their own back and enacted some sort of revenge scheme.

He took his suspicions to Vel.

Vel looked away, sighing.

“After all you said last night, you now come to me accusing your clan-brothers of this?”

Palanor was getting more and more heated with every minute, panic mixing with frustration. He managed to not snap back at the older Shaman, but the words came out forcefully nonetheless.

“That was before Ashath went missing! Listen Old One, after last night can you not say with your heart and head that they would try something like this? Did they not do this to me once before?”

“That was years ago, you were children then, children do these things, not warriors who have the respect of the Tribe.”

Even so, thought Vel, it would explain Ashath’s disappearance, short of her growing wings and flying off. Or falling in the river in a daze and being carried away to the sea. He could sense the panic rising in his young ward. By the Dead, what would Mala have done?

“We shall go to ask Hallin and his friends if they have seen Ashath.”

The pair entered Hallin’s hut in the late afternoon. It was rather crowded as Hallin’s other friends had been summoned along with two elders tending to his injuries from the night before.

Hallin lay on a litter, the usual furs and mats that made up most of the Tribes chosen bedding were there, plumped up to make him comfortable. A sticky poultice was smeared thickly across his swollen, purple-bruised face. Two black and green rings of skin circled his eyes where his nose had broken. His arm was lashed across his chest and held in place with thin splints of wood. He grimaced in pain as he sat up to greet Vel and Palanor as they entered.

“Com’ t’ thay thorry?” Hallin mumbled through his swollen cheeks and lips.

“Where’s Ashath? Let her go and I’ll apologise.” Palanor snapped back.

A look of confusion crossed Hallin’s face.

“Wha’? Not theen her thinth lath nigh’, Thee wath with you!”

Palanor whirled about to face his usual gang of friends.

“And you? Any of you seen her?” He was struggling to hide his panic and frustration. All he wanted was to see her safe, then he could make his apologies, they must understand he was worried for her. She wasn’t well.

They cast their eyes to the floor, afraid of his manic stare and the display of violence he had shown last night, shaking their heads or mumbling their excuses. Palanor looked at Vel who shrugged.

“Vash naH GA’ATH” He spat the oath in frustration.

Vel slapped him across the face before spitting and brushing his arms with his hands – a superstitious ritual of cleansing when hearing uttered curses out loud.

Palanor knew he deserved it. That particular curse was of the old tongue, the language of the ancients. It was an invocation of the splitting of the world, welcoming the end times, depending on the context in which it was uttered it also held connotations of cannibalism, incest, and post-mortem desecration that would mean a spirit could not journey on in Death. A fate reserved only for sworn enemies of the Tribe and their allies, and only then if they had committed heinous atrocities in life.

Palanor sank to his knees, hands clapped to his face, fingers pressing into his eyes.

No one moved for a moment and the hut was silent.

“What was the vision about? Do you know?”

Vel’s voice was whispered, calm.

Palanor continued to press upon his eyelids, trying to remember from the half-sleep. Stupid idiot, she woke you for a reason and you turned over to ignore her.

“Something, something about a dog..”

“A dog? What kind of dog, one of the hunting hounds?”

“..I don’t know, just something about meeting a dog and following it maybe. It was late, I was tired, it didn’t sound… of consequence.”

She had vanished. It finally hit him. She wasn’t going to stand up from some hidden tussock of grass and smile and wave at him. She wasn’t going to be sat there when he went back to their hut. She was gone. He didn’t know where. Perhaps she had fallen in the river, it happened sometimes with the children. The current was fast. He dared not think about it.

“Well, lets look for this dog then.” Vel laid a gentle hand on Palanor’s shoulder, guiding the now submissive lad out of the hut.

When they were alone Palanor stopped and stared out over the village.

Two river boats had arrived at the jetty and the small crew were unloading trading goods at The Step, ready for bartering on the morrow.

He watched as a figure broke off from the group and came running up the spiral.

It was one of the sentries. He came to a stop in front of Vel and Palanor, kicking up dust from the dry path.

“They’ve seen her!” He pointed back down at the traders, scurrying about, made small by the distance. “They mentioned sighting people on the edge of our territory earlier today.”

Palanor took one look at Vel, then hurtled off down the Spiral, kicking up his own plume of dust as he went.

Vel coughed, slapping the dust from his leather jerkin and followed him down at his own, much slower pace.

Chapter Text

The chief amongst the traders explained what they had seen earlier that day in his thick accent. That just after they had passed the outermost markers of Palanor’s tribe’s territory, entering it via the river (which was technically no tribe’s territory as water was the sacred link of safety between all the clans and tribes of the Land) they had spotted two figures on the northern bank. A woman with red hair, who apparently had waved at them and smiled, and a cloaked figure who kept back from river bank.

It was only natural for the traders to continue on their way, ignoring the pair, for one never landed on the banks of the river unless at a jetty of an allied clan in a protected and fortified location, such as Palanor’s village. Sightings of beautiful women who beckoned sailors and fishermen ashore were common on the edges of territory, or in the wild lands between them, for Kindred and Dead alike roamed freely there without opposition.

Palanor listened intently as the short, dark-haired man spoke of what little they had witnessed. When sailing down river the current was quick, the journey fast and easy on the crew of the small riverboats, they had passed the pair in a matter of moments.

The trader chieftain shook his head in a slow and deliberate manner when Palanor tried to further question him, raising his tattooed hands and arms that marked him out as coming from the Crow clans further north, further upstream along the Great Eastern River. His people were said to live on a set of linked islands and islets in huts built up into the trees for when the floods came.

“No more did I see. The others, maybe see somethin’ else but I fix’d my eyes on’t water.” His thick accent made it sound as if he missed out certain words, or shortened them at least. As chieftain of the trading group, he was the helmsman of the small river craft, guiding it’s journey upon the silvery water, and his long years of experience would have taught him to ignore whatever beckoned him from the banks.

Palanor went to the others of the small trading party, putting questions to them. All had similar accounts with little information other than the pair’s location and the direction of travel. They had been seen very close to the edge of the territory – a good half a day’s running or a full day’s walk – and they had been wandering up stream – following the river further north and west.

Only the youngest gave any further detail.

“I saw’t cloaked man, reckon he was a man anyway. He had skin that were as pale-as-snow. Whiter’n yours by a lang way.”

He gestured at Palanor’s pale, pink skin.

Vel grunted, muttering to himself. Palanor had come to the same conclusion. It was well known amongst Shamans and those gifted in magic that the waters of Death leeched all colour out of the spirits who wandered there, and that if those spirits returned to their bodies in life, their skin took on the same deathly pallor.

So, Ashath had been taken by one who stalked the waters of Death. A Shaman or Sorcerer of some power.

Vel asked the boy, “Was she chained, or held by rope or some other binding?”

“No’ that I could tell.  She smiled and waved at us.”

Vel nodded and let the boy go back to helping his other clan-brothers unload goods from the long, narrow boats.

The Shaman eyed Palanor with a knowing look of concern.

“She has gone willingly.” It was just a statement. It had a hollow, flat sort of sound to Palanor who merely nodded, staring into the distance in thought.

“Perhaps this sorcerer, this… Pale Man, has tricked her? Entered her mind when she was vulnerable?” Vel continued to muse out loud. Palanor did not react, continuing to stare blankly down the path toward the river.

“Or…”

Palanor blinked, eye’s darting to meet the Shaman’s pensive gaze.

“…she has foreseen this, and gone willingly to meet her Dh’uume.”

Dh’uume was another old word from the ancient tongue, meaning fate or destiny, although often associated more with a foreshadowing of dark deeds, or one’s death.

Palanor was hardly listening. He was instead trying to reckon Ashath’s pace. She must have left in the morning to have reached the edge of the territory by late afternoon, although she could run well, she had been unwell and he suspected she must have walked rather than ran. She would be tired as well from the travel and so would have to rest, probably under guard by her captor, this Pale Man. Palanor could run great distances, as he often did for his patrols and the larger game hunts further out in the territory. If he set off this night and did not stop, he could pick up their trail by tomorrow midday. He might have to stalk them once he caught up to them, to assess the strength of this Pale Man, see if he was a sorcerer or not, and then work out the best way to slay him, or at least fight him off. Then getting Ashath back to the village would take two days, maybe three, and she’d need food and water. If he packed a small bag with supplies they could be back within a handful of days.

But it would mean spending three nights outside of the protection of the village. The sun would dip below the horizon this night, giving an hour or so of twilight. Other than the sentries, who were often posted not far out from the grazing fields, no one ever spent the night outside the walls and thickets of protective gorse and thistle. Not only were there potential Kindred or the Dead to contend with, who were far more active in the darker hours of the day, but also wolves, bears and cave lions. Not to mention the aggressive herds of wild cattle who would chase and trample foolhardy hunters away from their young calves at this time of year.

But it would still be light enough, no true dark so to speak of, not for another few days. Palanor also knew of certain charms that could mask his presence from certain creatures.

He had already made up his mind. One way or another he was going to fetch her back.

Vel had watched the young man’s mind racing through his slight changes in expression, involuntary flickers of muscle as he thought things through and saw things with his minds eye. Vel was also wise, and knew what young men were prone to think and do. Here we go, I can already tell what he’s going to say.

“Old One, I will go and bring her back.”

Vel did not respond.

“Old One..”

“I heard you. It will not be easy…"

“But..”

Vel held up a hand.

“…but I can see your mind is made up, and if I forbade you from going you would slip away in the night.”

Palanor hung his head, knowing it to be true.

“I’ll sort things with the elders. But they will not be pleased, losing two with gifts in one day.”

“We should be back within 4 days, 3 if I run through this night to where they were last seen.”

Vel sighed in resignation before clapping a fatherly hand onto Palanor’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before motioning the lad to get ready to embark on his quest.

Palanor hurried back to his hut. He already had a list of what he needed in his head and knew where to get the things he didn’t have, but would require if he was to be successful. He was so fixated on getting to it that he did not hear Vel’s quiet farewell, drifting on the gentle breeze of the evening air.

Bursting through the door flap he began to gather his equipment; his leaf-shaped bronze sword in its sheath went on his belt, as did his stone knife. He shoved the remainder of the dried meat strips into his carry sack, along with a water skin, fire kit, and a handful of plums. He rolled up two sheepskins and lashed them together with a length of leather. They had been treated with scented tallow to waterproof the leather side - these would keep him and Ashath warm in the shortened nights out in the wilderness.

He picked up his throwing stick - a specially carved, hooked piece of heavy wood in the shape of a curvy “7”, which when thrown, spun through the air at roughly head height for a good one hundred strides. Palanor tucked it into his belt in the small of his back where it would stay due to the tight angle of the hook.

He grabbed his ivory spear. It would need the blessings re-applying before he left, so he also took a collection of small pouches containing various ingredients, minerals, and herbs.

He turned before he went back out the door, surveying the hut for anything he had forgotten. The sudden flurry of activity felt good after the frustration and angst of the day. He whipped his mask off the peg where it hung and ducked back out into the late evening.

It didn’t take Palanor long to march down the spiral and before he knew it he was passing under the heavy wooden gate as the sentries watched on in silence.

He picked three thistles on his way past, couldn’t hurt to have them handy, he was careful to place them in his carry sack in such a way that they wouldn’t get crushed.

Once he had descended onto the flatter growing and grazing grounds he picked up his pace into a light run, heading not to the west to follow the river, but instead east.

To the Barrow.

He would carry out the necessary rituals there, in the presence of his ancestors, before doubling back to begin the pursuit. Passing the crop fields on the way out he stooped to pick a good handful of poppies growing in amongst the tall, swaying grain. These he could bind into enchanted circlets which when worn, would temporarily mask much of his presence to those of the Kindred or the Dead.

The sun was now nearing the horizon once again, but Palanor still had some true daylight left before the short period of twilight began that would count as night at this time of year.

He ran with a casual, loping stride, but his heart was now racing at the thought of leaving the village, leaving the territory of the Tribe even! Further than he’d ever gone before. But it would be for Ashath. To see her again and bring her back. Back home with him. Where she belonged.

The Barrow was an artificial mound built, like everything else, by Palanor’s tribal ancestors. The tumulus was a long, raised structure of drystone walls, covered by earth and turf so that it resembled a squat hill that stretched out like a slug. The space inside was separated into chambers with stone shelves which housed many clay urns and pots containing the ashes and remains of all the people of the Tribe since they had settled the area. At least according to legend. In reality the urns and pots occasionally had to be disturbed, respectfully of course, in order to make more room on the shelves, and so sometimes pots were emptied into one another, under the careful instruction of the Shamans, who ensured no spirits were angered and summoned back.

Wind flutes picketed the Barrow in a broad circle. Palanor raced past the flimsy, but effective barrier, slowing to a stop before the narrow, dark, shadowy cleft that served as an entrance to the underground burial chamber. The three stones which made up the doorway were all carved with swirling, maze-like patterns, some interlinking into complex knots. As far as Palanor could tell this was purely decorative, and held no magical or ritual significance – or if it once had it was no longer effective enough to be felt by one with the gift.

He decided not to leave anything outside, lest some passing cayote took it whilst he was busy inside.

Holding his spear and bag before him, he slid through the narrow gap sideways, ducking down to avoid hitting hi head on the thick stone lintel. It was dark inside, but he knew his way around the Barrow without need of any light. In the winter solstice, when the snows lay thick upon the hills and plains and the elk came down from the north, the village would proceed out in the pale light of the shortest day to the Barrow travelling through it and then back to the village, to give thanks to the spirits of their ancestors.

He found the particular nook which held his most recent relatives; his father and mother, and their fathers and mothers and so on. He thrice blessed the ivory spear with his concoctions. And also made his circlets of poppies, which he carefully placed over his head onto his neck for safe keeping, tucking them under his jerkin. He gave a quick pray for luck before he left, anxious now of the race against time to catch up to Ashath and the Pale Man before the trail went cold.

Leaving the Barrow Palanor began his long, loping running pace which he could keep up for a whole day. His feet pounding over the dry earth and swishing grasses as he turned west, to follow the river. To his right, the north, the sun had slipped behind distant towers of thick billowing cloud which often signalled the coming of a summer thunderstorm.

Chapter Text

At first the rain had been welcome after the heat of the last few days, and the initial spots had cooled Palanor’s brow as he ran. But the rain didn’t stop. The light showers had turned into a hammering downpour, accompanied by bright flashes of skyfire and the thunder that followed it. The towering clouds had blocked out the sun, casting all the land into a dim twilight as the sun dipped below the horizon late in the evening. The ground, which had been baked hard by that same vanishing sun, was now saturated with the falling rain, and had slowed Palanor’s pace as his feet began to slip and slide on slick grass and wet mud.

The rain was not all bad though, Palanor thought. It would cause the streams to swell, renewed from their dangerously low trickles to become frothing waterways once more. This would dissuade many lesser kindred and Dead from venturing into his planned path, which followed the river and crossed many such tributaries.

Palanor had stripped off his jerkin and tucked it into one of the rolls of sheepskin to keep it dry for when the rains stopped, no point in it getting wet. His moccasin boots were now caked in rich red mud, which was also spattered up his trousers in flecks from his loping pace. He had been running a good few hours now, making what he hoped was good progress in pursuit of Ashath and the Pale Man. But the route was becoming less familiar the further he got from the Village. Although he knew much of the tribe’s territory, like most of his fellow clan-brothers and sisters, he still spent most of his time close to the village.

The heavy rain continued as he now walked on. His brisk pace carrying him with urgency along the narrow trails that were overgrown due to being hardly used. He picked his way across stepping stones about which lapped the freshly filled waters of the streams and becks of the plains. The water churned to a muddy red with the silt and dust that had been washed into the waterways by the sudden storm.

Palanor kept a mental note of the bright flashes of skyfire in the heavens above him and the timings of the rumbles of thunder which always followed. He knew that when there was little to no gap between flash and the great rumbling noise, when it shook the sky and he felt it in his guts, then the storm was directly overhead. That was when he was most at risk of the skyfire, which was known to be able to split a tree with a single strike, sending large splinters out with explosive force in all directions, peppering anything unlucky enough to be stood nearby.

Despite this he kept pushing on, occasionally slipping, arms flailing, using his spear to steady himself before carrying on. There were sections of path on which he could still run with confidence and so he ran where he could, slowing only to cross streams which got deeper and wider as time went on or to cross sections of marsh and bog that had become semi-submerged.

He continued like this for hours, his limbs unfazed by the arduous nature of his task, hardened and accustomed to it in fact by his regular hunts, patrols, and practice with the other warriors back home. He kept picturing Ashath in his mind’s eye. Not the Ashath who had stood before him and held his gaze with those beautiful wide eyes of hers. It was not her naked form that he pictured, but rather a memory from a few years ago, some brief snippet of a meadow on the hillside in the village, her head thrown back in laughter. To see that once more was all he desired.

On he plunged, through thick overgrowth now, the forestry that clung to the river valley was all but wild here, grazed only by rabbit, deer, and elk. The undergrowth was higher, and the branches above seemed to crowd out the sky more than those back near the village. More than once he saw flashes of white rumps disappearing into the thickets and bushes as he marched through a glade, scattering the deer. He stopped for the first time since setting off when he heard the distant howls of wolves, or perhaps coyotes out on plains to his north. They would not bother him, he told himself, gripping his spear in comfort, right hand checking that sword, knife, and throwing stick were still where he left them.

Now he had to stop more frequently as his limbs began to tire, he could tell that the sun had once again risen, but the thick clouds still cast an odd, filtered twilight all about him. The winds had picked up along with the pounding rain, thick droplets almost drowning out the thunder such was the sound as they drummed on leaf, branch, and head alike. The various tributaries that flowed into the Great Eastern River were now bursting at their banks. Even the smaller streams; the ghylls and becks, had become torrents frothing with filthy water, flowing unchecked across broad glades of sodden grass, or swilling around the bases of trees. Branches swayed overhead, creaking and cracking, threatening to come down with the strain. The trees themselves groaning against the might of the storm which raged all around.

Everything was wet. Sodden. His trousers and moccasin boots clung to him and chafed sorely now about his thighs and groin as he moved. The carry sack slung across his back was heavy with water, contents as wet as if Palanor had dipped it in the river. Even the sheepskins, with their waterproof coating of scented tallow, hung heavy, the strap which held them and looped over his shoulder dug into the red raw flesh, rubbing it away with each shift in movement.

Bu Palanor ignored the discomfort, ignored the ache in his calves and the chafing on his legs. He ignored the tiredness he felt and stifled the yawns that came over him, pushing himself onward. He had to continue if he were to catch them soon. It was still the early hours of the morning, and they must have stopped off to shelter out of the storm. But he was also driven by concern. Ashath would be soaking wet herself, he imagined her crouching, shivering as the cloaked Pale Man looked on without pity.  

This thought spurred him on, he jogged through a submerged clearing of grass, water splashing up as he waded through, he leaned on his spear like a walking staff, feeling ahead for dips or deeper sections.

There was a flash and for the briefest of moments he could not see anything. Then immediately the rumble. The storm crackled above him, as if the sky spirits were trying to tear the very heavens open. A sound almost like a giant cave lion roaring right in his ear, deep and savage in tone.

The storm was directly over him now.

Ahead and to the north was a hillier area, the river having cut its way through the high fells that made up the edge of the Tribe’s territory. Places of rocky crags and heather moors, where no trees grew and the snows lay thick in the winter time.

Palanor continued, spots danced before his eyes from the flash.

At last he came to a broad tributary that flowed off the upland heaths. The previous day it had most likely been a gentle trickle of a stream, and the stepping stones that crossed it would have seemed unnecessary to a passer-by. But now the tops of the stones were nowhere to be seen and the steep bank which normally would have hemmed in the rushing beck was almost overflowing by the time Palanor reached it in the early hours of the morning.

The small river must have been a good ten strides across in width, and who knew what depth it was at now. Palanor could see slick boulders on both banks, and the water frothed and broke, cascading over what must be other submerged rocks. If he slipped and fell here, he would be swept into the river and most likely dashed against a tree or a boulder, putting an end to any planned heroic returns.

Palanor wander a short distance up and down the tributary, trying to assess a good place to cross. He could of course detour up stream until it narrowed, making it easier to cross, but judging from it’s size this would be miles away, possibly across the plains and up into the high fells.

No. He would have to cross here. He would do it carefully he reasoned, he had his spear which he could brace against, and he had spied boulders and what he thought were stepping stones across, so long as he took it slow he would manage. He tucked his knife and throwing stick into his sack as best he could, checked his sword was firmly attached to his belt and then proceeded to cross.

He slid his right foot down the muddy bank, half slipping as he went, lowering both legs into the clouded water.

By the Dead it was cold! He’d been soaked through for hours but clearly the running had kept him warm, the water here on the other hand chilled him.

Setting his teeth against the cold he lowered the rest of his body in until the water came up to his hips. He dug the butt of his spear into the downstream bed of the watercourse, bracing up against it as the water tried to pick him up and carry him off. He spread his feet wide, slipping on uneven stones that lined the riverbed and shifted as he trod upon them. He began to make his way out, across the fast flowing tributary, eyes fixed on the swirling patterns of water ahead of him, trying to gauge what lay beneath the murky surface.

He cleared the first few strides with only a minor slip of one foot, which made him dip down up to his chest before he regained his wide, stable stance. Pretty much everything was wet already so no need to complicate things by trying to stay dry, he thought to himself through shuddering breaths.

The cold clutched at his lungs the way the water plucked at his ankles.

He staggered forward a few more paces, nearing a point in the river where the water rose up and over the rounded point of a submerged boulder.

He moved his spear, hoping to plant it firmly to the side of him but as he replaced it, the stones of the riverbed gave way and he tumbled over.

His left hand shot out as he slipped and he grabbed the top of the boulder, grip firm as the cold water flowed over his hand and arm, spraying him as his body was dragged along. He dug his spear into the ground once more, using it to propel him closer to the boulder and allowed him to hug it with his left arm, his head and face now submerged.

Nothing he could do but go for it now.

He pushed off the boulder and swam for the bank. The current swept him along as he battled with the water. He kicked and splashed with all his might as the far bank began to whizz past him. He turned his head to see where the tributary joined the river and only just managed to brace before he was slammed into a large log, wedged across a number of rocks.

Palanor clung to the great bough of dead wood as he gasped for air. He sucked in mostly water, coughing and spluttering, but he took another ragged breath. He still had his spear, just about. He managed to turn and throw his right arm up through the air, casting the spear onto the bank of the far side. It slithered down the slope and for a moment Palanor watched on in worry but it came to halt of its own accord, safe above the lapping waters which would have whisked it away for good.

He was still in danger though. Arms above his head, clinging to the large tree trunk which was wedged in the torrent, Palanor was in danger of being sucked under by the force of the water and the trapped with the log on top of him. He began to pull himself toward the not-so-far bank where his spear lay. One hand at a time, he inched his way along the thick barrel of a trunk. Legs scrabbling for purchase in the depths below, he finally felt solid ground beneath his submerged feet. He half pulled, half waded ashore, collapsing in a heap beside his spear. He shivered at the shock of the early morning air on his wet skin and clothes, everywhere stung and tingled, nerve endings overloaded with renewed sensation. How he had complained at the sweaty heat of the previous days! He longed to feel that warmth again. He lay there, half caked in mud, panting.

After what felt like an age he turned over onto his front and brought his knees up under him, shakily standing on the steep bank, one hand grasping at the earth for stability. His clothes dripped where they weren’t covered in mud, as did his sack and the sheepskin rolls, but everything was still there. He bent down, numb fingers plucking at his spear.

As he raised his head he froze. About four or five paces away, hidden at first by the odd, dappled twilight of the woods, stood a large brown bear. Thick shaggy fur ran with little rivulets of rain, forming droplets on the underside of the great beast’s belly and throat. Its eyes, black as cold coals stared over at him unblinking as it’s nose sniffed at the damp air. Its forepaws rested on something that could have been a carcass but Palanor could not make it out in the shadow of the bear. It shifted its weight slightly as it observed him, something gave way with a crunch under one great paw, the bear remained unfazed, it’s body matching Palanor’s for stillness.

Well shit. This was bad, he thought.

Palanor had encountered bears before of course. Normally in the moons of autumn when the salmon ran up river and all the people and beasts of the land fished for them. But back then you just had to keep your distance and stay together. Here he was alone and had stumbled right into it’s midst whilst it was having an early morning meal! Add to that the fact he’d nearly drowned and had the wind knocked out of him not two minutes ago, he was in no shape to fight or run.

No way back, he continued to muse, barely daring to think, eyes locked on the bear’s, hair trigger reflexes tense and ready. He had his spear and his sword was by his side. But all it need do was swipe him once and he’d be back in the river. Probably with his head half hanging off to boot.

With infinitely slow movements he curled his hands firmly about his spear. The bear suddenly snorted, before pounding the ground with its paws, its sleek fur rippling as it charged.

Chapter Text

The bear closed the distance with incredible speed. Despite it’s size and bulk, it’s charge was faster than a man’s sprint.

With powerful legs pounding the ground, Palanor not only saw it, but also felt it move.

He dived to one side, partly rolling away onto his back before springing up, adrenalin coursing through him. He let out a yell. Not the challenging roar he had intended, but noise all the same. The bear had tumbled down the bank and had slammed into the tree, loosening it from the rocks. The great mass of wood shifted, the current once more taking it as the bear shook itself and began to bark and chuff, snarling at Palanor as he backed off behind a large tree, spear clamped in his fists.

Palanor’s heart was pounding in his chest, blood seemed to thump in his ears, it almost drowned out the snarls of the bear. He matched its snarls, shouting through gritted teeth, jabbing his spear with forceful thrusts. He forced himself to uncurl from the fighting crouch he held and stand tall, holding his spear overhead in two hands as he yelled over and over in short bursts.

“YAAH! YAAAH!”

The bear reared up on hind legs, dwarfing Palanor in height and mass. It was an immense pillar of fur, broader than a tree. It crashed back down onto it’s forepaws, its barking snarls also short and snappy.

Palanor was backing off as quickly as he could without inviting another charge. It seemed more hesitant now. His eyes never left the beast as he shuffled further and further away, the bear following from a distance at a menacingly slow pace. Pushing through the undergrowth it was a brown-black glacier steadily carving its way through mountains of greenery.

Palanor’s mind raced for some magic that may help him, at his level of sorcery he could control light and shadow to a degree, and had mastered fire some years back. But summoning such magic was risky, he might defeat the bear and draw something even worse straight to him.

He had a thought. With one hand he reached round to his sack, he wormed his hand into the draw-string opening and grasped for the meat twists he had packed.

He pulled a handful out, soggy but serviceable. He threw them as far as he could over to the bear. They fell short, but the bear seemed to pause, nose snuffling away at the scent on the breeze.

Palanor continued to back away into the now quiet woods, getting further from the stream and the bear, which nosed the strips of dried meat.

The storm still rumbled on in the far distance but it had passed over now and was south of the river, taking much of the rain with it.

The wind shifted and at the same time, the carcass the bear had been eating before Palanor had arrived, suddenly moved.

The bear turned and eyed the shadows.

Palanor flinched as a long dark shape shot out of the shadowy depths near to the carcass and struck the bear in the side. He suddenly smelt the familiar tang of hot metal, and felt his stomach begin to churn with nausea. The long dark shape darted back into the undergrowth as the bear collapsed, a weak moan issuing from it’s lips as it died from the attack.

For a moment everything was still.

Then the carcass of the bear seemed to shift, as if it were being dragged by an invisible hand over to the carcass of the elk or deer that the bear had originally been feasting on.

Palanor put on his mask. It severely limited his vision in such lighting but with the storm clouds passing on he could make out shapes in the dappled undergrowth. His old training came to the fore.

Now that the bear was dead, and he was facing something magical, he felt far more comfortable, despite that it was probably far more dangerous than the bear had been. He still wore the circlets of poppies, battered by his river crossing, but they still clung damp and bedraggled in a complete ring about his neck.

That was probably why whatever it was hadn’t moved to attack him. It didn’t know quite where he was; the circlet of flowers was hiding his presence.

Palanor was sorely tempted to back away and continue on, despite needing to rest. But he planned to come back this way with Ashath, staying close to the river to avoid such encounters. Even with the rain and the swollen streams, some kind of Kindred was lurking in the woods feeding on slaughtered animals.

The bodies of the two large animals continued to shift occasionally, jerking about as if an invisible beast was feeding on them.

Palanor crouched for a while in silence, thinking on what to do.

He reached round and withdrew his throwing stick. He hefted it in one hand, testing the balance, re-familiarising himself with it’s weight and feel. He checked above his head to ensure he wouldn’t catch any low hanging branches and foul his throw. That was the last thing he needed.

He paused again, realising the light was gradually increasing in the dank woodland, and that if he waited long enough, he might have direct sunlight. In combination with fast flowing water nearby he was certain he could best whatever Kindred being lurked in the shadows.

But then that would allow Ashath and the Pale Man to gain even more distance from him.

Sod it.

He threw the throwing stick, aiming for one of the trees halfway between him and the unknown kindred being.

It flew straight, spinning about itself quietly before clattering into the trunk of a tree. As it fell to the ground the dark limb shot forward once more, spearing the throwing stick as it fell. Palanor clearly saw it splatter mud upon the trunk of the tree, the great long limb snaking back through the grass left a slick dirt trail in it’s wake.

It was an elemental. A kindred being that took the form of something from nature, normally relating partly to its nature and partly acting as a disguise. There were many different kinds. Dryad-weirds stalked through woods in the dead of winter when the trees slept, their bodies built of deadwood branches, whilst Sand-swimmers were said to skim over the lands of the deserts to the west, Spirit-walkers took the form of piles of stone and rock.

This however, was none of those. This was an elemental of mud.

A Ferenk.

Palanor had heard of this particular type of Kindred but had not encountered one before. He would need to be cautious, as he had heard Ferenk were troublesome, able to move through the ground beneath one’s feet, attacking from below.

This one seemed content with it’s meal, consuming the carcasses of the bear and whatever else it had dragged under the bushes.

Perhaps he could lead Ashath in land on the return trip, avoiding this place, with the rivers and streams high, it would not be leaving this area anytime soon. He turned his head to look behind him, to pick his way onward. As he did so he shifted his bodyweight, snapping the damp twigs under his soaking moccasin boots.

He realised he’d made a mistake glancing down at the twigs, some distance voice in his head shouted at him to duck and roll, some sixth sense.

He tumbled onto his back as the long limb of mud shot over him, had he stayed crouched where he had been it would have hit him in the head. He scrabbled back, kicking at undergrowth, desperately grasping for his sword hilt whilst trying to keep the spear pointing toward the Ferenk.

He saw it then, it rose as a mound of slick earth, seeming to gather and pull itself inwards to increase it’s size, drawing mud upwards onto the growing heap of mire.

A pitch-black mouth, darker even than the twilight shadows of the forest around them appeared. A yawning void in which a silver tongue peaked out - a thin thorn which flashed like skyfire in the light.

It knew his presence now.

He managed to discard his carry sack and bedrolls before rolling backward over his own shoulder into a crouched fighting stance, spear thrust forward. He reached one handed down to his waist and drew his leaf-shaped bronze sword, a burnished, earthy counterpart to the sliver tongue of the Kindred which he now stood before. With ivory spear in his left hand out thrust, and his short sword in his right he was as ready as he could be.

The Ferenk seemed to wobble before it began to move. It was far from slow but it seemed almost to dive beneath the earth, as if it were a fish capable of diving beneath the surface of a lake. The ground seemed to bulge and rise, just as water did right before a large fish came up to the surface to leap and catch an insect floating above.

Palanor could sense it’s presence, the nausea and the oh-so-familiar tang of blood or hot metal, still gave it away. His finely tuned senses able to almost ‘feel’ where it was in relation to him, as if his churning gut was twisted or pulled in it’s direction.

Still, it had the advantage of being able to travel through the ground beneath his very feet!

Palanor leapt over it as it came rushing toward him, his body contorted with the effort of clearing the great bulging mound of mud whilst also single-handedly thrusting down at it with his ivory spear for the bespelled blow.

But the bleached bone point did not pierce the mud as it had the Hish and many other Kindred before that. It skittered over the claggy soil that served as the Ferenk’s skin, small sparks dancing from the strike.

He turned as he landed, once again keeping his weapons before him, aimed at his opponent.

The Ferenk did not turn immediately. The mound of sludge slowing, before it simply reversed it’s direction, coming once again head on at him through the undergrowth, the bulge of it’s bulk appearing to lower in to the earth as it dived once more.

This time when Palanor leapt, he kicked off a tree trunk mid-air, changing direction. Once again he attempted a valiant thrust at the ground below as it rose up where he had been standing mere moments before. Once again the ivory point glanced off as if the kindred being was made of stone rather than silt and mud, the same gentle sparks came forth as the point skimmed it’s magical hide.

Palanor hit the ground running, knowing in his gut that it had already turned to pursue him when he was in the air. He sidestepped round trees, zig-zagging his way through the forest in an attempt to avoid that long, darting limb of mud.

With his mask on he could hardly see in front of him let alone glance behind. His shoulder blades itched, almost anticipating that silver tongue punching through them and he would fall with it piercing his chest.

It came up from under him, quicker than he could react to, throwing him over, to land in a heap, half dazed.

His sword and spear left his hands as he tumbled, and his mask came loose, bronze lining peeling away from his damp face.

He realised, rather calmly, that he was going to die. His only regret was failing miserably to reach Ashath, but she would want him to face his fate with honour, to die as a warrior.

The Ferenk drew itself up once more, attempting to tower over him with its black maw of a mouth gaping wide in a sloppy smile. He managed to raise himself up to face it.

He could see the silver tongue dancing back and forth, worming it’s way forward as if it were a serpent emerging from a long cave.

Palanor drew in a deep breath.

As the tongue reared for it’s killing strike he bellowed the spell of fire and flame, spitting forth the words and summoning all his will, all his desire and drive to live, to survive this battle and bring back Ashath. A great gout of flame spewed from his lips, his breath fuelling the conflagration that illuminated the surrounding woodland as if the midday sun were shining.

The Ferenk caught the blast of fire head on, so that the mud about it’s black mouth was burnt to a similar colour. It seemed to almost jump back, if a mound of mud and much could do that, before diving deep underground, travelling far enough away that the stench of magic, and the accompanying nausea left Palanor.

Almost all Kindred were stopped by running water, but many were also harmed by fire, although it was known that fire was more of a defence against the dead. Palanor was lucky he had mastered the spells of ember and flame, for even with his proficiency the words - rather than the flames themselves – had burnt his throat, and blistered his lips.

He lay there for a moment, cool droplets of water dripped down from the branches above. He could make out the pale sky of the new day, judging it to still be the earliest hours of the morning. He was now exhausted and could happily have slept in the wet forest. But as always, thoughts of Ashath in the hands of her mysterious captor urged him on.

He sat up.

Across the small clearing which had now been somewhat torn up from the skirmish with the Ferenk, stood the silhouette of a huge wolf. It’s fur was black as coals, shaggy and wild. It must have stood taller than the bear even, a giant dire beast. It’s eyes seemed to flash as it padded slowly forward with a casual swagger, it knew there was no rush required.

It's great jaws which could have easily fit most of Palanor’s upper body in them opened to reveal a red tongue that hungrily licked at its lips, and long white teeth, each the size of dagger.

Palanor could do nothing.

His throat could not produce the same magic, he could barely utter anything, let alone conjure up the will to do so once more. He was done. He would look his Dh’uume in the eye.

The great wolf stood before him, looking down its snout at his face as he merely stared back, chin thrust forward, exposing his neck for the killing blow. Out of instinct he licked his blistered lips with a wince.

The wolf seemed to toss its head.

“That looks sore,” it said with a gruff, but distinctly female voice.

Chapter Text

Palanor awoke. Groggy with fatigue he sat up and surveyed his surroundings, scratching at his beard. The sun shone through the boughs above him, and he didn’t need to measure with his hands it’s height to know that it was midday or there abouts. He had slept for a good few hours since….

Across the little clearing he had bedded down in lay the wolf-being. He had for a brief moment forgotten it. Perhaps believing it to be a delirious dream brought about by his exhaustion.

Clearly not.

It (or was it she?) barely moved, except for the gentle rise and fall of (her…it’s?) back in time with near silent breaths.

The wolf raised it’s head off it’s front paws, blinking and staring over at Palanor.

“Good, you’re finally awake.” Again, that distinctly female voice uttered from the savage jaws. Clearly this was some sort of Kindred in the guise of a ferocious, giant wolf.

And yet… she hadn’t killed him whilst he slept, was this some sort of game, was he a play thing for this Kindred to rip apart slowly perhaps?

The wolf shook itself, droplets forming a gentle cloud about it for a moment as it rose to its full height.

“I don’t really play with my food. So don’t worry about that.” The wolf spoke once more with an unimpressed, almost hurt tone.

So she has already penetrated my mind, Palanor mused, she can tell…

“…What you’re thinking? Yes. Well, sort of.” She, definitely she stood there motionless, surveying the bedraggled young man who lay before her.

His red hair and beard now tangled with moss and dirt. Pale skin, pink and raw from the effort of the last night, his damp clothes hanging on branches where the sun would get to them. His lips were scabbed from the spell he had wrought upon the Ferenk. Yes. He didn’t look much right now but he had the power, and something even more valuable. He was the one for the task.

Palanor observed the wolf as she observed him. He noted that she had definitely seemed bigger in last night, in the early hours of twilight, perhaps a trick of his mind or she had quite literally changed sizes. He felt very little magical presence, as if she were a normal wolf, or incredibly large dog, perhaps the faintest taint on the wind sometimes but barely perceptible to his refined senses. That meant she was suppressing her own presence, hiding from others sensitive to the Kindred and magic. Only very powerful beings were capable of such a feat, Palanor recalled his lessons from Mala before his death.

“Be wary of all Kindred and the Dead Pala,” The old shaman shifted in his litter, his words as weak as his rumbling breaths.

“But Old One, it is my duty to hunt them, trap them…”

“Yes…Yes, but our lands,” – Mala coughed several times before continuing, - “Our lands have not seen those of great power in centuries.”

“You speak of the dragons Old One.”

“Not all the great Kindred take such a form, but that is one they seem to favour, the great winged wyrms -” another coughing fit ensued.

“- But also the Greater Dead, thank the Sun that all those of the allied tribes take care to lay their own to proper rest, as you will soon do for me.”

The old man’s eyes were beginning to glaze over, staring out the door of the medicine hut, at the day outside.

“Pala.”

“Yes, Old One?”

“Be wary of those of the great powers, for you are no match for them. Even though they may seem weak, perhaps not even Kindred or Dead, they know much of the secrets of the world.”

So this was one of the Greater Kindred, and it seemed to be trying to ensnare him in some sort of trick or trap, to enslave him somehow and take his power.

“I mean you no harm, Palanor.” The wolf interrupted his thoughts.

“You are a Kindred.” He stated it as fact.

“Yes. I am.” The wolf seemed to do a strange motion that could have been the canine equivalent of a shrug.

“What do you want with me?” There must be a reason for not having killed him.

The wolf stared once again, eyes piercing him with the pensive gaze of a predator, pausing before giving her answer.

“I believe we could assist one another.”

Palanor narrowed his eyes, scoffing internally at the suggestion.

The wolf continued, “Yes, it’s hard to believe it but I really do think we could come to help one another. I have a task that only specific people could achieve. You are one of those people. In return I would assist you in your task. Fair?”

The wolf cocked her head slightly, awaiting a response.

Palanor frowned, drawing his russet brows together.

“The Kindred tell all sorts of lies to trick their prey. I may not see the trap, but I know there is one. Either kill me or let me be on my way, I shall not serve you.”

The wolf rolled her eyes, tossing her head and up as she muttered something Palanor couldn’t hear.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Go on then, get your things and leave,” The wolf turned her back to him, sitting her hind quarters down in a huff, “But you won’t catch up to them now.” She spoke looking over one shoulder so that one eye fixed on him.

“It has only been a few hours, I can easily run now until the sun sets once again.”

“It hasn’t.” The wolf looked away once more, it were as if a child were having a tantrum almost, trying to ignore their parent whilst still engaging them.

Palanor was busy pulling his now dry jerkin back on when he let curiosity get the better of him.

“Hasn’t what?” He asked as he hurriedly rolled the sheepskins he had been lying on and under during his nap.

“It hasn’t ‘been a few hours’, you slept for a full day. Longer in fact.”

She allowed herself a satisfied smirk with her head turned away, knowing that this was how she would sway him. Sometimes it was too easy with these humans, lucky for him she wasn’t bent on enslaving him and using him as some sort of thrall, but he didn’t need to believe that just yet.

Palanor stopped.

It couldn’t have been a full day. Surely not. It did explain why his clothes were now dry though. But that would put Ashath well into the wildlands, possibly even into the territory of the next tribe over! His mind began to race, trying to work out his next step. He was interrupted once again by the damnable Kindred wolf.

“You don’t need to catch up to them…” She almost sang it, as a mother would do to a child who hadn’t realised something obvious, “…because I know where they are going.”

The bait. He was stubborn this one, but she could feel him already debating with himself the merits of perhaps going along with it, but not trusting her. That suited her down to the ground, she knew most of his thoughts anyway, there was no risk of betrayal.

“You would tell me where they are going, in return I would assist you in some task that, apparently, you can not do yourself?” Palanor was incredulous.

He stared at the wolf’s furry back, eager now for more information. Although she was unlikely to divulge anything unwittingly, it was worth a try.

“Clearly you’re not a stupid as you look.” A one sided grin met him this time, long white fangs set together as she considered him with her other eye over her shoulder.

“We shall work together, and once you have completed my task, I shall tell you where to find Ashath, agreed?”

Palanor once again eyed her with suspicion, there was no magic here, no binding oath that he could sense. If she really wanted him dead, he’d be standing in the river now rather than this dappled glade.

“What is it you want me to do?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, do you agree or not?”

“I will not trick others into your service, or free other Kindred for you.”

“Good, I don’t want either of those things.”

Palanor knew he should just go, make a start now and leave this strange wolf-thing behind. But she was right, he wouldn’t catch up to them now, and they might have changed direction at any point. Or made use of the river via boat or who knows what. What choice did he really have?

“I will follow you for now, wherever it is we need to go, but I will decide whether or not I do this task when you decide to tell me what it is.”

“Good enough for me.” The wolf leapt up from her apparent sulk, tail now wagging, tongue lolling to one side in excitement. She stood as tall as him, eyes level.

“Of course, you have been somewhat rude. You haven’t once asked me my name.”

Palanor blinked, then shook his head. What would his ancestors think fraternising with some greater Kindred? He trusted her about as far as he could throw her, which given she was still the size of a bear, was not far at all.

“What is your name?” he said in a half frustrated, half petulant manner.

“I am Kibeth, Third of Seven, pleased to meet you.”

“Kibeth...” He mused over it, “I didn’t realise you have names, well normal names, not the secret names which when whispered correctly summon you, is what I meant.”

“Well, we have names, normal names, and mine is Kibeth and you won’t be able to use it in any way unless I wish it, in case you were just now thinking about it! Honestly, you humans!” Her voice rang with indignation.

Palanor’s cheeks reddened, knowing that he had just been thinking of ways to utilise her name. Those Shamans who sought power for themselves were said to be able to control Kindred through knowledge of their name, able to summon them at will or force them to do the Shaman’s bidding. The Tribes allied to Palanor’s, those from the coasts of the Eastern Sea, right up the river into the high places and beyond did not practice such arts. But word travelled amongst the tribes via the traders and travellers of such shamans who abandoned their tribes, seeking out power for themselves. It is said that theses scattered sorcerers wander the wilderness in search of secrets to gain ever more power.

He finished gathering his things. Kibeth still stood in the glade, she made a gesture with her head.

“What? Are we going?”

“And your name is?” She cocked her head in expectation.

He was confused.

“You know my name; you can read my thoughts.”

“Yes, but is this not the custom? We exchange names and heritage no?” She blinked, one eye at a time, patiently waiting.

“I am Palanor, as you well know, Son of Iscar, born out of Hilti, Warrior and Hunter of my Tribe.”

“Good. Now, we need food. Our destination lies to the north west, over the high places and beyond. You are sorely ill-prepared for such a journey.”

“I was only expecting to be away a few days…” Palanor began, defensive of the mild implication of his inadequacies and ill-preparedness.

“We will hunt and gather food for the first part of our journey as you have none. I take it you can hunt with that.” She gestured her head at Palanor’s ivory spear.

“This is a battle-spear, not a hunting spear. It is not balanced right. Wait, I do have some…” He rifled through his pack, but his fingers could not find the remaining strips of dried meat and the plums he had packed.

Kibeth seemed suddenly embarrassed, dipping her head low, eyeing him through her brows like a naughty puppy, caught in the act.

“You don’t have any food left…I ate the last of it whilst you slept.”

Palanor sighed, his own stomach was beginning to grumble.

“I had a throwing stick…”

Kibeth nudged something out of the grass, picking it up with her teeth, “Nisss hnng?”

She padded over to him and dropped the throwing stick at his feet.

Palanor picked it up, somewhat slimy with drool, the wood pocked with teeth marks.

“I can take birds, rabbits, other small game with this, will that do?”

Kibeth licked her lips, but they twisted into an odd, dog version of a pout as she thought.

“We’ll need something bigger. You’ve hunted with dogs in your tribe, we shall do the same.”

Kibeth padded off through the undergrowth, her black fur rippling over her rangy shoulders. Palanor followed on, satisfied he had everything he needed, he now had to go along with this Kibeth being, until he could get away and find Ashath or he do her bidding and finds out where she and this Pale Man are heading.

Chapter Text

The stars were out in the night sky above, specks of bright light scattered across the velvet heavens. Dark clouds fringed the jagged horizon, hiding the mountains to the north and west, sweeping round the edges of the great, rolling plains.

Palanor lay looking up, tucked into the sheepskin bedroll, along with a few other hides he and Kibeth had collected on the way through the wildlands the last handful of days. He was grateful for the additional warmth of the furs now as they had climbed higher up onto the moors of heather and bracken and even in the summer months it was cool in the evenings. Even more so as the nights were already beginning to lengthen, slow and steady the sun would sink ever further to the west each dusk. In time, as the year went on it would set first in the west, then eventually it would move far to the south, for the long-night of midwinter. But that was many moons away yet, and Palanor hoped to be reunited with Ashath by then, having returned or, at least be returning to their homeland.

He had banked the small fire some time ago, shifting sand and peaty earth over the coals and embers to keep them smouldering till dawn. In the summer months however the peat itself could catch alight, so he had been careful in lining the fire scrape with shingles of the green slate found in these particular hills and had dampened it enough with water from a ghyll nearby.

He looked over at the dark silhouette of the wolf which lay curled up on the opposite side of the what had been a small fire. He could hear her slow breaths.

The first night he had slipped away, belly full of fresh venison, and had run for a full day. But she had appeared out of the bushes when he had made his camp to rest, surprising him when he realised that she could cross running water as easily as he could.

Since then, he hadn’t bothered to leave. She had assured him she knew where Ashath was going, and had demonstrated an uncanny tracking ability far beyond that of a normal wolf or dog. Worst case, Palanor thought to himself, she could track her down for him.

Thoughts of Ashath plagued him when they rested. Hunting for food or journeying- rather following Kibeth’s lead -distracted him, but the down time made him sick with longing.

This was the longest they had been apart since they had met. Even worse was that he had never gone so long without at least knowing where she was and how she fared. He missed the others in the Tribe to a lesser degree as well, having never spent a night alone, nor had to completely fend for himself for more than a day at a time, and always within a day’s distance of the village. Now he had to tan his own pelts,  dress and cook his own game, smoke the remaining cuts over a cool pile of embers, all of which was mostly women’s work in the tribe.

As with all children in the Tribe, he had helped his mother with all the various tasks mostly performed by women, as it was essential all knew a little about everything. But as he grew older, he had turned his attention to his duties as a hunter and warrior. In the Tribe, although some men worked hides and smoked meat, and some women ran with the hunters and warriors, the majority still settled into the age old roles.

Palanor hadn’t even thought about it until he’d found himself half remembering how to brain tan deer skin the other day. He recalled that was the quickest way, sometimes taking less than a day to soak before spending hours of finger numbing graft to work the skin until soft and pliable.

Some tribes did things differently, this was well known, and the subject of much discussion when comparing neighbours or more distant allies and trade partners.

Ashath had been headstrong. She hadn’t let her condition affect her one bit. Even when she had been wracked by episodes of illness she eventually overcame it, for a time. Nor had she let anyone dictate how she went about her duties. He smiled with fondness at memories of her stomping round her parents hut after being told off for some minor infraction.

He was brought out of his train of thought by the uncanny feeling of being watched. He glanced over at Kibeth to see a shiny black eye staring back at him.

Neither of them said anything, continuing to instead to appraise one another in an almost stubborn silence.

The wolf turned her head to consider him with both eyes. Palanor shifted over so he could continue to participate in this staring contest without getting a stiff neck, but his resolve began to waver under the penetrating gaze of the strange beast before him. He struggled internally, but the pressure mounted within him.

At last he gave in, but forced himself to sound casual, “What?”

“You do nothing but think of her, mind swirling whenever we stop. You need to rest and focus on the task ahead.”

“I don’t know what the ‘task ahead’ is, you won’t tell me.”

“It is not the right time for that…yet.” The wolf lay her head on her folded forepaws, still looking over at him across the banked fire.

They went back to their uneasy silence for a while.

Palanor could not rest. So much had happened in such a short time he felt lost. Cast adrift and caught up in the current of a strong river that was carrying him to an unknown place.

“Tell me something else then.” He paused, before continuing, “Why me?”

Kibeth looked out at the surrounding heather and grass, gazing off into the distance whilst she considered her answer.

“There are things about you which make you suitable.”

“My abilities as a sorcerer or warrior?”

Kibeth seemed to tip her head from side to side, “Yes, amongst other qualities, some which have not yet emerged fully within you yet.”

“My bloody-fury?”

The wolf turned her head back to him.

“That is yet to be seen. It could be a hindrance or a help to my task.” A pause, “Can you control it?”

“To a degree.” Palanor had only really experienced it a handful of times in his life. The loss of control, the lack of memory of what had happened, confronted with accounts of great feats of berserk strength, often accompanied by violence. It greatly magnified one’s strength of will, a boon to any sorcerer or shaman dealing with Kindred. But it could also rise within when around loved ones, allies, clan-brothers and sisters, all over the slightest anger.

The outburst on Midsummer had been the first time in years that he had lost control. Once the one with the fury lost control, gave in to that feeling more often, it became a spiral. Great warriors who were feared on the battlefield by man and spirit alike would end up rabid beasts, put down for the good of the tribe. Palanor had been given some training, but even so the fury was always there, lying beneath the surface.

Ashath had helped. She had tamed it, that beast within his blood, to a degree anyhow.

“A level heart is required as much as a level head for my task.” She knew the risks, but she had little choice in the matter, He had made his move and she had to work with what she had, which was this young pup of a warrior-sorcerer.

“You have mastered spell-fire, what else?”

Palanor gazed up at the night sky above.

“Shadow and light, the most basic tricks of any shaman of course. The bending of wills, although we only really use that on Kindred, spirits, men and animals are different, and it is forbidden.”

Kibeth interrupted, “Does the shaman not send the tribes spirits onward into Death?”

“Yes, our current Shaman, Vel, does send them on, but that is different, we don’t bring them back… except for guidance, knowledge, advice. I do not know much of this art.”

“No, you don’t seem to have the death sense, but it can be learned by one with magic...” She left that statement hanging, not explaining, as usual for her.

“I have a great knowledge on the various protections and counters to the Kindred, the various ways of protecting oneself from their corrosive nature, hiding from them, trapping and hindering them with various spells…” He paused, a new thought occurred to him, “But do you not know this already? I thought you could see into my thoughts?”

Kibeth shrugged, “It’s nice to have a conversation instead. If I just pierced your mind, we wouldn’t get to know one another.”

“Are you alone?” Palanor asked, speaking on a whim. The question hung in the air between them. He knew that She knew what he meant, did she have a partner like he did, did she have a companion?

“No. I am Third of Seven.” Kibeth replied, once again failing to explain further.

But Palanor was curious, the last few days he had almost forgotten she was Kindred, except for the fact she could talk, knew his thoughts, and was the size of a bear. But other than that when they had hunted together, he found himself letting his guard down, only to remember that this was a being of immense power, with little to no concern for him or his tribe, and was most likely attempting to lure him into some sort of enslavement.

“Yes, you keep saying that but Seven what? Wolves? Is there a Kindred pack out there somewhere?”

“Of a kind, I suppose you could say I have seven sisters.”

This came as a surprise to Palanor. He didn’t know the Kindred had families, like people.

“We don’t.” She responded immediately to his thoughts. “Not like that anyway, we are not born like you are, we are…different. But I have six sisters. We are bound together through fate…and our cause.”

Palanor tried to question her further for some time, but she would not elaborate further on what she had said, continuing her frustrating tactic of giving none answers or talking round a question, or in most cases just ignoring him completely.

Eventually he turned away from her, contemplating what little information he had gleamed from their odd conversations. Mala had been right, you can never trust a Kindred. They might be full of secrets and knowledge, but they were a slippery as a fish, that much was for certain. She kept making veiled references to things about him or about this ‘task’ she had, but he couldn’t grasp what she was inferring. But there was definitely more to this than he knew so far, something deeper, something…greater.

He settled eventually, exhaustion catching up on him and giving him a few hours much needed rest.

The sun was rising when he awoke. An orange hue in the North, pink and yellow tones in bands further out, blending into one another, the blue to the south already paling as the light rose about the world.

He packed with speed, rolling his furs up and bundling them together before re-awakening the fire for a short breakfast – a clutch of three birds eggs he had snatched from a ground nest he had stumbled upon amongst the heather the previous day.

Kibeth padded over as he took infinite care to pierce a small hole in the delicate shell before placing them in a bundle of moss to steam over the embers.

“They will be done in a few minutes.” He muttered over his shoulder, still tired and not yet fully awake.

“You have them, you will need the energy. I will have less of the smoked meat as well, at least until we cross the mountains.”

This was something of a shock to Palanor, who so far had observed Kibeth’s gluttony at every opportunity, from stealing his remaining food when they had first met, to almost constantly begging for his share of the evening meal. Perhaps the dog form also came with certain dog behaviours.

“I don’t beg for your half at all!” She exclaimed, voice full of indignation at the mere suggestion.

He seemingly ignored her, his reply in his head, something he had begun to do more and more.

“You said you were full and I could have it! Honestly, you humans, so fickle! Eat up before those eggs explode, there’s a long climb ahead this day.”

And with that she turned north and trotted away, muttering out loud about how restrained she was with her eating.

Palanor shook his head in mild amazement. One moment she was mysterious Kindred being, unknowable in thought or motive, next she was begging for scraps like a real dog, and then another moment she’s joking around pretending she had never behaved like a dog in the first place. He couldn’t read the damn creature.

He plucked the bundle of singed moss off the embers, peeled the little speckled shells from the eggs before downing all three with the same wolfish manner his guide had. Perhaps she was rubbing off on him. He scattered the ashes and covered the scrape before collecting his things and breaking into a gentle run to catch up.

Chapter Text

The climb was hard. Palanor could run for a full day non-stop pretty much, and had the patience and skill to lie in wait for prey for hours at a time in uncomfortable conditions. But the uplands and mountains they had entered now were a true test of physicality. Palanor was used to the rolling plains; areas of grassland, forestry, hills, and moors. The steep slopes of scree and the narrow goat trails that wound their way up amongst the rock crags above were new territory all together.

His legs burned with the effort, brow dripping with sweat. He found himself gasping for breath and wanting to stop to rest his legs as if he were an elder, but he pressed on, blocking out the pain of his thighs and calves. He dug the butt of his spear into the ground and used it to propel him up with each steady step.

Kibeth seemed unfazed by the climb, her large wolf form scrambling up at a comfortable trot, occasionally looking back when panting after a steep section.

The trees had, at first, been confined to the narrow ghylls and gorges of waterways which flowed off the fells, but eventually the pair had climbed high enough that no trees grew at all, and even grass and heather eventually gave way to scree and stone entirely. In the midsummer warmth the rock was exposed but Palanor could guess that by early winter these precarious routes would be filled with snow and ice, only to melt the next spring.

Lower down small song birds had flitted from the heather to snatch at flies that had spawned in the damp peaty ground, but now the only birds were ravens and crows, their raucous caws the only sound on the wind.

Occasionally the paths they took passed over flowing streams, or under short water falls. Here Palanor would stop for brief moments to drink and refill his waterskin, splashing the cool water on his brow.

Palanor watched as Kibeth displayed her changing form, shrinking just enough to fit in a shallow pool that had gathered so as to cool herself off, before climbing back out, growing once more in size and shaking half the contents of the pool over Palanor. The gentle reminders that she was Kindred still unsettled the young warrior.

Then they crested the first peak, or rather, cut through a pass and up onto the shoulder of the nearest peak.

He could see the full range now, stretching away to the north-east and south-west, silhouettes of crags and peaks hazy in the heat of the day extended as far as he could see.

To the north lay a handful of mountains, some jagged, some more rounded, before the land once again dropped down into the high plateaus of heather, then further down into the smaller foothills and at last the low plains.

He could not see all of this of course, but the lack of large rock formations behind the few that stood directly ahead implied that the range was more linear, a long chain of mountains stretched out rather than a great clump.

Below Palanor’s vantage point, in the partial shade cast by a neighbouring summit, lay a small tarn – a body of water nestled high up in the mountains.

“We’ll stay there tonight.” Kibeth had sidled up beside him as he stood to take in the view, tossing her head in the direction of the tarn below, “There might be fish.” She eyed his spear meaningfully.

Palanor looked down at the dark body of water, like a single, odd-shaped, black eye that stared up at the sky. He frowned.

“How would the fish get up there? The streams are too shallow to climb surely?”

Kibeth gave him a funny look.

“Perceptive. Hmm.” She trotted off at her usual pace, leaving his question unanswered, as usual.

He very much doubted there were fish in such a remote place, but if there were, the dead only knew how they got there. She probably doesn’t know herself, he thought wryly, that’s why she didn’t answer. And Mala had said these kindred knew all the secrets of the world!

He shook his head, something he was doing ever more frequently since meeting that damned dog, before following her down the scree slopes which led to the tarn.

Kibeth was proven right. After some time spent wading in the shallows that ringed the small body of water, ivory spear cocked ready, Palanor produce a large fish. It bent itself about the long bone point which had speared it as he hauled it out the water, triumphant.

“Ha! See that? A good thrust!”

He waded back to the stoney shore, careful of the slick shingle beneath his bare feet. He had already slipped once, much to Kibeth’s delight, he wasn’t about to do so again.

He knocked the large, pale fish over the head before setting about emptying it, slitting the shining belly with his stone knife. He chucked the slimy guts over onto a flat rock for Kibeth to wolf down greedily before the small gathering of ravens could get there. She even licked the rocks beneath, much to Palanor’s disgust.

He ran his thumbs down the spine, lifting the ribs out of the flesh, until the entire skeleton, head, and tail could be removed, leaving only a meaty steak with the skin on.

She then guarded the fish steak from the black birds, which fought over the discarded scraps of bone, whilst Palanor rummaged through his carry sack, eventually producing a good armful of split branchlets, and a tinder bundle of dried grasses, buffed into soft fluffy ball.

He laid the wood into a neat pile, alternating the layers so that it stacked up, with a gap for the tinder bundle to be inserted into it. Then he took his fire kit out, the long spindle and hearth block, and set about twirling the stick, drilling down into the hearth block to produce that sacred ember.

After a short while the pair were sat on either side of a crackling fire, small but effective enough to dry out Palanor’s damp clothes from his plunge in the tarn, and also slowly roast the fish which was skewered on a thin branch.

Once the fire had entered its ember stage, when no flame was present, he laid the slab of fish, skin down on top of the coals. The heat was greater now, better for cooking. It was well known that a fire was hottest at its embers – no smith ever cast bronze using flames, only coals that glowed white.

At last, as the small fire began to die, ash choking the small coals that remained, they split the fish in half, as they had done all their other quarries. Kibeth’s half was gone in an instant, Palanor took his time, savouring the hot pink flesh.

As the short night fell, he once again thought of Ashath.

They continued through the mountains, descending down narrow goat trails, before climbing back up and over passes between the towering peaks. Scrambling up scree slopes that fell and slid away with each step, threatening to take the unwary traveller with them. Picking their way along narrow ridges, long drops to either side, hairy goats watching from all around as the strange pair avoided falling to their deaths.

Palanor had been unsettled by the heights at first, having never been higher than halfway up a tall tree, or on the edge of a small crag on the upland moors at the edge of the tribe’s territory. Days into the climb he had gained some confidence on exposed ridges and paths, but he still found himself grateful for the sturdy spear he used to brace himself when crossing such sections. It was immensely useful having it as a walking aid, acting as a third foot or hand sometimes.

His skin had burned without the shade of trees or the shelter of a hut, reddening for a few days when he was tender and sore to the touch, before going a nut brown on his face and exposed upper body when he removed his jerkin in the heat of the day.

They had encountered elementals, beings of stone, with jagged boulders with deep crevices for heads, out of which blazed white spirit-fire as they stalked the grey slopes. Kibeth had assured Palanor that so long as he did not stray far from her they would be left alone. Once again, she displayed subtle powers beyond his ken. He had glanced back after traversing one particular ridge, below which in a great bowl of stone no less than three such elementals had battled with one another, great club like arms smashing each other to shingle and gravel, eyes blazing with hatred. He was sure they had glanced up, but had ignored them. Had Kibeth really masked their presence? Or had they recognised her presence and were afraid of her power?

One night in the mountains, Palanor sighted a dragon. Far off in the distance, low on the horizon where the sky was blood-orange in colour, the faint outline of beating wings and long neck could be seen for some time until it passed out of sight. Kibeth had jested that he stay up on watch for the night, a wolfish grin revealing her massive bright fangs. Palanor had taken her seriously, sitting, spear in hand, eyes watching the starry sky above for sign of a great shadow passing over. It was only when the great hound had awoken had she told him to rest, when he refused she lumbered over and breathed on his face, sending him into a deep sleep.

He was beginning to trust her more and more. Although they did not converse much during the day, due to the effort of the travel over such rough terrain. They did have some sparse conversation in the evening, this was often dampened by the lack of fire, having run out of wood on the first night, and hunger, with supplies of smoked meat now dwindling.

“You eat it, I will forego my meal tonight.” She had announced, reluctantly at the offered hand which held a measly amount of dried meat.

Palanor raised his eyebrows, it was unlike her to refuse food. She politely ignored his thoughts on that.

“Won’t you get hungry and tired?” He had never thought much about kindred needing food.

“Oh no, I don’t need to eat, I just like to. Such an experience, the tast…”

“What do you mean you don’t need to eat? You mean I’ve been on half rations and sharing my catches with you and you don’t even get hungry!” The pitch of his voice rising with incredulity before remembering he was a warrior of his tribe and should conduct himself as one, but he was hungry and she had always greedily gulped down whatever food he had cooked and offered.

“I’m grateful for the food, it is a pleasure to experience as I was saying before you interrupted me.” She paused, “Don’t be like that, there’s still enough to last until tomorrow. Then we can hunt once more and… we can have a feast! Yes, we’ll get a deer once we’re down.”

Palanor remained silent for some time, sore over his unwitting sacrifice of precious food, before he eventually came round to the idea after Kibeth had wheedled and whined much like a real dog that had upset it’s owner.

“Alright, alright, yes a feast sounds good. As soon as we drop down into the foothills though.” His stomach growled at the thought.

The dog had nodded, big eyes illuminated by moon and starlight as she watched him toss and turn before settling down to an uneasy sleep. Dreams of Ashath disturbing him throughout the night.

The final day in the mountains the pair descended quickly, fleet feet now well practiced at picking their way down the paths and trails made by sheep and goats, or skidding down scree slopes and grassy knolls. Once they dropped down to where the grass and heather grew once more they made short work of the remaining descent, easily reaching the lower foothills by midday, the sun almost directly overhead.

The pair collapsed in the dappled shade of a small copse of trees. Their numb feet, or paws for Kibeth, throbbed with a dull ache from the impact of running the final descent.

After what had seemed like an hour had passed, Kibeth got up once more, nosing Palanor up as he groaned with reluctance.

“Come on, time to get some deer!”

Palanor had never heard better sounding words.

Chapter Text

Being back amongst the scattered clumps of trees and open swathes of moors and grassland was a welcome feeling for Palanor. The traverse through the mountains had strengthened him considerably, he felt it now after resting, his legs even harder than before - toughened by the constant climbs.

He was crouched on the edge of a small copse, looking out over the grasses which swayed in the gentle breeze, seed heads waving back and forth. Out in the tall, thick grass, a herd of deer were grazing, ever so slowly picking their way over to another clump of trees, their heads would occasionally lift up to nervously survey the surrounding area, ears swivelling for any hint of a predator, before dipping back down for another mouthful of grass.

Kibeth had gone round, down wind of the small herd, in order to flush them out, driving them toward Palanor and his readied spear.

Palanor had hunted deer many times before back home, the methods varying depending on the time of year, the species of deer being stalked, and whether you were alone or hunting as a group.

Back home, in the height of summer, Palanor would have hunted both alone and with others. As a group there was a certain technique used to bring down many deer at once. First the hunters would go and scout for hinds, yearling females who were nearly grown to full maturity, these could be found in the early morning taking water from pools and streams close to their grazing grounds and on the edges of woodland. The hunters would then chase these on foot, following and pursuing them until they could either be driven toward others waiting with long lassos or began to falter from exhaustion, at which point they would be roped.

The captured hinds were then led using the ropes about their necks to the location of a larger herd, typically one guarded by bucks and stags who vied with each other for the position of paramount mate. Such bucks and stags would be riled up by the sudden appearance of unclaimed young females, often belaying any sense of danger.

The hunters specifically wore shawls or capes of deer skin and sometimes wore headdresses with cut down antlers to confuse the deer and act as a kind of camouflage, their scent hidden by the furs and damp clay or grasses rubbed on their bodies. The hunters in such getup would stay behind the hinds, hunched over in an attempt to appear as part of the group of hinds.

Once either the larger herd had wandered close enough through curiosity or the hunters with their captive hinds had edged within distance, the hunters would strike as one, hurling spear throwers or shooting bows, taking multiple deer in one flurry of activity as the rest of the larger herd took off, leaping and bounding in panic as their companions fell to the stone and bronze tipped points of the cunning hunters.

The carcasses would be field dressed there and then with some haste, to avoid cave lions or wolves from coming upon them, and then were slung over the backs of the captive hinds to be carried back to the village in triumph.

He remembered Ashath’s little face poking out from under the oversized, borrowed headdress, mischievous grin flashing out as she had to hold it up with one hand to stop it tipping forward over her whole face, her other hand holding her atlatl, spear-like dart already knocked and ready to cast.

He blinked and was back in the present, waiting for Kibeth to sneak round and flush them out. Even a kindred of such power as Kibeth possessed couldn’t always sneak up on deer like Palanor imagined. Then again, animals often sensed Kindred long before even shamans and sorcerers felt their presence. The plan was for her to single out a deer and chase it right into Palanor’s waiting spear. It had worked well in the first days of their meeting, before they ascended into the great mountains.

 Now that Palanor had become more accustomed to her presence he often forgot about her magical nature, in the few weeks they had been together he already felt like she was a person, a real person, rather than the mystical beings that were beyond human ken. But she was far removed from the Hish, Margrues, and other elementals that stalked the land.

Then the wind shifted, the gentle breeze now on Palanor’s brow and face.

As soon as the wind changed, the deer raised their heads as one, scenting the great wolf as she stalked through the grass toward them.

For a moment they all stood still, heads all facing away from Palanor, ears flicking round, listening, searching for the predator that crept toward them. Then they broke. Leaping and crashing through the grasses, long bodies stretching with each prance, parting the grasses before them. A muffled thunder of dainty hooves on the earth below reached Palanor as they came toward him, unaware of the trap they were entering. He scanned the grasses for signs of which deer Kibeth would pick out, probably one of the slower ones at the back of the herd.

A flash of black fur emerged from the waves of grass for a brief glimpse before disappearing again, not far off one of the older females. Another flash on the other side of the same deer, nudging it slightly more toward Palanor.

This was the one. Palanor shifted, staying low as the first deer passed into the shade of the small copse he was hiding in, branches and low bushes swishing as they passed through the undergrowth into safety. He was moving across the edge of the woodland as the herd came crashing through, some veering off as they saw him, no matter, he was fixed on the target. Kibeth was snapping and barking at the hind quarters of the chosen prey, driving her right at Palanor now, who stayed crouched with spear angled up, butt driven into the ground behind him. At the last second, he thrust forward, rising as he did so, spear point punching through the chest and throat of the doe as she veered, twitch muscles and tendons still fighting for an escape even when speared right through. He bore the deer down with his weight, and finished it quickly with a sword stroke into the neck.

With Kibeth about he didn’t need to rush, he gralloched the doe, taking care not to puncture the internal organs, especially the lower gut. He cut off a hind leg and tossed it over to Kibeth raw, with fur still on. She began to greedily chew at it, holding it down in her forepaws, gnawing at it from the side of her mouth.

Once he was done he picked the whole carcass up onto his shoulders and began to head back to where they had left his sack and bedroll furs, stashed up in branches to avoid nosy scavengers. Kibeth grabbed the half-eaten leg in her jaws and followed at a trot.

The thrill of a successful hunt, as well as the warmth of a full belly meant the pair went to sleep satisfied with themselves.

A number of days later they came across another large river. Palanor had been confused momentarily, before Kibeth had explained that this was a different river to the Great Eastern which flowed through his tribe’s territory.

He realised just how far from home he was, and how far he still had to go to complete this mysterious task for Kibeth, find Ashath, and then return. This dampened his mood somewhat, so that he was more serious than usual, brow knitted into a slight frown as they trudged along the river bank.

Kibeth explained that this river also led to the Eastern Sea, and that they needed to cross it in order to continue onward.

Palanor listened absent mindedly, thoughts elsewhere, he didn’t notice when she went quiet.

He continued along, head down, lost in thought until an unusual sound reached his ears. The sound of wood being split by an axe. The thuds echoed through the trees, seemingly emanating from just around the river bend.

People.

Perhaps an encampment of some kind, traders or journeymen stopping in the day to collect wood and food. Palanor slowed his pace, creeping forward out of curiosity, careful of where he placed his feet to avoid making too much sound. He was close to the river so it would not carry far but even so, his instincts and training told him to tread with caution.

He peered through the leafy branches separating him from a shingle bank where the river slowed on the inside of the bend.

A small watercraft was beached on the shingle, a hull of dark wood planks stained with pitch lay in contrast to the light grey pebbles on which it sat. It was not a very large craft, one or two people could easily work such a craft on the rivers, and there would not be much privacy if many more were to come aboard.

A figure was marching back and forth from the small boat, tilted as it was upon the shallow bank, returning each time to edge of the woods that lined the river. Palanor watched as the figure picked up bundles of branches and some split wood and stomped back across the stoney ground, dumping the wood into the side of the boat with little ceremony.

It looked like an older man. His beard and hair just beginning to grey, his stature was slight, almost skinny with sinews that showed on his bare arms as he hauled the wood to his craft.

On his waist he carried a short sword, similar to Palanor, but there was also a long staff-like object with a spike and hook on one end left leaning up against the bow, presumably within easy reach should this stranger need it.

Palanor looked to Kibeth, but was surprised to not see her crouched by his side. He glanced behind him. No sign of her anywhere. He could not detect any trace of her presence at all in fact. He had been thinking of trying to convince this sailor of taking them across the river, if Kibeth could assume some slightly more normal form for a short time, and keep her mouth shut of course. It would save having to make some sort of raft to get across what was a fast flowing and wide river.

He didn’t know if he should go back and look for her. Since meeting her she had never wandered off like this, not without saying something, even if it was some mysterious phrase that Palanor didn’t quite understand.

But another part of him, albeit a much smaller part of him now, wondered if this was for the best. The only downside to potentially leaving Kibeth was that he had followed her too far to turn back. He would not likely make it back alone, and didn’t really know where he was heading. But this sailor might know of the plains, if the river linked up there might be a quick way, a safe way back, but then he would be turning back. Giving up.

Ultimately his agreement to Kibeth was as important as getting Ashath back. He, as a warrior of his tribe had made such a deal, even if it was with a strange Kindred being, it would be dishonourable to abandon his word, especially now he needed her help if he were to ever find Ashath.

Unfortunately, as Palanor debated his split loyalties, the sailor had stopped moving wood back and forth, having realised - through some uncanny sixth sense gained from a life time journeying in such dangerous lands – that he was being watched.

He had on his last trip to the boat, pretended to shuffle the wood about, all the while preparing to push his craft back into the safety of the waters and be on his way.

He heaved and his feet dug into the pebbles beneath his feet, the keel of the river boat rocked as he shoved it back into the water, the current picking it up, but slowed by the anchor still hanging over the side. The sailor splashed through the shallows and pulled himself over the gunwale, even with the anchor still down he was now over flowing water, and was far safer for it.

Palanor swore to himself as he saw the figure cast off. He broke through the bushes, running toward the still moored boat which was now tugging gently at it’s mooring line that dipped beneath the surface.

The sailor re-emerged, popping up with a bow, arrow already knocked and half drawn, the point aimed at Palanor.

“STOP! Come no further or I’ll shoot!” The sailor cried out, the words tumbling out in a more panicked fashion than he intended.

Palanor came to a halt. He raised an open hand toward the sailor, fingers spread, the universal sign of peace.

“I need to get across the river and thought you might be able to help.” It was worth a shot. Palanor knew that this sailor wasn’t some kindred trying to trick him, he was already over the river, but that meant Palanor had to convince the sailor to not only let him live, but also let a complete stranger onto his craft. A tricky situation at the best of times.

Palanor hoped Kibeth wouldn’t turn up and spook the sailor whilst he was still aiming that arrow at his chest.

The sailor was glancing about in a somewhat nervous manner, still at half draw, his sinewy arms steady nonetheless as his eyes darted to the tree line up and down stream of their position.

“How many of you are there?” The sailor licked his lips, biting the tip of his tongue in anxious thought.

“I am alone, except for a large dog who accompanies me.”

Better stick as close to the truth as possible in case he’d seen Kibeth earlier.

“No one journeys out here by land alone…” The sailor began.

“I am on a quest,” Palanor interrupted, “my lover was stolen away at Midsummer, I am tracking her down to bring her home. Perhaps you have seen her?”

Also worth a shot, who knows, she does stand out.

The sailor narrowed his eyes, in all his years of travelling up and down the rivers, trading goods with the inland tribes, he’d never encountered such an odd scenario as the one he now found himself in. He’d seen children crying from the banks, begging him to land ashore, beautiful women half naked beckoning him and singing of earthly pleasures, strange forms and beasts stalking silently along in the shade of the trees, following for miles until eventually being left behind by a stream of tributary they could not cross. But a young man, red hair and beard, carrying a pack, bedroll, a spear, with a sword on his hip and one of those strange masks the plainsfolk tribes wear, hundreds of leagues from the plains themselves, wanting to cross the river with some hunting dog? This topped them all.

Palanor once again spoke, interrupting his thoughts.

“I can prove I am human and living, look…” He reached round, slow and deliberate so as not to scare the sailor, he reached into his sack, searching for the now crushed thistles he had stuffed in there when he left the village. A thin thorn stuck in his finger as he removed one from his sack. He muttered another oath under his breath as he held it aloft and carried out the same rigamarole as he had done the day Hallin had denied him access to the village.

“What’s this supposed to prove?” The sailor sounded unconvinced.

“Thistles pierce the hides of kindred and dead.” What an ignorant idiot this sailor was if he didn’t even know that, Palanor thought.

“Reckon I’ve never heard that before.” He shook his head, drawing the bowstring back even further.

“Wait! I’ll go in the river, no dead or kindred could do that.” At least, no one knew that there was at least one such kindred who could, but this sailor was certainly ignorant of that.

“Go on then.” He gestured with the bow, indicating Palanor to move off to the side and paddle in the shallows.

Palanor begrudgingly obliged, leaving his spear, mask, and bag on the shingle at his feet, he stepped forward, still mindful of the arrow pointing right at him, following his short path to the water. Inside, something resisted being made to swim in the river, he was Palanor, warrior of the plains, he was no kindred nor dead. But he quenched that rebellious streak within him, knowing that he now had to prove that at least he wasn’t an instant enemy to this nervous sailor.

He splashed out to where the river bed began to drop off, stood with his hands both raised to shoulder height, palms open.

“Satisfied?” He asked.

The sailor chewed it over for another few moments before motioning him back to the shore with his bow, relaxing back to the half draw. He seemed to be mulling Palanor’s request over in his mind.

“I’ve never known someone walk so far from their homelands,” he nodded at Palanor’s mask, “The plains to the south right?”

Palanor nodded, “Aye, and now I look closer you are of the Sea People’s correct?”

The sailor nodded. Palanor relaxed slightly, he knew of the Sea Peoples, they lived on the coasts in comfort and security as very few dead or kindred ever wandered in their lands. This made them weak warriors in Palanor’s mind, more likely to find salt water and fish guts in their veins than the hot blood of warriors like the tribes of the plains. He remembered that they often identified with their fortified coastal village of birth, which Palanor half-remembered as being called a ‘Dun’.

“Which Dun do you hail from sailor?”

The sailor half shook his head, the briefest flicker crossed his face, perhaps of annoyance.

“I am Marren, from Bield-i-Saere on the Pincer Sea. It is a mighty Bield! Not some Dun!” Pah! These plains tribes know nothing about anyone but themselves, Marren thought, typical savages.

Palanor accepted this with a courteous nod. “Well met Marren. I am Palanor, Son of Iscar, born out of Hilti, Warrior and Hunter of my Tribe.” Top that Marren from ‘Bield-i-Saere’ Palanor thought to himself, supressing a smug smirk.

“Well met Palanor.” A brief nod.

The two remained where they were. Palanor on the shingle, Marren in the anchored boat, shifting slowly as the river tugged at it, bow half drawn bobbing up and down with the water.

The two might now know each other for living men, and even be of allied tribes, but that didn’t mean they trusted one another, not out here in the wildlands, and not enough to be on the same small boat with weapons such as the two both possessed.

“What now Marren?” Palanor kept his voice cordial. Hand still open, he gestured with a slight shrug, the choice was the sailors to make, either they parted ways or he let Palanor, and Kibeth – if she could be found – onto the boat.

Marren still wasn’t certain. He was a living man, this Palanor, and of an allied tribe, even if they were a backwards people the alliance had stood for a generation now, longer even for some tribes. But he had no obligation to this wanderer, his quest was none of his business. But, Marren also knew what it was to lose a loved one, to have them stolen away. Yes, He knew what that felt like alright. This chance meeting might be fate, Marren thought, an opportunity he could not afford to miss.

He lowered his bow.

“Alright, get your things, I’ll take you across the river.”

Palanor relaxed back to his normal level of alertness. He didn’t trust this salt-licker, but they would be able to get by for the time it took to cross the river. But there was one issue. Kibeth had disappeared and failed to re-emerge, somewhat a blessing during the tense exchange but now she was going to miss the ride he had nearly been killed for! Typical!

“I need to fetch my hunting dog, she had ran off when I came upon you. Don’t suppose you saw her? Big, black fur?”

Marren shook his head, squinting up and down the river bank. He licked his lips again, betraying a certain nervousness that he still held within him.

“Say, you go and find this dog of yours and I’ll cook some food, not eaten since dawn. You can have some… if you like.”

Palanor nodded, eyeing the odd, skinny man as he picked up his things, “Food would be welcome, friend. I won’t be long.”

The sailor scurried about his boat, searching for various equipment for cooking and lighting a fire as Palanor wandered back to the forest edge.

He got a few dozen paces in to the undergrowth before circling back to try and find Kibeth’s tracks.

No trace of them. They simply vanished somewhere along the bank, probably when he was distracted thinking about Ashath.

Well shit. Knowing her she had turned into a bird or something or grown arms and climbed a tree. The thought did make him look up, but there was no giant wolf hiding in the branches above him. By the dead! He now had a means of crossing the river but if he did cross he wouldn’t know where to go. If he waited for her to re-emerge, if she did at all, Marren would be long gone and he would miss the opportunity of a quick trip across the river.

Sod her.

She could cross water easily enough; he’d seen her do it. If he got himself across with this Marren, she could find him afterward on the other side. She’d probably appear round the first tree he passed once he got over there. Or so he hoped. It was a long way back over those mountains, and even further if he crossed the river and then ended up turning back...

No. He was a warrior, to let fear and the unknown plague his decisions was not the way of his Tribe and people.

He turned back.

He’ll have to tell Marren she had run off and he couldn't wait for her to come back, so he would go without her. 

Chapter Text

Marren was stirring the copper pot. The thick stew of roots and chunks of meat bubbling away now on the small fire he had lit on the shingle. He surreptitiously reached into a small pouch of spices, eyes darting toward the tree line where that Palanor lad had disappeared off to relieve himself before the meal, before sprinkling some into one of the two wooden bowls he had.

Now that he had made his decision he wanted it over and done with, anxious to now get going, to push off from this place and journey onward, upriver. Yes, this was the right thing to do. Marren assured himself once again, not even aware of his own mutterings and gestures as he thought through his new plan.

Palanor re-emerged from the bushes, sauntering over casually to the small fire and the smell of the spicy stew now cooking over it.

Marren seemed to be fussing over it, muttering to himself. Palanor didn’t know what to make of him. He’d seen Sea People’s before, their iconic woven tunics and cloaks – Marren wore only the tunic - as well as their renowned skills as sailors and fishermen, but this man seemed…odd.

He was alone. Palanor did see the irony of such an accusation but even so, where was the other one or two crew who would travel on such a boat? Where were the other boats? It was common to travel as a group, the sailors lashing their paddles and oars together at night so that all the boats became one large raft, anchored safely in the middle of the river. But then again, plans go awry. Palanor certainly knew that.

Still there was something off. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe this man was just one of those with bad nerves, or had the shaking sickness that some people were born with, always rocking or flapping their hands about.

Palanor didn’t mind it, he was living and not kindred, but he certainly was a nervous, skinny little fellow, eye’s darting here and there, fidgety and twitching as he went about his tasks.

At last the sailor seemed satisfied the stew was ready, lips moving silently in thought as he nodded to himself, eyes flicking up to Palanor.

“It’s ready I reckon.”

Palanor went to pass the wooden bowl to Marren, but as he leant forward hand outstretched, the sailor scrambled across to snatch the bowls up before Palanor could get there.

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it… You are the guest, see, it’s the custom for me to serve.” Marren shooed Palanor back to his spot on the log. Palanor did not think much of the little outburst. The twitchy sailor was clearly highly strung, perhaps the Sea Peoples were more concerned with such customs. Palanor had never known any actual Sea People so he didn’t know either way. It was the way of most tribes to allow the guest to rest of course.

Marren ladled the stew into the bowls, passing one to Palanor, who raised the bowl to his forehead in honour of the sailor who had shared his food with him.

“Thanks to you Marren.” Palanor bowed his head briefly before putting the bowl to his lips as the sailor eyed him, watching as Palanor sipped at the stew.

It was weak in flavour, being mostly roots and chunks of meat, broiled in the small copper pot with water, what spices had been added had been watered down. Despite that, Palanor ate with gusto, sipping at the broth first, warming his insides with meaty goodness before picking at the pieces of meat and roots with his fingers. Marren began to eat his share once Palanor had tucked into his meal.

The sailor picked at his stew, glancing up on occasion at the young warrior sat across from him completely unaware of Marren’s plan. He quashed his own feelings of guilt at what he had done, and what he would do, all that mattered was that he got them back. Here he had been, pulled up to collect wood on his way far up river, desperate with worry on how he would succeed in his plan, only for this young warrior to spook him and approach him for assistance.

What luck! It must be fate, Marren thought, not only for a fit young warrior to fall in his lap, but for him to be carrying valuable objects; a sword, one of those carved masks the plainsfolk wore, a few ragged furs – Marren doubted he would get much for those, and that spear! The sailor recognised the ivory straight away, having come from his own people, traded long ago. This far up north and inland, the ivory would be of such value he would not fail in his mission. All he needed was for this young lad to finish his meal and for the herbs Marren had sprinkled in his bowl to take full effect.

Palanor finished his meal, and gathered his things up in preparation of boarding, but took one last moment amongst the trees, hissing Kibeth’s name at the shadows, to no avail.

Palanor was sure she hadn’t gone far, but for some reason known only to her she had disappeared and would not reveal herself. He trusted that she would find him when she needed to, hopefully when he needed her to, but he did not dwell on that. He trudged back to the boat, Marren was already aboard, the fire put out and the ashes scattered and buried, watching eagerly as Palanor made his way across the shingle, throwing his meagre possessions into the small water craft, before pulling himself into the boat.

As Marren heaved the length of thick, twisted rope out of the water, heavy leaden anchor finally breaching the surface as the river began to take them, Palanor offered to assist as best he could. Marren told him to sit out the way, as he would be of little use on the craft, having discerned that Palanor had never been on a boat before with his trained eye.

Palanor obeyed, squatting down against the gunwales near the prow, his pack and spear next to him, mindful to keep out the way as the small, lithe man darted about the ship adjusting the small sail he had hoisted before nimbly stepping back to the helm. He kept glancing at Palanor but made no comment.

Soon into the journey, Palanor began to feel unwell. The first he knew of it was a slow and steady nausea, natural this time, not caused by kindred. Then his mind began to cloud, a thumping behind the bridge of his nose which caused him to squint in the light of the sun and shade his eyes from the bright light which pierced his head.

Marren soon noticed his condition also.

“It is normal, your people are not used to such things. Even your journey men get sick when they reach the sea! Lie down and sleep, I will wake you when I find a good landing.”

The lie came easy to Marren’s lips this time, no guilt as he felt the rush of satisfaction at having succeeded. Soon enough, my loves, soon enough you will be back.

Palanor groaned in discomfort and soon he fell into a deep sleep.

He awoke to a cold breeze blowing across him. His bedroll skins were no longer about his shoulders, and he struggled to get up. His hands were bound! Thin cords of rawhide had been wrapped about his wrists, the wet hide digging in as it began to shrink as it dried. He tried to stand up but his ankles had also been bound. The thick rope that held the anchor had been passed through his legs and arms and tied into his fetters so that he couldn’t move far from the great weight. If he tried to jump to freedom in the river, he would either be hanging off the side, or would sink with the great lump of lead.

He tried to feel for his knife or sword. No luck, they had been removed along with his belt and any other possessions he had.

Marren was stood nearby, boathook in hand, peering over at him.

“What is this Marren? You break the code of hospitality to rob me?”

Marren started, jumping about in his nervous manner.

“Ahh! Awake now are we Palanor of the plains? Ha! How easy it was! For all your might and muscle you now lie at my mercy!” He seemed to do a little jig about the boat, hoisting his long hook high into the air in victory.

“You dishonour yourself. Such treachery, your ancestors look away in shame!” Palanor spat to one side, he attempted to rub his hands along his forearms as was the traditional reaction to such things but the bindings were painful enough without straining at them.

“Dishonour? DISHONOUR!” The wiry old man seemed to straighten up in fury, “You surely must know what it is to lose a loved one eh? Did you not tell me? What do you know?”

The sailor trailed off for a time as he hopped back to the helm to adjust the course of the boat. Palanor surreptitiously tested his bonds. They were tight, and getting tighter all the time as the rawhide dried and shrank about his wrists. The boathook sank into his ribs as he was wriggling about trying to sit up.

“I see you trying to break free! Ha! Well, it won’t work! I’ve got you trussed up tight. Yes, yes.”

“If you want my things then so be it, you have bested me, but drop me ashore and let me free!” By the dead it was painful, bordering on the unbearable, but Palanor bit his tongue and scrunched up his face to distract himself, if this fool of a man did let him go he would gladly strangle his wiry neck. What a fool I’ve been, he cursed himself.

“No, no. You see I am taking you to them, they will give me back my Ishta and my boy in return for you and your things, and then we can go back home.”

Palanor was confused. The man had clearly gone mad, but perhaps this was his chance.

“Someone has taken your family?”

“Yes! You know this pain? Yes? They stole my wife and my son from me, whisked them away in the night. What was I to do?” Marren clapped his hand to his forehead, eyes wide.

“Could you not have fought these raiders?”

Now it was Marren’s turn to be confused, his face frowning.

“Fight them? Pah! You really know nothing eh? These are not some raiders, eking out a living in the wilds, these are warriors of Dinas Affaraon, they are many and I was alone. No, this is their trick, they steal people away, only returning them once payment has been made.”

Marren once again stepped away, shaking his head, part in anger, part in incredulity at the young man’s cluelessness.

Palanor was busy thinking about his current situation, he should have stayed and waited for Kibeth in the woods. These warriors from wherever didn’t sound like friendly people, and being taken captive was not part of Palanor’s plan, once he was handed over to these warriors his chance of escaping and getting to Ashath would dwindle. Who would pay them to let him free? No one from his own tribe even knew where he was!

After some time in silent thought, Marren approached once again, boathook in hand ready to prod should he need to.

“We stop on the river tonight, I will untie you from the anchor but if you try anything I will hit you with this,” He waved the boathook in Palanor’s face.

Palanor tried to shrug, shifting on his back as the older sailor bent down and partial freed him from the anchor rope. He darted back once Palanor was untied from it fully, his hands and feet still bound tight.

“Shuffle over there whilst I drop the anchor.” Marren aimed the boathook at Palanor as he wormed his way over to the over gunwale with some awkwardness.

Swift as a fish Marren picked the heavy lead weight up and dropped it overboard before spinning around, hooking Palanor by the wrists and dragging him back to the anchor rope to be retied to it.

“There, I will bring water in a bit.” He paused as he met Palanor’s eye, greying beard quivering as his lips moved silently once more before he stammered, “It’s not personal. I have to do it. I’m sorry.”

He turned away as the sun sank behind the trees on the bank. He brought the water as he promised but did not look at Palanor, nor did he speak before he returned to the helm at the opposite end of the boat and settled down, sword and boathook in the crooks of his arms, Palanor’s possessions pulled up beside him.

Palanor couldn’t sleep. The bindings had stopped shrinking but they were still biting into his skin. But it was not the pain that kept him awake, it was the realisation that he had failed. He was alone, unarmed, had been tricked into captivity by a madman and was now to be traded for his wife and son. Ashath had been taken from him and now Kibeth had left him.

He heard a slight scratching sound. A sort of scurrying above him on the gunwale. He shifted round in the dark, the stars above him giving some scant light. It was a mouse, making it’s way along the rim of the boat. It would scurry a few steps forward and then turn, as if it were looking over its shoulder.

Palanor watched it with envy at it’s simple freedom. How he had never realised what it was to stretch and move without such binds. His hands and feet felt numb.

The mouse stopped directly above him, sitting up on its back legs before it whispered “What a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into!”

He knew that voice. Kibeth. Thank the ancestors!

“You disappeared! I thought he could take us across!” he hissed back, voice hushed.

“Too busy thinking and not listening to me!” The mouse seemed to huff.

“Get me out of these will you? I can’t feel my fingers!” Palanor offered his hands.

“Well, part of me wants to leave you as you left me…” Palanor made to respond but she got there first, “But I’ll free you.”

She began to nibble at the rawhide, severing a number of strands within a few moments. The blood began to return to Palanor’s hands, which brought strange sensations of pain to his fingers and feet. He rubbed at them and moved his wrists and ankles as best he could to return circulation as he gritted his teeth against the pins and needles he felt.

“Are you going to kill him?” The little mouse that was Kibeth looked up at him, head cocked. Her voice held no judgement, mere curiosity.

Palanor very much wanted to, but he had a sudden thought.

“No, I have an idea.” He began to creep his way up to the sleeping sailor.

“I don’t like that idea.” Kibeth had already got the gist from his thoughts as he lifted his spear and sword from their resting place by the unconscious Marren.

Marren awoke with a start, jerking about on the floor of the boat, hook implement falling with a clatter as he started at the figure standing over him. He raised a hand in anticipation of the killing blow, wincing as he did so.

But the blow never came. This warrior of the plains stood looking down at him in silence, mouth set in a hard grimace.

“You...you aren’t going to kill me?” Marren stammered.

The young man took his time responding.

“No.” The silence that followed hung in the night air, “Unlike you, who has no honour in his bones, whose ancestors turn away from seeing such shame, I,” he tapped his chest with his finger as he bent over the older man, “Palanor, shall not slay weak old men who can not even keep their wives and children safe. No!” His mouth twisted somewhat. “I pity you in fact. It is clear you have been driven half-mad to contemplate breaking the ancient codes of hospitality between allies to retrieve your woman…but, as I look down on you now I wonder if I had been born to those of such weakness as the Sea Peoples, would I too not have done such things for my woman and son?”

Marren remained half cowering on the deck as Palanor exhorted his tirade, but his initial terror was fading as he sensed the young man intended to make some sort of deal.

“I have a proposition for you Marren of Bield-i-Saere. I shall find your wife and son, and you will take us wherever we wish up or down river in return.”

The sailor narrowed his eyes in suspicion, “Us?”

Palanor realised he had spoken without thinking, to reveal Kibeth now might sour the entire deal, on the other hand, having this slippery sailor know he was now under the watch of a Kindred being of magic might ensure his cooperation, and avoid another betrayal.

Kibeth had the same thought and within a moment had leapt forward from her perch on the gunwale, transforming mid jump from little mouse to a large, shaggy hunting dog, back coming up to Palanor’s hips, lips peeled back with a threatening growl.

The sailor cowered once again, throwing his hands up in fear as he tried to push himself deeper into the planks beneath him, the great hound leering over him.

Palanor continued, speaking off-the-cuff now, going with the flow as Kibeth might have said.

“This is my companion, Kibeth. She is…a spirit guide of sorts. Once I retrieve your woman and son, you will take us where we wish. To ensure we both keep our word we shall swear a blood-oath. Binding this promise to one another to avoid any…complications.”

“You say I am mad? Ha! You think you can slip into Dinas Affaraon and free my wife and son? And what happens to me if you get caught or die in this venture? I break my oath and die with you?”

Palanor mused on this a moment, the sailor was a sharp thinker regardless of his other qualities, or lack of.

“Blood-Oath’s should be carefully worded, this is true. We shall agree a wording for each of us to ensure it is fair. I will rescue your wife and son if they are still alive.” Marren drew a sudden breath at this, balling his fists in protest. “…And you shall take us where we wish should I return successful in my task.”

It was Marren’s turn to muse it over, but he really had little choice with the jaws of the hunting hound hanging in front of his face. The terms were acceptable even if the boy would most likely die and fail, still it only left Marren back where he started yesterday.

With a shrewd glance up the sailor nodded in agreement.

“Good.” Palanor nodded back, “We shall make the oath at sunrise. I’ll need you to tell me what you can of this Dinas afaram..”

“Affaraon, not Afaram.” The sailor shook his head in incredulity once more. This boy was going to get himself killed almost instantly.

Chapter Text

The Blood-Oath was made at dawn. The distant sky to the north-east an apt colour of deep red and orange, bleeding into pinks and yellows eventually to seep out north, south, and west as a pale blue. Whisps of fine cloud were dragged through these blended bands of colour by the high winds, trailing golden threads across the far horizon leaving the sky above crystal clear.

The two men, one younger, one older, clasped each other’s wrist, tendons and muscles shifting under their respective skins as they gripped one another with firm hands.

Between them sat Kibeth, remaining in her dog form to avoid scaring Marren any further, she observed the ritual with mild interest and some annoyance. The hot-headed young fool of a warrior was so cocksure of himself that he was willing to risk it all. They had argued in the early hours of the morning.

“You should not do this!” Kibeth hissed, mindful to keep her voice down to avoid the wiry sailor from listening in.

“I’ve made my decision!” Palanor hissed back,  “Plus if I succeed he can take us wherever we want to go up or down river, you said that would be useful!” He pointed an accusatory finger at her.

“Yes but not at the cost of such a diversion! You don’t know the first thing about this Dinas Affaraon, it’s people, where this woman and child are being held, or anything! They could be dead. You could end up captured or slain and where would that leave my task? Where would that leave Ashath? I have plans, grand designs and you are risking them!” Surely mention of his precious Ashath would make him see sense, the dog thought.

“Now you want to tell me about your plans? Now? No. You had your chance, I’m going to fetch this woman and child back and then we will set off for whatever it is you wanted of me and once that is done, you will tell me where Ashath is and Marren can take me there, or as close as he can get via the river.”

She looked away, eye’s rolling at his exhaustive stubbornness. Humans! Her sisters should come and see what it was like dealing with them, perhaps they would rethink their grand plans and designs for their future! She had heard rumours of this Dinas Affaraon and did not like the sound of them. But he would not be swayed.

Now she looked on at the ritual before her, forcing a casual appearance which hid a small worry deep within her - the worry that he would not make it back and her plans would fail along with his.

“I, Palanor, swear on my blood to find and return your wife Ishta and your son Rolla from Dinas Affaraon, should they still live.” He squeezed at Marren’s wrist, forcing a trickle of blood from the small slash across his palm to seep out between their clasped forearms. He infused his will into the blood and the words, binding them with powerful magic that blistered the tip of his tongue, forcing his fate and spirit to now join with those he had named. He relaxed his grip slightly as Marren now spoke. As Marren was not a sorcerer of any kind and had little talent for magic at all, Palanor had to instil the magic into the sailors words for him, which required some concentration.

“I, Marren, swear on my blood to carry you, Palanor, and your guide…Kibeth, wherever you so wish by river, should you return with my Wife and Son, Ishta and Rollo.” Now Marren squeezed with his sinewy hands, betraying the wiry strength of a life hauling ropes, heaving at tillers, and battling storms on the open seas and rivers. His blood ran and mingled with Palanor’s, bubbling as the magic took effect.

Palanor waited until he was sure the magic had bound them both by their word before he let his hand fall free from Marren’s, nodding to the older man in both confirmation and slight suspicion. Regardless of how they now felt about each other, they were now sworn to one another, with only either the fulfilment of their promise, or death, freeing them from it.

The pair set about readying themselves for the upcoming ordeal. Palanor saw to his weapons and decided on what to take with him, his sword and spear were obvious, but the rest of his meagre belongings needed to be sorted into what would be useful and what would be dead weight. His mask would stay on the boat, as the people of Dinas Affaraon did not wear them, or at least Marren had never seen anyone wearing them when he was there.

He described in great detail his wife and son, what they looked like (or had last looked like nearly a year ago). Details about their mannerisms and talents which might indicate where they had been set to work as captives. In some ways he spent as much time describing them as he did the rest of Dinas Affaraon, such was it that he seemed to relax and enjoy talking about his family.

Marren had revealed a lot about this Dinas Affaraon in the hours before the oath. The sailor had explained to Palanor what he knew from his visits there.

Dinas Affaraon seemed to specifically be the name of the settlement, not the people who lived there. The settlement itself was a city, a word Palanor had never come across before and Marren explained it as being like a very large village with many more people, “There are more people living there than fish in this river, I guarantee it!” he had exclaimed, pointing a knowing finger at the waters to punctuate his point.

The city was built in a hanging valley, that is, a valley formed at height between two ridges or mountains above the main valley that runs through the mountains. There were jetties and a walled harbour down by the river in the main valley below the city that Marren knew well as he had spent all his time there. It was soon apparent that he had never actually been into the settlement itself – outsiders were forbidden to freely enter the city, they only did so as slaves, or Helots as the people of Dinas Affaraon called them. Marren’s wife and son had been stolen away and presumably were now helots.

Between the river and the steep slopes that ascended up to the main gate were the less well defended growing and grazing grounds, an expanse of paddies, fields, pens and clearings which fed the main settlement, these were worked almost exclusively by the enslaved peoples. Marren had been able to see this quite clearly from the harbour and jetties. They were mainly surrounded by pickets and palisades, wood being plentiful down in the main valley.

Further up the slope, along the winding, switchback paths that climbed to the valley mouth was housed a great stone wall and gate. Marren had said that it stretched across the entire mouth of the hanging valley and could be seen from the river. Beyond the great wall was where the detail began to fade into rumour. Having never been there, Marren had to go off the accounts of the people he had traded with and the casual conversations he had engaged in. He could not provide a detailed layout or plan of the city, nor had any idea where his wife and son would be held.

He did describe the place in some detail, telling the young warrior that they used only stone for building within the city itself. Stone huts built one atop the other (sometimes three high!) with ladders or steps built in to allow the residents access. It was rumoured that they had even grander buildings, larger and capable of housing many people within, but they were not houses at all but places of gathering for rituals and ceremonies.

“Who are these people? To have such skill and knowledge as to build such things? Surely they are a mighty people indeed!” Palanor was impressed and the tone of respect and awe was obvious in his voice.

The weathered sailor began to describe the people who lived in this mythical place amongst the mountains and clouds.

“Ah. The people, yes. They are indeed mighty as you put it, but they are a fierce and cruel people and they are said to be in league with the Dead…and Kindred!” He narrowed his eyes somewhat as they flicked for the briefest moment at Kibeth, curled up at the prow.

Palanor spat in disgust.

“Oh yes! I have heard many rumours that their sorcerers and shamans actively seek out kindred to dominated and control and use for their own power! Even bringing them within themselves, letting the beings nestle next to their heart and soul!”

Palanor spat again, and shivered at the thought. Imagine a Hish or Margrue hiding in your own blood and bones! Surely one could not survive long after such a feat, the inimical nature of the thing must kill the host eventually.

“Oh they do last for a while, longer than you would think, some for years in a state of physical weakness but incredible magical power, or so it is said. Now, it is also important you know this.” The sailor held up six fingers. “The city of Dinas Affaraon is controlled by six houses…”

He had to explain what he meant, eventually settling on ‘a tribe within a tribe, like a family but larger’.

“…these houses, are in constant competition with one another for power over the city. One house might own and control the mines and quarries high up in the valley, another might control the growing and grazing fields and so on, they vie for control not through open fighting, but through lies and…” he searched in vain for a word that Palanor would understand, “well they sneak about and try and kill one another secretly is what I mean, it’s all a sort of game to them as far as I can tell.”

“How can a tribe so strong be at each other’s throats like this? Surely they would all kill each other before long no?”

Marren couldn’t express the intrigue and subtle cultural differences between the people of Dinas Affaraon and the small tribal peoples of their own homelands. Eventually Palanor just accepted it for what it was and moved him on.

“The mountains to either side, there must be paths and ways through these, even if they are guarded, I could climb them and descend into the city unseen?”

Marren shook his head with doubt. “They are steep and treacherous, though you perhaps with youth on your side,” another sideways glance at Kibeth, “might be able to manage such a feat.”

Palanor nodded to himself, this sailor would not know his way up the village path he was so tied to the water. It was obvious he had not only the guts but also the bones of a fish with how he lacked courage!

He must have seen a slight smirk or sensed Palanor’s thoughts because he shook his head and stomped off.

“Luck to you Palanor, Son of Iscar, Warrior and Hunter of the Plains, you’re going to need it.”

Palanor nodded, he didn’t need to say anything in return, Marren would wait upriver under Kibeth’s watchful eye.

She got up and stalked over to him before he made ready to disembark. She looked up from her unusually small (though still larger than normal) dog like form, eyes piercing his with a look that Palanor could not decipher.

“What?”

“You know what. This is stupid, you could have killed him and taken his boat and we’d be on our way, to my task and yours! What about Ashath?”

“I am a warrior, I don’t kill old men who can’t even look after their own, and don’t pretend you care about Ashath, as far as I know you could have dragged me along to do your bidding and then left me in a worse situation than Marren would have. At least now I have my own means of getting to her. You just don’t like that I have decided my own fate.”

The dog stamped a forepaw on the deck in frustration.

“Fare thee well Palanor, mightiest warrior of the plains, biggest head in his tribe, who will die in some evil city accomplishing nothing!” She stalked back and flopped down with an audible growl. The cheek of the boy! She hoped he would get what he deserved.

But as he hopped over the gunwale and disappeared into the now thinning forest that lined this course of the river, she watched him go with concern. She too had heard of the people of Dinas Affaraon and their dealings with her own kind and she did not like what she had heard. Despite her disapproval of this turn of events, she would watch over him when she could.

Palanor felt good to be free of the boat. It was true what Kibeth had said, he did now doubt if he had done the right thing. But if he got this woman and boy out of this strange place, they would have transport and food and shelter for most of the journey, possibly even going all the way back to the tribe via boat.

Ashath was tough, even if she had been weakened, the Pale man clearly had need of her, why else take her? No, she would be all right until he found her, then they could go home together.

He picked up his speed, beginning to run through the sparse forestry that was beginning to clear in patches and open out onto more bleak moorland, now turning orange in the late summer weather. The city was said to be to the west, and should be visible from the river. Palanor reminded himself to be cautious, and stay back from the bank lest he be seen. His plan was simple, climb one of the mountains on either side of this hanging valley and descend at night, finding somewhere to hide and observe, hopefully to spot the woman and boy based on their descriptions. If it was as big as Marren described he must surely have plenty of space in which to hide.

He continued on foot, his pace relatively gentle compared to the punishing climbs and treks of the previous moon. He made sure to slow and stop on occasion in order to check ahead, head cocked listening for the sounds of other people, he didn’t want a repeat of his first encounter with Marren.

After some time, when the sun had peaked and was beginning its long arc toward the horizon, he entered into the mountainous area where the city was situated. There were smaller, rounded mountains on either side of the river, heather and grass slopes with the occasional fin of rock breaking through the green. It was obvious where this Dinas Affaraon was located as there were two or three larger bluffs laying parallel to one another, as if a great claw had raked out the valleys and ridges, pulling the rock toward the river. From his vantage point on a small hill he could make out fields and palisades in the distance at the foot of the two closer cliffs of rock. It certainly was steep terrain. They seemed to climb rapidly from the river, heather and gorse clinging to crags and scars in the rock, random piles of scree had formed where it had been eroded from the imposing faces. The tops were rounded enough but the nearest ridge looked like a knife edge, serrated and incredibly sharp in places. The view was still hazy in the sunlight, he would have to asses the ascent once he arrived at the foot of the nearest slope.

Palanor continued on, but soon he turned away from the river, he was not sure what prompted him to do so but he felt it was the right path to take. Perhaps his sixth sense was warning him to circle around and ascend up the side of the long ridge which now lay in shadow closest to him.  

He slowed his pace as he entered a large glade, the afternoon sun casting dappled light across the grassy expanse, revealing the pollen and seeds floating in the air, wild flowers in full bloom, dusting colour all around. Palanor came to a stop, gazing at the natural beauty before him, something drew his attention, something odd, not quite unnerving…yet. The smell of the grass and flowers seemed overpowering, the scent far stronger than he had every experienced. A faint singing note could be heard, like the distant whine of an insect.

He wanted to find the source of that odd, inviting sound.

All thought of Dinas Affaraon and his task ahead fell to the wayside, he couldn’t remember where he was going, only that he had been running. Now he was in a glade walking across it in inquisitive anticipation, if he just saw behind the far willow branches that hung down, a green curtain which hid what he sought, he would be satisfied.

He reached out at the long fronds, hesitant to part them, some small part of his mind fighting to turn his head for some reason. He ignored it. A faint singing could now be heard, a female voice, sultry and soft drifted out toward Palanor.

He peered through the willow withies.

Before him was a pool, half obscured by other bushes and branches, at the edge sat a half-naked woman, topless with a simple woven shawl about her hips. She was kneeling by the water’s edge on a straw mat, braiding her hair, using the water’s reflection to see her handiwork. She was the source of the faint humming and gentle singing. She was incredibly beautiful, her hair was long and the colour of ripe wheat, her skin was tanned - a light nut brown except for her chest which was slightly paler.

As he gawped at her, all memory and thought of Ashath lost in the moment, two more young women emerged, dressed in the same manner as the kneeling girl. They seemed a few years older and had very similar features, a distant part of him casually assumed they were related, sisters if not twins. As they reached the kneeling girl, she turned and waved at him, radiant smile beaming out, beckoning him. He was stunned, mouth half open, it was a dream-like, unreal experience that he couldn’t wake himself up from. He began to panic as he stepped forward involuntarily, drawn in by her outstretched hand and fixed smile.

There were other figures on the edge of his vision, blurred, he couldn’t make them out. He realised something was very wrong but he had lost control of his own body and most of his mind.

He stood before the women on the edge of the pool as the shadowy blurs stepped behind him.

The kneeling woman held his gaze for a moment longer before glancing at the mysterious figures.

“Take him.”

Palanor was grabbed from all sides, knees kicked in from behind as he was forced down onto the grass, a number of blows landed in the small of his back, across his shoulders, and upper legs softening his feeble resistance as he tried to twist away. But his arms were giddy, he could barely form a fist, let alone fight off multiple attackers from the floor.

They bore him down and his arms were wrenched behind his back. For the second time in as many days, his wrists were bound with tight leather strips and he was made captive once again.

Just as a rough woven sack was pulled over his head he had the clarity of mind to realise how bad the situation was.

Shit! He thought - Kibeth’s really going to lose it now.

Chapter Text

Shit! Ashath thought, Palanor’s going to be worried sick.

She was cold. Huddled under the rocky outcrop in which they had chosen to rest for the night, she hugged her knees, drawing them into herself for warmth, despite the evening heat.

She felt unwell. Nauseous waves kept bubbling up from the pit of her stomach, sending shivers down her arms and up her neck. It wasn’t just the effects of her visions, or the worry for Palanor – oh how he must be frantic with worry! – or herself that caused this reaction.  

It was Him.

He, who had called to her in a dream-like vision, bade her walk in soft silence as she had crept out of her hut, down the main spiral path, careful to pause and avoid the sentries, and skipped straight out the Village as if she were a fish caught on his invisible hook and line. How she had tried to scream, to fight back and desperately turn away, but all in vain.

She had wandered in this trance like daze out across the tribal territory until she encountered Him. Cloaked and hooded, with only pale arms showing He had revealed his true power there and then, a demonstration of force and might through his sheer presence which nearly crushed her spirit right out her body. She had vomited and retched until she was empty after that. Her skin had been burnt and blistered on her face and arms and any other body part where she had been facing Him. But that presence. It vanished as soon as it had appeared, dwindling away to nothing within a moment. She knew He had power far greater than hers. In that moment of blinding light and power she had heard voices, His voice perhaps, and had seen terrible visions of her loved ones slain if she refused to accompany this strange man. Then the visions had faded and she was on her knees, foul vomit in a pool before her.

From then on, she had complied, albeit with a sullen defiance. She might be his captive, but she still had pride and honour. He didn’t seem to care about this, all He was concerned with was that she came with Him.

Now she was huddled under the outcrop, having walked well beyond the tribal territory markers she was sore and tired, as well as sick from her condition. Her visions had always weakened her, even as a child when she had first discovered the talent. She could remember the shakes, the terrible stiffness and aching pains that plagued her when she had seen another vision, her mind would cloud over and she would feel exhausted and cold even on the warmest day after a long night of sleep. The Shaman and the other sorcerers had looked over her, trying herb concoctions and lotions to try to ease her condition. They had helped a little, but really the pain only faded with time, and would return with the next vision.

Palanor had helped, as did growing older. Being with him seemed to ease the effects of the visions, her body not quite as stiff afterward, or her mind not quite as darkened. He would sit and massage her aching joints, strong hands easing the pain, allowing her respite from it. Once she had passed her fifteenth summer the effects had begun to lessen, or at least become more manageable, her visions too became clearly, more easily understood. She was often called upon to give guidance to the Elders and the Shaman. The visions would come, sometimes one in a night, sometimes many over the course of weeks and she would retire to her hut.

Then she would recover, and would smile and laugh once more, able to run and hunt, or sit and tan hides with the other women and gossip about their men, or make love in the dark of the night, buried in a pile of furs with faces pressed together in desire.

Sat under this outcrop she buried her face into her knees, she pictured herself back in the hut, lying next to Palanor, his heavy breathing keeping her awake yet again. She smirked at the thought, but it quickly subsided into a silent sob. She had tried to warn him, would he remember? She had waved at those boats passing by – and been punished for it by the Pale Man. Would he be brave enough to follow what little leads she could leave him? Follow his fate ash she had seen it? She scolded herself for doubting him. He was her man, a warrior, hunter, and sorcerer as well, had she not seen him come for her? Had she not seen them re-united? But even her powers were fallible. Many a vision she had seen never came to pass.

She drove the doubt from her mind. What mattered now was getting through this journey. The Pale Man would keep her alive, barely it seemed as she was hungry and weak, but He did not wish her death, nor did He seem  bothered about possessing her or stealing her power. What He seemed to want was for her to be near to Him, to stay close… and to tell Him of her visions. That was what struck her as odd. Each day so far He interrogated her on any visions or dreams she had had the previous night, not ceasing until He was satisfied that she had told Him whatever it was He wanted.

So far, they had been rather bland premonitions, hazy scenes that made little sense. But He made her describe them in intense detail. He was after something, some prediction or warning.

But she didn’t know what, yet.

The days went by, they walked, seemingly undisturbed by animals or Kindred. She assumed that his power and presence was such that they would not be threatened easily. Her fear of him began to subside somewhat but her distrust and sullen defiance remained. He had stolen her away, forced her to dance to His own desires, she would go with Him, but she would not simper and smile for this strange man. He would provide food, often raw meat or offal, which she was not unaccustomed to, but preferred it cooked with herbs or spices, roasted in a pit oven for several hours so that it was tender. She was hungry enough to not need much convincing though as she tore at the flesh with her teeth.

Besides the daily vision discussion, He talked rarely, only uttering an occasional comment, or instruction. Once, He promised her that when they got back to His home, she would be comfortable and cared for and that in time, she would come to like it. She had scowled in response but held her tongue.

They left the river, turning north and circling westward around a great mountain range which stretched away to the east. One evening she had even spotted a great Kindred flying war to the west, it’s form that of the drake – or dragon – as some tribes called it, great leathery wings beating at the sky, long neck stretched out before it seeking its own unknown destination.

She had crouched and watched it’s tiny form disappear over the horizon, her innate fear rising within her even when such a great distance separated her from the terrifying beast, as a mouse might cower when a cave lion walks by.

He had chuckled at that, looking at her with those unnerving eyes, the gleam of amusement shining bright at her. She had scowled as best she could, something she did more often now in response to Him. It wasn’t that He cared at all what face she pulled, but rather that she showed Him that she was not afraid, that she still had her own mind and thoughts. That she wasn’t just some puppet to be toyed with or kept as some vision-pet.

It helped, a little.

The nights were always the worst. She missed her friends and family, and Palanor most of all, the lack of his warmth and comforting presence left a hole in her life she wasn’t sure she could fill.

Sometime into her journey - Ashath didn’t know when exactly, as she had soon lost track of time – her visions got stronger, and they wracked her body with spasms and her limbs locked with aching pain, muscles seized tight so that she could not move. He had barely noticed her condition (other than the visions themselves) but now that He was delayed on His return journey, He took it upon Himself to nurse her, in a detached and uncaring manner.

She had lain for a full day in her own sweat and mess, body and mind unwilling in her current state of pain, when He returned with water, food, herbs, strange minerals, the bark from an unknown tree, and many other items she could barely identify in the haze of her mind. He sat in his cowl and cloak, muttering and chanting, murmuring and cursing as He ground and mixed the ingredients together. She could not, nor really wanted to resist when He tilted her head back and fed her the potion He had created.

Within a few hours she was able to move, and her mind felt better than it had in weeks, moons possibly. The potion, and the subtle spells worked into it by the Pale Man, had ceased the negative effects of the visions upon her body. He had also placed a clear crystal around her neck on a simple twine necklace, which He explained in the briefest of terms as ‘an aid to focusing the visions through it, instead of your own mind and body.’

From then on she still had visions, but the after effects which had plagued her throughout her entire life had dissipated, diminished even, to nothing more than morning nausea and minor headaches, although she had noticed her moon bleeds had stopped altogether.

Ashath continued her journey, following the Pale Man as he led her further north. The nights grew longer as time went by and the seasons turned, the yellow grasses turning brown, the leaves of the trees deepening into oranges and reds, whilst the sky began to cloud over more often. Soon enough she spied mountains in the distance, capped with snow and crowned with ominous clouds that hid summits and peaks far higher than she had ever seen before.

At last they entered into the deep ‘U’ shaped valleys that had been carved through such grand heights by great ice rivers which still sat at the heads of the valleys. Occasionally these ice rivers would grumble in their lethargic sleep as blocks of ice calved from them with a tremendous crash that echoed down the vale.

But it was not the scenery which shocked Ashath, although this was a mighty vista to behold and stirred something deep within her that recognised such natural beauty. No, what shocked her most was encountering the first people she had seen in moons.

When she had entered the first valley, following some narrow goat-trail most likely from the looks of it, they had been greeted on the path by a large gathering of people.

The way they had emerged from the rocks and withered grass had surprised her, causing Ashath to jump in fright at the suddenness with which they appeared. Their simple clothing of deer and elk skins, along with white furs that she could not identify, had hidden them easily amongst the rocks.

They had all bowed to the Pale Man almost immediately, touching their hands to their foreheads as they did so.

They were of darker skin than her, and their hair was mainly brown or black, but other than that they seemed like any other tribal people. Although she herself had never visited elsewhere outside her own tribal territory before, she had listened attentively, as all the tribe did, to the tales from the journeymen and traders. There were wizened elder folk, and young warriors dotted in amongst the general mix of men and women, as young children tottered about between the legs of the adults, all dressed in animal furs that were stitched with a curious red thread.

She did not recognise the tribe they belonged to, this place being so far north that snow was already falling in showers as the autumn came on. She did not speak their language either, and they did not speak hers, but she allowed them to lead her with cautious, outstretched hands as the Pale Man watched from afar. A large group crowded around her as they bid her follow them.

Someone placed a great white fur cloak over her shoulders which was incredibly warm, and instantly dispersed the shivers of cold she had suffered from as she had journeyed further and further north – her only clothing being the buckskin dress she had been wearing at midsummer when the Pale Man had stolen her away.

The older women peered at her and babbled away in their own language, leading her by the arms as they waved at what Ashath guessed was points of interest or people being introduced. Some of the younger boys would run past and look back, staring at her with a look of strange curiosity as young women took her hair in their fingers and looked at it. Ashath realised that none of them had red hair, and none had probably ever seen someone with it either, especially if they were cut off from foreign traders this far from the rivers.

Their village was built far up the vale, high up on the shoulders and hillocks that rolled down from the head of the valley which was capped in blue and white ice. The huts were made of wooden frames with deer and elk skin covers thrown over and weighed down with rocks to created a tight, draft proof seal at the bottom. She was taken to a large hut, which was shared by a number of old women. Once inside, they motioned for her to undress and they helped bathe her, cleaning the grime and dirt from her skin and hair. Oh thank the ancestors, she felt clean once more! She was given a set of warm furs to wear, with the same red thread stitching.

For the first time in many moons, she felt somewhat comfortable and safe, and had actually cried when the old women had produced bowl after bowl of steaming hot food for her to eat.

Chapter Text

Palanor was led by his elbows along a track which, guessing from the sound followed the river, his hands bound behind his back. He couldn’t see where he was going and stumbled on roots and rocks numerous times, his captors firm grip being the only thing stopping him from falling flat on his face, though they seemed to curse each time he did it, grunting with the effort of hauling him back upright, often delivering a sharp cuff across his covered head.

He had already been given a thorough demonstration of what happened if he tried to speak or shout and was still nursing the throbbing pains in his ribs as he walked. The sack over his head muffled some of the sounds about him as well, meaning he didn’t know how many people were escorting him. As they pushed and pulled him along a track that seemed to very slightly be rising higher and higher up as the sounds of the river faded to his right, he had plenty of time to dwell on the moments before his capture.

The three women clearly had magical talent, some sort of glamour or enchantment had drawn him to them and held him stunned whilst the other figures, presumably an armed escort of sorts then saw to his capture. These must be the people of Dinas Affaraon, he thought to himself.

Kibeth had been right, he had been too confident, too headstrong and he had instantly paid the price for it. His sword and spear now in the hands of an enemy!

He fumed at his own failures in silence as he was led up a steeper section of path.

He felt the firm hands pull him to a stop after a while, his breath heavy with the difficulty of walking blind whilst being half dragged and half pulled by the mysterious captors on either side of him.

The sack came off his head and he winced at the bright, late afternoon sun.

Palanor was stood on a wide dirt path that ran from the river and the jetties, all the way up the steep climb to the imposing stone wall which stretched across the edge of the hanging valley up ahead of him. He was currently in the growing and grazing grounds, with scattered handfuls of people tending to crops or herds. He could see that those who did the work all wore simple woven tunics with a belt of rope cinched at the waist, and all had a wooden collar, or ring fitted about their necks with bronze or copper fittings.

His captors, and presumably, the free people of Dinas Affaraon all had a certain look about them.

Firstly, they wore more elaborate and bright clothing, woven tunics that had been dyed with pigments or had intricate patterns woven into the hems, leather jerkins with feathers and bones stitched into them, headdresses not unlike his hunting mask, except it always seemed to show the wearer’s face rather than cover it. The men holding him by his arms had patterned scars on their cheeks and foreheads, geometric shapes that must have taken months to create, repeatedly cutting at the healing skin. They also all wore necklaces and bracelets of polished greenstone, which was flecked with various minerals. He saw some of the other warriors, or guards he supposed as they waltzed casually up and down the edges of fields, short leather whips or clubs in hand or resting on their shoulders ready to lash out at the slaves they tended. These men – they were all men as far as he could see – had the same carved and polished greenstone piercing their ears or noses, which in one case looked like the man had just sneezed and failed to wipe it away.

They all had deeply tanned skin and black hair, that they wore in different manners, Palanor would later find out this often denoted their ‘class’ or particular craft.

Then the three women who had so easily bewitched him cam passed, sauntering ahead with a large collection of warriors armed with all manner of weapons. The women were dressed in their shawls and had donned a short leather top which hung off their shoulders and just about covered their breasts. They stood out as being the only ones with lighter skin and blonde hair. The youngest glanced back at him as she passed, a cruel smile on her face as she held his gaze for a moment as she walked on, up toward the city.

Palanor’s gaze followed them up the winding, switchback path ahead of him to the ominous looking valley that sat above him. It must have been hundreds of paces above the valley floor and provided a perfect overlook both up and down river. He imagined raiders trying to attack such a place, the climb alone would put off most, and the thought of many well-armed warriors raining spears, arrows, darts, and stones down on you as you climbed would break any group of warriors. Then you would have to get over or round that wall!

It must have been the height of five tall men at least, and made of large blocks of stone that had been squared off and fitted together, not the dry stone work of his own village wall. He could see squat towers on either end that held burning braziers, and he could see ant like figures pacing up and down the strange battlements.

He now realised that Marren had been right, this Dinas Affaraon was a mighty place, and his arrogance to assume he could have snuck into such a place was testament to his own ignorance and cockiness. Still his capture was not all bad, if they intended to kill him, they would have done it by now, they certainly wouldn’t have bothered to drag him back to here. Perhaps he could still find this Ishta and her son and find some means of escaping.

He could see pale smoke rising from behind the great wall, presumably from the many dwellings Marren had described to him. These stone huts that sat one atop the other, or the other buildings that acted as trading places of training grounds or temples, which Marren had described as being similar to an ancestral barrow.

Palanor took it all in, the dark mountains to either side walling in the valley above him, each peak thrust out and up as a sentry to the place. He watched as the slaves – the helots – were called in from certain fields in groups, waiting in muted silence, eyes cast down as their guards threaded thick, coarse rope through the hoops of bronze or copper on their collars, before leading them back up toward the city in the mountains. The helots themselves all seemed varied in origin, some had pale skin, others darker than the Dinas Affaraon’s deep tan, he spotted a few with recognisable tattoos but for most he could not discern one tribe from the other as they all wore the same, somewhat dirty tunics.

His escorts resumed the forced march once again at some unseen signal. The sack was left off, which Palanor was grateful for, but he soon understood why. The switchback path ahead had sections where uneven stone steps had been built in places, meaning he had to look where he was going or risk falling. They switched back on themselves a number of times as they climbed the steep slope which led to the city.

The main valley fell away below them, the silver river wending it’s way through the greenery as the patchwork of fields also shrank somewhat as Palanor gained height with the climb.

At last they stood before the gates of the great wall. They were made of dark, weathered wood, banded with bronze fittings and stood the height of two men. A large number of warriors were gathered around, checking who was coming in and out of the city.

Palanor’s escort spoke with one of the gate guards, who didn’t even look at him beside a single, uninterested glance. He noticed now that these warriors had a different style to the others he had seen down in the fields. These warriors had different patterns of scars that marked them out, and their clothing and individual styling didn’t quite match that of his escort of the overseers of the helots in the fields. These must belong to a different house as Marren had explained. The tribe-within-a-tribe alliances that existed in Dinas Affaraon.

After some discussion and an odd exchange of small stone chits that seemed surreptitious to Palanor, they were ushered through the imposing entrance.

The other side of the gate was even more overwhelming.

Palanor was looking down a long, wide path paved with flat stones, that opened out onto a large area in the centre of the hanging valley. To either side were the odd shaped huts. Square and built in a similar fashion to the wall, albeit with smaller stones, they had flat roofs and many had rickety ladders leaning against them to access either the roof of the dwelling above. Wood was scarce up here, and stone seemed to be the main building material. At regular intervals along the main path which ran right up the hanging valley toward an incredible mound of built stone at the far end, were offshoots and other paths branching out toward either side of the valley. The stone dwellings lined these all the way, some stacked up in groups that were linked together, a pile of stone huts, the people living in the very top one must have to climb everyone else’s to get in!

The entire valley was covered in such structures. There were some much larger buildings dotted about that rose above the heights of the normal huts. These places looked like miniature villages in their own right, with towers and walls. At the far end was what appeared to be a huge pile of cut stone, stacked up to make a huge man-made hill, the top of which housed an odd assortment of small huts. Palanor did not know it yet but this was the temple.

Once he had taken in the sheer scale of the buildings (who knew people could build such things?) it took him more time to get over the crowds.

There were people everywhere.

Helots in their collars stepped aside for others as they carried baskets or pots of goods from one place to another. What appeared to be lesser Dinas Affaraon’s with shorter hair and less decorated clothes – but who lacked a collar – stood and chatted to neighbours, or cried from small wooden stalls trying to trade wares. Groups of warriors paraded up and down the straight stone paths, swaggering as pretty much everyone made way for them, occasionally stopping someone or shoving slower people out their way. Children darted about, chasing one another and laughing as they played some unknown game. In some ways it was identical to his own village and tribe, and in others it was completely foreign. He was confused as he saw what appeared at first to be helots, dirty and scruffy with the most plain and tattered tunics, but they wore no collar and seemed to beg passers by for small stone chits with strange markings on. Some sort of diseased outcast perhaps, Palanor thought to himself, though if that were the case why tolerate them within the walls? He soon forgot about it as he was bundled through the constant stream of people, all manner of clothing, face paint, scars, tattoos, and wares passing him by in a whirl of colour.

They turned off the main path onto a narrower branch which was instead cobbled with smaller, rounded stones instead of the wide, flat slabs of the main route. Here the buildings crowded in and Palanor saw yet more alleyways and narrow comings and goings. Women sat and washed clothes in large clay pots, hanging them out to dry of lines strung up on the roofs or between buildings, yet more children played games on the floor, scratching marks and outlines that they then jumped around or in and out of, other cooked unseen meals inside their strange stone dwellings, the scents filling the air of the narrow paths which Palanor would learn were called streets.

Then the escorts pulled him through a square archway and the view opened up again. The place before him looked sort of like a larger, square version of the ziggurat back home in his village, it seemed that each rectangular tier dropped down like steps to the next one, until an open area covered in sand was left in the middle. There were groups of people sat on the steps, talking amongst themselves in small groups. Palanor wondered why they were gathered here.

He was led down a passage that descended into darkness.

Chapter Text

Palanor was led to a dank chamber where two more men in loincloths were waiting with ornate, carved, wooden clubs tucked into their belts and short staves that had been sharpened just enough to provide a point, but not sharp enough to pierce flesh without a deliberately hard thrust. Outnumbered and out armed four to one he did not try to fight when his two escorts untied him and mimed for his to strip.

His jerkin and trousers were taken away and a rough tunic was thrown at him along with a length of twisted rope. A small wooden bucket filled with cold water was brought out from another passage by a woman, who Palanor realised was a female helot. He stood still in a somewhat awkward manner as she cleaned him down with a rag in a brusque and efficient manner, wiping the dust and sweat from him within a few minutes.

The woman left, having never once looked any of the occupants of the room in the eye, and the four men motioned for Palanor to put on the tunic and simple belt. They spoke to him in their own language as they mimed their instructions, clearly they were used to dealing with captives from far off places who did not speak their tongue.

Their language was strange and incomprehensible to Palanor, who spoke both the common tongue amongst the allied tribes of the Great Eastern river, and knew much of the ancient tongue, which often formed the basis for spells and sorcery. He only knew the words Marren had told him, which so far, he had not heard said by the natives of Dinas Affaraon.

Almost as soon as he had tied the rope about his waist, the two escorts behind him grabbed each of his arms and held his head forward. His initial reaction was to struggle but one of the other warriors stepped forward and fitted a jointed, wooden collar around his neck, fixing it with a metal pin that Palanor could not remove. Once it was fitted he was released and allowed to stand up. It was not heavy, but it was quite tight fitting, enough for him to notice it should he bow his head to touch his chin to his chest. Doing such a movement put enough pressure on his throat that he would choke himself. To someone who had grown up wearing loose fitting jerkins and cloaks, the collar was an uncomfortable presence on his body. The thought of not being able to remove it also played a large part in the discomfort he felt. He tilted his head in different directions to try and get comfortable, to little effect.

Down another passageway, which had daylight coming through it, Palanor could hear the hubbub of the crowded city, muffled and echoing noises filtering down the tunnel of stone. He stood and waited, it seemed like these people loved to stand around and wait for some unknown reason. The guards were looking at him and muttering in the corner, weighing him up with glances and exchanging those strange stone chips or chits with markings on them. Palanor did not know what they were, they seemed to be everywhere and were unlikely to be totems or talismans, plus the only time he ever saw them was when they were being swapped or exchanged between people. Some sort of trading ritual perhaps.

His thoughts, and the guards discussion, was interrupted by a distant horn. He was grabbed and ushered up the passageway by the two new guards.

He emerged into sunlight once more.

Now he was standing on the lowest step above one of the two shorter sides of the sand covered pit below him, the drop was about as tall as Palanor was. He looked about him, many more people had filled the steps now, so much so that the stone could hardly be seen at all there were that many people, and more crowding around the very edges standing, craning their necks to look down.

From behind him one of the blonde witches from the forest stepped out, now dressed in a longer dress decorated with the same polished greenstone that everyone seemed to wear. She had a headdress on with a feathery plume on top that made her look like some exotic, wild bird that sometimes migrated across the plains from unknown lands. Her eyes had kohl painted around them in a subtle manner that made her look even more deranged and cruel than normal. He could feel her unbridled power now, felt the nausea in his belly, but he breathed, focussing on observing everything he could. If Ishta and Rollo were anywhere they would be here, it seemed everyone in the world was crammed into this strange place.

The woman paced up and down, shouting to the crowd to much applause and cheer, she held her arms aloft and gestured at Palanor who stared at her in what he hoped looked like defiance. She finished her speech and stepped to one side, holding his gaze and winking with a smirk.

“You are warrior ,yes? Prove it!”

The men shoved him roughly from behind with the shod butts of their sharpened staves, one after the other, so that he stumbled forward and over the edge. He tumbled down and onto the sand, rolling with the fall. Luckily, he hadn’t fallen awkwardly and broken something.

The fall had still knocked the wind out of him regardless. He got to his knees and shot a withering look up at the witch above him who peered over the edge, a peeling laugh on her lips at his dishevelled condition.

He moved out the way as she tossed something down into the sand at his knees.

It looked like a bronze throwing stick at first, but when he picked it up it was actually a strange type of sword. It was strange for several reasons, firstly was that it had only one edge, rather than two edges like his own sword. The second, and probably most obvious thing was that about half way up it’s length, the blade suddenly kinked at an angle, causing the cutting edge to fold inward on itself. There was a point on the end and the cutting edge broadened out before tapering back in a curve under the angle and back to the handle. It looked like a sort of parang or machete but with a significant bend to the blade.

He hefted it in his hand, the balance felt off compared to his old sword, which had a straight, leaf shaped blade as long as his finger tips to elbow. This felt more apt at chopping and slashing, although the point was sharp, the odd angle would make thrusts difficult.

Still the odd angle of the blade might make it more difficult to block a committed strike, forcing the opponent to move more or parry earlier than usual lest they receive a wound as the blade hooks round.

Palanor looked around. He wasn’t stupid. These people wouldn’t capture him, drag him all the way up to this mad place, only to untie him and give him a weapon. The witch wasn’t about to bid him farewell and send him on his merry way. No. He was here to fight, someone or something, and judging from the crowd that had gathered, this was quite the entertainment for them.

The noise of the crowd rose as another man – another helot – was pushed out of a shadowy tunnel at the far end of the sand covered pit. He stumbled forward a little but managed to stay upright.

Palanor grimaced, at least this man had been allowed to enter with some dignity, rather than getting thrown in like he had.

A short spear was thrown into the sand at the feet of the new man. He reached down and picked it up.

He looked tall, and lean, this new man who was presumably Palanor’s opponent. His arms had muscle to them, more than Marren’s had anyway, but he held the short spear in an awkward manner. Palanor would have held it with one hand due to it’s length and thrust with it like a sword, ideally it would be paired with a hide or wicker shield, none of those had been thrown in though. The opponent however, gripped it with both hands, significantly shortening his own reach.

Palanor glanced back at the witch who was still staring down at him, crazy eyes widened in delight and anticipation at the ensuing violence. He looked away, focusing on the man across from him.

Palanor scratched at his beard in thought. He would have to fight. The warriors patrolling above the sand pit were all armed, either with the blunted spears and clubs, or with more lethal weapons, bows, spears, swords. He also mused on the use of magic, but he felt that to reveal that here and now would rob him of surprise later – if he survived the ‘now’ of course. Plus, his knowledge and mastery of fire and flame wasn’t all that useful in a place made entirely of stone.

Damn it! Kibeth had been right and he had been a big-headed fool! Now he was going to die in this mad city, and to a lad who couldn’t even hold a spear properly most likely!

One of the tunnel guards stepped forward and shoved the man from behind with the butt of his stave. Palanor sensed the warrior behind him and stepped forward of his own accord. No blow came to his back. He was a warrior, and would face death willingly, with honour – or as much honour as he could muster. Thoughts of Ashath, cold and unwell tried to creep into his mind but he forced them away.

Focus you fool!

His opponent now came on at a steady walking pace, spear held forward in his two hands. Short blade quivering and shaking, glinting in the sunlight.

Palanor squared himself, he took a few slow swings to get a proper feel of this crooked sword he now held. He would need to be fast and better than his opponent. It was well known a warrior with a spear would almost always defeat a warrior with a sword, and could even hold off two such opponents if skilled. But this man, possibly slightly older than Palanor, didn’t look all that sure or skilled – odd for someone his age.

As the pair walked toward each other, Palanor could now see him sweating, despite the cool mountain air, and he shook like a sapling in a storm.

Palanor stopped, better to let him come to me, some sixth sense in his gut advised him.

His opponent seemed to slow, the distance between them was easily still twice that of the spear, but the unsure young man thrust at Palanor in an attempt to test him. Palanor did not react at all as the spear wasn’t anywhere close.

The crowds laughed and sniggered.

At least this man faces his death standing up, Palanor thought, his eyes slid over in a scowl without turning his head away from his opponent. Can’t fault him for that.

The man took another cautious step forward, spear point held at hip-height, ready for another thrust upward. Palanor saw it coming from a mile away, this man hadn’t fought like this before, everything was slow and obvious, his eyes, his feet, the tell tale signs of a strike. Palanor stepped forward, bringing the sword down onto the spear shaft as his left hand came up to grab at it. The blow caused his opponent to let go and flinch back, avoiding Palanor’s savage cut on the backswing. The young man stumbled back and fell over in the sand, scrabbling on his behind to get away.

Palanor now held both weapons. He stuck the spear in the sand, blade first, and squatted down beside it, waiting, and watching the young helot as he stared back in dismay.

The crowd, which had first rose in excitement at the sudden exchange, now booed and cried out in annoyance at Palanor’s actions.

He ignored them, continuing to lock eyes with his opponent who was rising to his feet. Palanor rose with him from his squat.

The noise of the crowd dropped in anticipation.

Then a piercing scream of rage echoed out across the stone arena from behind Palanor and he sensed magic. The spear hurled itself free from the ground and flew toward his opponent, spinning in the air as it crossed the short gap between the two men.

It transfixed the young man in the dead centre of his chest, driving deep into him and hurling him against the stone wall of the pit. His eyes were wide in shock as he died, sputtering and coughing in his last moments.

Palanor whirled about.

The witch was screaming and pointing, half bent over the edge of the pit, finger jabbing the air, gesticulating at Palanor.

The crowd clearly understood her and roared in applause, many getting to their feet.

The guards in the shadowy passage ways that emerged directly onto the sand at either end of the pit vanished for a moment, running into the dark depths.

Palanor sensed his ordeal was not over.

A few moments later a great hound was brought forward and for a moment he thought it was Kibeth. But this hound was not unnaturally huge or had her particular features (if a shapeshifter such as her could be said to have features). This was a proper hunting hound, greying fur, sharp teeth savagely snapping as it strained on it’s leash about it’s neck as two grown warriors struggled to control it. It’s lips were peeled back and he could see it’s great jaw in entirety.

The spear, he thought, get the spear!

The guards let it slip from it’s leash as he turned too late.

By the dead it moved fast, hurtling across the sand, kicking up a dust trail as it bounded in a mere moment to dive at him.

He rolled under it, flailing up in an attempt to slash at it’s exposed belly, catching it instead with the flat of the sword to no avail. It sailed over him, skidding in the sand before coming back, barking and growling in fury as drool dropped from it’s jowls.

He managed to back pedal, gaining some precious distance between him and the savage dog. It charged again, but had instead taken aim at one of the handlers, who had been pulled over when it slipped free from it’s leash and had not managed to fully exit the sandy arena. It grabbed at his loincloth, pulling him back, before clamping it’s jaws about his right wrist, bones crunching with the force as he screamed and beat at it’s nose with his fist. Then it was kicked back into the arena, and it rushed at Palanor once more. He was still half crouched as the beast knocked him backward, he managed to push the blade with both hands into it’s toothy maw, wedging it’s mouth open as it scrabbled at him with its claws. It wrenched the blade from his grip, casting it to one side with a spatter of blood as it cut its own mouth.

Well fuck. How fucking stupid of you to die like this, Palanor berated himself as time seemed to slow, the brutal beast turning back to deliver a savage bit to his neck. How has this helped Ashath? What a waste. He was angry, more than angry, furious at himself more than anything but also those three blonde bitches who had managed to lure him here, and that mad bastard of a sailor, and that Pale Man, who had started all this. They should pay along with me.

They will pay.

Fuelled by his fury he gripped the throat of the great dog and squeezed with all his might, driving his hands upward, half lifting the beast off him, it’s paws scratching at thin air. His neck muscles went taught as he bared and gritted his teeth with such force that a part of him though they would crack and shatter in his mouth. His forearms bulged with the effort as the hound twisted and fought his stranglehold upon it. He wasn’t in control anymore he realised in a detached manner at the back of his mind.

The dog managed to slip free but as it fell, gasping for breath his hands went for it again. He was half up now, kneeling in the sand, so he leapt at it, fingers outstretched as it opened its jaws to bite once more. He got his right around its lower jaw and his left wrapped about it’s snout. Then he began to force his hands apart. He couldn’t hear the crowd above him, nor could he feel the teeth digging into the flesh of his fingers as he forced the hounds jaws ever wider with slow, deliberate strength.

His eyes were wide, nearly popping out of his skull, and his whole body was tensed, threatening to tear itself with the effort as he got to his feet, prising the great dogs jaws open.

There was a sickening pop and a forlorn howl as the joint gave way,  but Palanor didn’t hear it or feel it, he was gone, taken by the blood-fury now. His breath came in ragged snorts through his gritted teeth as he strangled the beast, lifting it up in his grip and slamming the poor dog against the stone wall of the pit, pushing his hands into its neck as it stopped scrabbling and hung limp against the wall.

He stood there, pressing at it with all his might for what seemed like hours.

The crowd was stunned into silence, the people on the nearest side had craned over to see the spectacle, their view impeded by the wall of the pit.

He blinked and his mouth and muscles went slack. The dead dog dropped to the floor in a heap, tongue lolling in it’s broken jaw, head bent back at an unnatural angle from it’s broken neck.

Palanor stared in horror at the disfigured dog. He collapsed to his knees, now weak and shaking. He looked at his hands, which had been torn to shreds in the ensuing brawl and were freely bleeding, red blood soaking into the sand.

He fell onto his back, exhausted, trying not to pass out.

The crowd erupted. People jumped up and down, waving and screaming - in delight or horror he could not tell. He didn’t care.

The guards came out onto the sand, with weapons readied, cautious and somewhat unnerved at what they had just witnessed. They dragged the bodies of the helot and the dog away, leaving a trail of blood and faeces in the sand, before coming to lift the limp young warrior to his feet and half drag him from the cheering arena.

Chapter Text

Palanor was dumped on the ground with little ceremony. He was in a chamber, presumably buried beneath the ground under the arena. He shuddered with exhaustion, breath ragged but the cool air felt good in his lungs. He had barely got his wits together when he was hauled back up, supported by two of the guards. The blonde witch entered, followed by a sizeable escort of warriors in a variety of finery, from colourful feathers to dark green war paint – presumable made from the ground up pigment of the greenstone everyone but the helots wore in Dinas Affaraon. These men carried short swords, spears, bows with arrows tipped with spirit glass heads. Many of them also carried a strange club weapon tucked into their loincloth belts, it consisted of a flat wooden club, the flattened paddle like shape was as long as Palanor’s arm in some cases and down each blade of the paddle section stone blades had been set with pitch to create a serrated edge. Palanor knew from his experiences as a warrior that such a weapon would severely maim and wound with each strike, the fine stone blades shredding flesh with ease.

The witch woman stepped up to him. He realised how short she was, smaller than Ashath for certain. Her eyes were wide, the dark kohl drawn around them accentuating their size even more. Her elaborate dress with the greenstone pieces sewn into it swished about as she moved, the hem dragging on the flagstones on the floor.

“You, have killed my dog.” Her common tongue was stilted somewhat, she paused between words sometimes.

He sighed inwardly, having survived all that he was going to get killed because it was this mad bitch who owned the dog.

But to his surprise a grin spread across her face and her eyes lit up with excitement as she stepped forward, garbling a sentence in the local tongue. One of the men holding him up ruffled his hair and said something unintelligible. The men in the room chuckled and laughed, must have been a joke of some kind Palanor thought. He grinned as best he could.

The witch observed him, pouting as she did so before stepping forward, staring deep into his eyes and repeated what she had said for his benefit.

“You shall be my new hound!” She punctuated this with a rather good imitation bark, much the hilarity of the other men in the room who once again broke out into laughter and grins. They definitely weren’t smiling and laughing at her jokes because she could burn them to a crisp with a glance or turn them inside out with a spoken word, Palanor mused.

“You have blood-fury! Very strong, very angry!” She paused once again, musing on something.

“Uallus.” She proclaimed, and the guards nodded in agreement, repeating the word, “Uallus, Uallus.”

The witch spoke to him once more, her little pink tongue poking between her teeth as she smiled, eyes wide once more.

“You, Uallus, this your name.” She rubbed his head as the guard had done, more tittering from the warriors.

Palanor was no pet. He was a warrior, a hunter of his tribe, not some dog to be made to fight in a pit! He also knew the importance of names, their secret power and magical connotations. He wasn’t about to let this crazy woman belittle him like this.

“My name is…”

Her eyes flared with anger in an instant at the words and a sudden blow was delivered to his stomach by one of the men holding him up, driving the wind out his lungs yet again.

“Son of...”

Another blow, this one to the small of his back, kidney possibly. By the Dead that hurt!

“born…Hilti..”

Another blow, and another, slow and methodical, placed where it would hurt and with just enough force to cause the right amount of pain. He winced through it, gritting his teeth despite the ache in his jaw from his earlier straining whilst berserk.

“…of the plains.”

There was silence. No blows followed once he had stopped speaking. He panted, focusing on his breathing to ignore the pain. He set his jaw and stood tall, staring down the blonde girl before him.

She stepped in close, nose to nose, those eyes of madness flitting side to side as she looked in both his eyes.

“U-al-lus.”

She spoke in a slow, deliberate manner, forming each syllable and forcing it out as if she were talking to a child.

A single finger pushed forward with the same slow movement and she drove it into his chest with each sound.

“U-al-lus!”

He was done. He sagged in the grip of the men holding him up, his body a dead weight as he lost consciousness.

When he awoke, he was surrounded by strangers once more. He was lying down on a cold, hard stone floor and appeared to be sharing a small sort of room with a few other men who peered down at him. The room was lit by a few small, flickering oil lamps, which made the shadows on the walls dance and move and gave off a little yellowish light with which to see by. The men wore collars also and had the rough tunics of helots.

Palanor sat up, stretching tentatively body sore from before. By the dead he was hungry. As he thought that a small wooden platter was shoved into his hands, it contained bread and some sort of gruel made from grains. He didn’t waste any time and was soon mopping up the last of the crumbs with his fingers as the three other men in the room studied him in silence.

When he had finished one of them stretched out their hand, offering to take the wooden plate. Palanor passed it to him. An older man who had sat back on a small bench against the wall, with his arms folded across his chest spoke first.

“You really kill a war dog with your bare hands earlier?”

The other two leaned in from their perches, one squatting by Palanor’s side, the other sat against the other wall with his legs stretched out before him.

Palanor nodded and sniffed before holding up his hands, which had now been bandaged.

“Yes.”

The men looked at each other, slight nods showing they were impressed before they continued their questions.

“You new?” The one squatting next to him with long black hair spoke next, arms folded across his knees.

“They caught me earlier…” he trailed off, Palanor realised he didn’t know what day it was now, for all he knew a day or two could have passed.

Blackhair caught on to his confusion with speed.

“Ah, you were brought in here about six, maybe seven hours ago, it’s dark out now.” He pointed up at the wall behind Palanor, who turned and was surprised to see a small opening, more of slit in the wall through which he could see a sliver of night sky.

“I was caught yesterday then. Down by the river.”

The men didn’t respond to that comment, pressing on with their own questions.

“You’re a warrior? Whereabouts you from? What’s your choice of weapon, sword or spear?” and so on. Palanor answered where he could. He told them a highly edited version of his journey so far, saying he had been aboard a trading boat in which one of the crewmen went mad and tried to kill everyone – obviously possessed by kindred – and he had wandered up river until he got caught and brought here. Palanor told them he was looking for a woman and boy, stolen from a clan-brother back home, he gave Ishta’s and Rollo’s descriptions but the others just shrugged or shook their heads.

“We can ask around, but don’t expect much, they don’t all make it, especially the children.” Blackhair seemed the friendliest of the men, the others more detached, reserved.

Palanor asked his own questions.

He found out that these men were a different sort of helot, something called a ‘Hasti’, which meant that they weren’t sent to the quarries or fields to work but instead were well fed and exercised to fight in the arena for the entertainment of the free peoples of Dinas Affaraon. He had also been made a Hasti, and now would fight there as well. Blackhair explained that it was not a bad life, so long as you were good enough to survive and you played by the rules.

“What are the rules?” Palanor had asked.

Blackhair and the others explained that the fights were more about entertainment than anything else, a spectacle to watch like a tribal dance rather than a real fight. They wanted to see big, exaggerated moves and drawn out, dramatic clashes before the inevitable defeat. Sometimes both opponents survived, injuries and blood being enough to finish a match, but others required one Hasti had to die to satisfy the crowds. Sometimes the fights were as groups or against a wild animal, as Palanor had already experienced, but most often it was individual ‘duels’.

“If the crowd like you, you might become a favourite, get your own weapons and such and the crowd will chant you on, often then they give you weaker opponents, normal helots and such to fight.”

Palanor tried to take it all in. When they had explained the concept of his new life, he asked them more about Dinas Affaraon.

Once again it was Blackhair who spoke the most, the others chipping in occasionally with anecdotes.

He told Palanor of the city. That there were 6 houses, as Marren had said, and these were like incredibly large families who competed with one another.

“A tribe-within-a-tribe.” Palanor had muttered.

“Yes. Exactly.” Blackhair continued, not at all put off by the murmured interruption.

Each house had accrued power and wealth through various means, some houses were in charge of the fields, and so controlled the food of the city, another might own the quarries on the high slopes of the valley and so control the supply of stone for building. Each house had it’s own warriors who were loyal to that particular house, some by blood but others by payment. Eventually Palanor had to ask Blackhair to explain these strange words. It turned out that Dinas Affaraon didn’t trade like other tribes, they used small stone tokens or chits, the same ones Palanor had seen exchanged previously, to monitor trades. Effectively the chits acted as a promise of bartering and could be exchanged between individuals for things such as food, or clothing, or to get someone to do something for you like skilled work. In turn the people receiving the chits could then use them themselves for other exchanges. It made Palanor’s head spin with confusion. What an awful concept! How ever would you keep track of all the chits and who owed what? Trade for trade was a simple idea that worked, these Dinas Affaraon’s were mad!

Blackhair continued explaining this crazy place.

There were many who weren’t affiliated with the houses, they were just ordinary people, citizens (hence the term city, Palanor realised) but they all referred to themselves as Ca’tan, meaning ‘people’ in their own tongue, of course this excluded the helots and hasti who were enslaved, and as such were not considered people.

But there was another group of people who seemed to function similar to the elders of a tribe, the ones who made decisions and ran the place. This group were very important within the city, and they all resided within the large temple far back up the hanging valley, overlooking the rest of the city. There it was said that all sorts of sorcerers and shamans and witches lived, who used magic and sacrifice to guide their people, although others in the city, especially some of the Houses, feared that the shamans and sorcerers had corrupted the elders, had possessed them and poisoned their minds and were now ruling themselves, using the elders as puppets.

One of the other men scoffed at this and shook his head.

Blackhair ignored him and continued.

“They have kindred here, captive, forced into bodies of wood and stone and controlled by shamans, they are kept up at the temple and are not seen very often, used mainly in the grand ceremonies and rituals.”

Palanor spat, and rubbed his arms against such bad luck and dangerous magic, too easily corrupted were those who dominated the spirits of white fire. Even he, who had captured many such beings was cautious of their presence. These Shamans sounded mad and corrupted for certain.

Blackhair continued on with even worse news.

“You had better hope to die a clean death here, for at least one amongst the sorcerers is gifted at snaring spirits from the river and bringing them back to Life. They work the quarries and mines mostly.”

Palanor felt his stomach turn at the thought of being brought back from the river, his spirit forced into his own corpse to be made to work once more until his body rotted away to nothing. A fate worse than death itself. By the Dead, if he found himself in the river he would be sure to let it take him!

He spat once more and shook his head.

“Evil magic that, to raise the Dead in Life itself.”

Both Mala and Shaman Vel had walked in Death before, and consulted and consoled the spirits of the tribe who had passed, but they had blessed them and urged them on to the starry sky, not bid them back into Life!

All four men shivered at the thought.

“Well, you’re one of us now, Uallus.” Blackhair clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“My name is Palanor.”

Blackhair sighed and shook his head, face sympathetic.

“The witch has renamed you, the guards told us when they brought you here, your name is Uallus now. Think of… Palanor as having died in the arena, if that helps.”

Palanor digested this in silence, well two can play at that game, he thought to himself. The blonde witch, who had thought to take his power with his name, she too would be known as Cer’i’dwen – or Accursed Witch in the ancient tongue.

Chapter Text

Blackhair had been right. Life as a Hasti was about as good as it got for a slave in Dinas Affaraon. You woke with the sunrise – which pretty much everyone did, Palanor certainly had in his tribe anyway – and got on with whatever chores and tasks were required. This could involve fetching food, training weapons, leather pads, or fetching water for washing (Hasti’s were expected to stay relatively clean).

This morning he found himself doing just that. The sky was ablaze with pink hues which were beginning to burn through as a warm orange. The crisp air snatched at his lungs as he jogged through the paved streets, woven sandals slapping at the stone, dodging other helots or citizens who were going about their day. He carried two large water skins, currently empty, on a yoke made of a large, broad reed-like wood. The outer leather covers of the bags were tattered and stained from years of use, and the centre of the yoke was worn smooth by many shoulders and necks rubbing against it.

No one stopped him as he jogged. So long as you had the right token attached to your collar, you could go to most places without issue, or at least the Hasti could. Palanor had heard that helots, particularly women, would sometimes be accosted by young groups of warriors and taunted – or worse. So far he had not experienced that, he was not sure how he would react should he be targeted, or were he to stumble upon such a scene. He cast the thought from his mind, better not to dwell on such things in this place, as Blackhair often said.

Palanor – though he was called Uallus now by everyone – had been here a good moon now. So far, he had not yet found Ishta or Rollo but there were promising leads and rumours being fed back from the secretive network of slaves. It had been mentioned that a number of women and children were housed permanently in the temple. He just needed to find a way in without getting his head removed prematurely. He had hardly been given time to think though, even with the semi-luxurious life of a hasti. They trained for most of the day, in all forms of combat, as well as a number of basic exercises involving flexibility and strength. The Ca’tans took their entertainment seriously, with many people betting chits on the outcomes of the fights.

He dodged round a woman balancing a large basket of wet clothing on her head as he approached the gate, slowing down to walk. The guards already knew him, he was easily recognised by his red hair and beard (and the display of sheer physical violence that had captivated much of Dinas Affaraon for last few weeks). Even so, they did not smile as they checked the wooden tag attached to his collar, they looked down their long, hooked noses with haughty faces made of as much stone as their city.

Palanor had never really thought about it until he had come here, but different tribes really did look different to one another. He already knew this to some degree, the Crow people for example stood out with their face and neck tattoos, or the Sea People with their dyed tunics and cloaks. But when you stripped people of all their clothing and talismans, trinkets and styles, they could still (sometimes) be told apart. Palanor was the best example of this, for very few people in Dinas Affaraon had red hair like him, in fact he had not seen another person at all with it yet.

He pondered this as he made his way down the winding, switch-back road that descended the steep grassy slope interspersed with rocks and boulders, cutting its way through the fields right down to the river edge. By the time he came to a stop at the jetties the sky had brightened and the sun had risen above the horizon, bright golden disc radiating heat already despite the mists clinging above the water. The changing weather reminded him once again that he had already missed another moon without Ashath. His heart was numb to the feelings though, having been pushed down whilst he tried to complete his oath to Marren, soon enough Kibeth must come looking for him, she couldn’t have abandoned him – could she? They had parted ways in a rather abrupt manner. Better not to dwell on such things in a place like this, He thought to himself once again. He did check the moorings for the familiar dark wooden craft of Marren’s but to no avail. The wiry, half-mad sailor had not approached the city.

No matter, Palanor still had hope. In fact, something had changed within him that first time in the Arena, when he had lain in the sand, when he had brutally strangled the war hound, when he had been beaten afterward for announcing his name and heritage. He had been proud before, had thought he carried himself as a warrior should, but now he really felt it. There was some ember, some fragment of his spirit which had become so bright, so hardened, that it could not be dampened, nor crushed. Not when they had beaten him, not when they called him ‘Uallus’, not when they punished him with the whip or cane, not when they sent him to the shit pits for days at a time.  No. He had found within him some stubborn streak that survived all that, that welcomed it in fact. He might wear a collar and be forced to fight, but in some odd way, he was…different, maybe even more free than before. He felt it in the way he carried himself, not the boastful pride with which he had proclaimed his oath to Marren, or to Vel when he had set off to rescue Ashath. Those were still the acts of a warrior, but an inexperienced one, one who had not been truly tested.

He filled the water skins. The yoke, now weighing almost as much as he did if not slightly more, bent under the strain of the sodden leather sacks, now a much darker colour than before - water droplets leaving a double trail as he began the stiff walk back to the hasti barracks.

Palanor had become even stronger with the daily rigor and routine of a hasti. As a hunter he had trained with bow and spear, and ran for miles. As a warrior of his tribe he had trained with the sword, and had wrestled with the other boys by the evening campfires, even winning a few bouts in his time. But as a hasti, every possible aspect of fighting was practiced and repeated, and drilled into you. He had been shown how to box, which involved wrapping the hands and wrists in long leather straps that turned the fist into a solid club for punching and hammering at an opponent, ducking and dodging in close proximity to one another. He had been taught how to kick-fight, how to deliver blows with his legs that could cripple a man, and how to avoid such blows and toughen his legs. He wrestled naked with other hasti, some a full head taller than him, and had already learnt of many new tricks with which to lock limbs in painful positions or manipulate parts of the body in order to control an opponent better, often he had learned these techniques as they were applied to him, giving him the full appreciation of their value.

He was most surprised when they gave him a bow and a quiver of arrows, the guards didn’t seem overly concerned. He had not yet used a bow in the arena, but Blackhair told him that certain festivals at different times of the year also involved non combative competitions which hasti sometimes took part in.

Swords, spears, clubs, atlatls, slings, the list was endless, he was instructed in the use of all of them, it helped that he was familiar already of course. He had been puzzled by the surprise that he was so versed in such common weapons and tools, but Blackhair had once again explained it.

“Most helots are not like us; they are not captured from foreign lands or tribes. No, they are born here into helot families and are raised as helots themselves, many of them have known nothing else but this life. That’s why you were brought here on your first day, we of the outside tribes are often tested, as we are more dangerous. We know weapons and fighting, and most of all, we know what it is to be free.”

Palanor had nodded in agreement. The hasti were some of the most skilled warriors he had met, he had to admit. At first he had looked down on the others as he had done to Marren. But he had quickly learnt respect for all of them, regardless of where they came from or what they looked like. Each man (and the very few women hasti who were often kept separate entirely) had skill in some form of combat, and had at some point (except the women, who were kept separate) beaten Palanor in that particular training session.

Then there were the fights, the duels as the Ca’tan called them. He had only taken part in two other fights since his first time in the arena. He had won both, much to the enjoyment of the crowd. He did not dwell too much on his opponents. A part of him disagreed with fighting for the roaring masses who bayed for bloodshed, but his opponents were not the unskilled boy he had first fought, these men were worthy adversaries and he gave them clean, quick deaths that let their spirits walk free once more in the river. They were not kin, nor were they sworn clan-brothers, and so their passing was a mere fact of life. They faced the river with courage and earned a warriors farewell, Palanor only hoped he could face his end with the same dignity. He did sometimes fear the day he and Blackhair would be pitted against one another, for they were both good fighters and had become quite close. Possibly the closest thing Palanor had to a friend.

Blackhair himself came from a tribe to the west, who lived by another sea, a different sea to the one Marren lived by. This sea was apparently known as the Great Western sea and was wracked by storms much like the Eastern sea. His people were strong warriors and their villages and fortresses had stood for many generations against the raids of the Ca’tan of Dinas Affaraon. But Blackhair had been taken on a patrol, stolen away and separated from his clan-brothers. He had made a life for himself and even had a woman, another helot who gathered reeds and wove mats, who he was immensely proud of called Ixsh-cli. They were allowed to meet after a victory in the arena or during one of the festivals, when helots and hasti alike were given precious time off to relax.

As Palanor trudged back through the gates, stopping only briefly to have his token checked by the bored warriors guarding the wall, his mind wandered to thoughts of Ashath, her face and body had become more difficult to picture in his minds eye. He allowed himself a few moments of self-pity and loathing at his failures to retrieve her, and prayed that the ancestors watch over her. He tried to picture her lecturing the Pale Man over some minor inconvenience to brighten his thoughts, her little face screwed up in annoyance and his mysterious visage cowering in fear. He managed a half-hearted smirk, quashing the feelings once more as he picked his way between stalls lining the streets.

He realised someone was walking beside him.

He glanced over, which was awkward with the heavy yoke and water skins, but manageable for a short moment.

It was a woman. A tall woman. By the Dead she was the biggest person - let alone woman - he had ever seen. Her arms were thicker than his or Blackhairs, muscle knotted as she moved beside him, staring ahead at an unknown destination. She wore the tunic of a helot, but no collar, but she didn’t look like a Ca’tan at all. She had shaggy black hair that was choppy and fell to her broad shoulders in thick curls. About her forehead she wore a ragged scrap of cloth tied as the Hasti sometimes did to keep sweat out of their eyes. Her face was not un-attractive; she had high cheek bones, a long nose, and a strong jaw, with clean, lightly tanned skin. She noticed that he was staring at her and her eyes slid to meet his.

Then she winked at him with a mischievous grin.

He felt like he recognised her…wait, surely not?

“Another fine mess you’ve got yourself into here, Palanor.”

She continued walking as she spoke, but kept her voice quiet. He had stopped in surprise, no one else called him Palanor here, but people behind had bumped into him, causing him to stumble and beg an apology in broken Ca’tani before catching back up to her.

“Kibeth!” he hissed, sounding annoyed but deep down he felt a sudden relief, “Took your time, it’s been a full moon!”

Kibeth, in her tall human form (what was it that she liked about being so damn large all the time?) continued walking, arms swinging in a swagger, grin plastered across her wolfish face.

“Yeah well, we knew it wasn’t going to be a short task this damn fool oath of yours. Marren gave me a bit more information. He’s an odd one you know.”

Palanor noticed that people didn’t really look at Kibeth, they stepped out of her way but never fully looked at her. Yet another subtle demonstration of powerful magic, not only to change her form once more, but to go unnoticed despite being as tall as the first floor of a stone hut!

“You don’t say? Huh?” His tone was sarcastic, but he really was pleased to see her.

“Oh, it’s nice to be missed,” She was reading his mind again, “I’ve missed you and all the trouble you get yourself in! Anyway I thought I’d better come and check on you and lo and behold you got out of one imprisonment and fell straight into another.” She glanced over at him again, flashing an even wider grin, “You got a thing for getting tied up?”

“What!?” Palanor shook his head in confusion, “I need you to help me find Ishta and Rollo, and then…maybe help us get out the city.” He murmured, reluctant now to admit he had been foolish, even though he had admitted it to himself, now that she was standing here he felt churlish.

“Hmmm…no.” Kibeth sauntered on, she seemed to already know his route and was leading him back to the Hasti barracks, “You swore the oath, you find them, you get them out of here. I just came to check you were alive, because if you were dead, I could go and find someone intelligent to help me with my task, which by the way, is still waiting for you after this little side-quest.”

She managed to squeeze down a narrow alleyway, a shortcut Palanor had discovered only the other day, he followed her, careful to balance the yoke in front and behind him as he came through the gap.

The small courtyard the alleyway cut through was empty. Kibeth turned and blocked the way, arms folded across her chest.

“Listen, I’ve got to keep an eye on Marren, that was my part of the deal. I’ll stick around for a short while and point you in the right direction but this is your oath. You can do this.” She punctuated her point with a large finger prodding into Palanor’s chest. He nodded. Comforted by her presence, despite the part of his mind which knew her to be kindred. How odd it was to feel such a way about a being who wasn’t even made of the stuff of Life.

“Hey! I’m on your side!” She put on an upset face; bottom lip curled outward as she blinked imaginary tears away.

“Yeah, yeah. Just, have a sniff around the temple, the big building way up the valley, I reckon they might be there. Let me know before you disappear!”

She stepped aside and he slid past her huge frame, barely managing with the yoke across one shoulder. He stopped before he left the courtyard and spoke over his shoulder.

“Good to see you Kibeth.” He carried on, now knowing that he was going to make it out of here after all, and also knowing he was going to get a few stripes of the cane from the trainers for being slow with the water.

Kibeth watched him go before muttering, “Good to see you Palanor.”

Chapter Text

The city seemed even more chaotic than usual. Street vendors and stalls had been lavishly decorated with the last flowers of the season, all manner of coloured petals now littered the paving stones. The Ca’tan had begun to wear even more elaborate outfits, cuts of dyed cloth embroidered with intricate patterns in fine thread, even larger hats and headpieces with feathery plumes or manes of fur, Palanor had even witnessed a group of young upper-class women walk past one afternoon in tall, strange wooden sandals that must have required excellent balance skills to wear and use without tottering over all the time.

All of this excitement and activity meant one thing, a festival was approaching. Much like other peoples of the land, the Ca’tan of Dinas Affaraon followed the cycles of the moon and sun to mark the passing of time. As summer ended and the winter began, the length of day and night would change, now three moons on from midsummer, the autumn equinox was upon them. This was the time when day and night were perfectly balanced, each occupying the same time, neither one longer than the other. As such it was a good time to reap the harvests of the dwindling summer and have a feast and celebration.

This meant more duels, fights, and spectacles at the Arena.

It also meant free time for helots and hasti alike, a perfect opportunity for Palanor to mingle and hopefully find Ishta and her son Rollo. He just had to survive his fights.

“You’re not concentrating, again!” Blackhair leant forward and offered his hand to help Palanor back up.

Palanor nodded in an apologetic manner.

“Distracted.” He set his stance once again, staying light on his feet as the sand shifted below them.

“By what, Uallus?” Blackhair grinned, “Found a woman you like, eh?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “About time a young pup like you got bedded.”

Palanor smirked in response, the usual joke. He was the youngest and the newest of the Hasti so got made fun of the most.

“I’ve already told you, my woman is waiting for me Blackhair…!” He leapt forward with a strike, wooden training sword scything downward in a darting cut to clash against Blackhair’s firm parry.

“…and she’s certainly satisfied with my talents in the bed furs!” Palanor twisted back, feet dancing over the sand as he shifted his balance to avoid Blackhair’s counter attack.

“Ha! You wish, women pretend you know! Best liars in the world, better even than Kindred some say!” Blackhair hacked and slashed with his sword, the flat wooden blade narrowly missing Palanor numerous times as the younger warrior darted back and forth.

Palanor grunted in the effort as he brought his wicker shield up, catching the last blow with a glancing block, turning the sword aside.

“You’d know! Every woman has had to fake it with you!”

The pair broke out into massive grins as they faced off against one another.

After the training had concluded, many hours later, the pair went to scrub themselves with cold water before being released to go and watch the beginning ceremony of the Autumn festival. Almost everyone within the city would be there, it was actually a requirement for all slaves, helot or hasti to be present.

As they wandered through the crowded streets together, following the mass of people who all flowed in one direction – toward the great temple – Palanor sensed Blackhair’s mood shift. Where as before he had been jovial and light hearted, his friend now bore a stony visage, mouth which had smiled just minutes before now hardened into a thin line. Palanor had sensed the tension amongst the Hasti as the week approached. They all seemed downbeat, despite the promises of free time off and the chance to spend time with the other helots, especially the young women.

Palanor had tried to broach the subject but Blackhair shrugged it off.

“You’ll see for yourself Uallus, best not to dwell on it.”

The city stank. That was something Palanor couldn’t get used to. He had spent his entire life in a small village, the latrine pits there had been a few shallow trenches dug into the ground away from the river, by the time one was filled back in, another had rotted away and was ready to use again. But here, where the soil was non-existent and with many times over the people of his village, the problem of human waste was a major industry.

It was by far the worst job for a helot. The shit pits. That was what everyone called it. In Dinas Affaraon, every dwelling would have a dedicated pot, often glazed clay, but basically anything water tight, that the inhabitants would use for their daily ablutions. Each morning and each evening special carts would be dispatched about the hodgepodge streets of the city, pulled by helots, to collect such waste and eventually take it out of the city, down the switch-back path to the growing fields, where it was then transferred to nourish the crops. It was, quite frankly, a shit job. It wasn’t just the unpleasant smell, Palanor had gutted many animals in his time and had little squeamishness when it came to innards or half-digested food, it was backbreaking work that never ended. Plus you often got sick within a few days of working a shift on the carts, something Palanor had rarely experienced living in a small, isolated village. It was the usual punishment for major transgressions as a helot, namely refusing a Ca’tan master.

Palanor had done a shift the first week he had been a Hasti, after ignoring the calls of ‘Uallus’, defiantly refusing to answer to anything other than ‘Palanor’. He had eventually come to not mind the name change, though deep down he was still Palanor to himself.

All the people were now pushing in on each other, trying to get through narrow alleyways and small, square arches that sometimes marked boundaries of special places.

He and Blackhair stuck together as the crowd surged forward, carrying the two men with it. For a brief moment there was panic, but the pressure eased as the mass of people emptied out onto a large square that sat below the front steps of the temple.

It was certainly an impressive view, and an impressive structure. A great, geometric pile of cut stone, built up to an impressive height, the top of which could look down on the entire city. Within it were said to be chambers and tunnels that housed many people, including the elders of the city, and the many helots who tended to their every need. At the top, which flattened out as a much narrower platform than the great, broad base far below it, stood a single wide stone like a table or alter. The main steps led down from this single stone all the way to the great plaza Palanor and Blackhair now found themselves in. Behind the temple rose the black bluffs that formed the peak of an adjoining mountain that linked the two knife ridges that hemmed the valley in.

The dark peak was frequently in cloud, giving it an ominous and foreboding appearance.

Blackhair craned his neck and looked about at the crowds around them as Palanor took in the view – it was the first time he had been to the plaza and the foot of the temple.

“Uallus, I see Ixsh-cli, let’s go.” He indicated with his head and Palanor followed his friend through the scattered groups of people toward a small group of dainty women. Out here on the edge of the plaza it wasn’t so crowded, at the foot of the temple would be all the Ca’tan, abasing themselves with their strange beliefs.

Ixsh-cli was a petite woman with blonde hair - though this was not the same blonde as the witches, who’s hair shimmered like spun sunlight - hers was more natural, with a variety of shades to it. She was attractive and Blackhair seemed very protective toward her. She beamed as she saw them approach, arms opening wide to receive her man’s embrace. Palanor stood by as the couple reunited with a deep throaty kiss. She greeted him.

“Hi Uallus.”

He nodded with a polite smile. “Ixsh-cli, good to see you.”

She gestured at her companions, all of whom were young women she worked with, who smiled and nodded at Palanor.

“You should meet my friends, they’ve heard so much about you and are desperate to meet you.” She grinned at the other girls, some of whom blushed, others however, held his gaze with a definite glint in their eyes.

Palanor nodded to each of them as they huddled together in the crowd. He would have to politely refuse their advances, though they were all undoubtedly pretty, none of them were Ashath.

They crowded around him and Blackhair, fussing over recent training injuries or commenting on their physique. It was pleasant to once again be in the company of attractive women, Palanor admitted to himself. One of the bolder girls had squeezed his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath, and had giggled and whispered sweet suggestions in his ear. He had laughed and shook his head, but the girl kept close to him. They all seemed slightly drunk, their faces flushed and their manner giddy. Blackhair eventually reached round and tapped him on the shoulder, handing him a small leather flask, the smile from meeting up with Ixsh-cli now faded once more.

“Take it, drink Uallus, you’ll need it.”

Palanor took a surreptitious swig, helots and hasti could have alcohol if they could get it, but the laws of Dinas Affaraon forbade any such consumption in the streets. It burnt his throat and made his eyes water. He coughed and Blackhair snatched the flask from him in annoyance, concerned the young warrior would spill the rest. The girls laughed even more now, one clinging to each shoulder as the pleasant warmth of the drink spread through his belly. Ah, no harm in a cuddle or two, Palanor thought, no different to dancing with another woman was it? Ashath was far away and he was lonely! Still the very thought of her brought that uneasy feeling of guilt to the fore once more. He let his arms drop to his sides, the girls could cling onto him if they wanted to but he wouldn’t encourage it.

They moved forward into the great crowd as drums started up and the mass of people quietened down.

The first ceremony of the equinox festival was beginning.

He felt one of the girls tap him on the left, he turned and was met with that same wolfish face he had encountered not so long ago at the City gate.

Kibeth. She had shrunk her height and size somewhat, thought she was still taller than him, presumably in such a crowd she would stand out even with her strange magical cloak of being seemingly ignored. She leaned in and muttered to him.

“You reckon you could get one for me?” Eyeing the oblivious girl next to Palanor.

He scowled and ignored the question, “Have you found them? Where are they?”

Kibeth returned to looking ahead with the rest of the crowd, keeping her voice casual, “Yeah….I know where they are.”

Palanor felt a surge of relief, and the thrill of victory being one step closer.

“Great, where are they?” He glanced around, they could be in this very crowd, he could slip away and find them both and they could all be off before sundown.

Kibeth nodded to the small crowd of people gathering at the very top of the temple. “She’s up there somewhere, or in the temple itself, I think. Couldn’t risk going in.” She avoid the reason for not going in.

Palanor’s heart sank. The Temple was the most guarded and dangerous place of all Dinas Affaraon if the rumours were true!

“Any suggestions?” He muttered out the corner of his mouth. The girl beside him turned her head, believing he had spoken to her, he cleared his throat and she turned her attention back to the small group of people at the top of the great mound of stone.

When no answer came he looked up at Kibeth, she was eyeing up a tall man who for some reason had also caught sight of her. She had a big grin on her face and tossed her head at him, he gave a crooked smile back. He tugged on her tunic.

“Here, any suggestion on how we…I mean I, get in there?”

She turned back to him with a look of annoyance on her face, brows knitted in a discouraging frown.

“I don’t know, it’s your oath. Work it out.”

The drums stopped and the plaza went silent. Palanor noticed that the helots were separated from the Ca’tan by a line of guards, and that behind them too, exits to the plaza had been sealed off with armed warriors in greater numbers than he had seen before.

The small gathering of what he presumed to be elders moved forward to address the great city below them.

Palanor had picked up some of the Ca’tani language but it was broken at best. What appeared to be an old man in a long, elaborate robe, holding a large polished disc of greenstone which caught the light of the sun as he shifted it in his grip, spoke to the crowd.

Palanor didn’t catch what he said at all, he looked to Blackhair but the man was staring intently at the top of the temple, jaw clenched. The crowds at the foot of the great stone structure surged with a cheering roar.

Palanor made out Cer’i’dwen as he called her, and her other blonde witch sisters, they stood in a group to one side at the top of the temple. Each had a sort of fan like headpiece made of feathers, their long silver-blonde hair cascading like a waterfall down their shoulders, eyes darkened with kohl. They had some other face paint on but from this distance he couldn’t see it clearly, just a haze across their skin. With the witches stood another. he appeared to be an incredibly thin man in nothing but a long patterned poncho, hair completely white, bent over with a crooked stick to hold him up. The women flanked him, implying he was a shaman or sorcerer of some rank.

What Palanor presumed was the elders stood on the other side.

After the speech had ended, the hidden drums took up once more. How anyone had heard a thing he didn’t know, but perhaps at the foot of the temple it was easier to listen.

All the helots had fallen silent, eyes fixed on the top of the temple, whilst the Ca’tan raved and danced and threw up their arms in clear delight.

Then he found out why.

Another figure approached the long stone at the top of the steps from behind. It looked like a young boy or girl, their hair was cut very short. They wore a collar and tunic. It was a helot child.

Palanor could feel the tension in the air around him, Blackhair to his right, and even Kibeth to his left who had now fixed her gaze upon the scene before them, quizzical frown looking on as she narrowed her eyes.

The boy lay down across the long stone, as if it were a bed, looking up at the sky above him.

With a sudden motion one of the elders stepped forward with an axe and beheaded the young boy.

It was so sudden that Palanor wasn’t sure what had happened, he whirled around to Blackhair.

“Wha…” His friend grabbed him firmly by the back of the neck, forcing his head back round to the horrific, grisly scene.

He leaned in and hissed, shaking Palanor by the neck “Look….Look at them, for their sake you watch, bear witness to true courage in the face of death. You think we die with honour and courage brother? Those up their waiting in line laugh at our efforts!”

Palanor returned his gaze to the top of the temple with a horrific reluctance, unable to draw his eyes away.

The elder had hurled the severed head down the steps to the baying crowd, and was now pushing the body down after it. The roar of the Ca’tan crowd was tremendous.

Palanor felt sick. Not even raiders, who had no honour and eked a living in the wilds by raiding villages, hurt children.

He glanced at Kibeth, her face was taut, lips curled, teeth gritted, eyes wide as she watched. Blackhair released his neck. Palanor watched on as another child stepped up to the stone, and another.

Twelve, in total, made their way to that blooded altar, making no noise or struggle. They did not shake with fear or seem to cry. They lay down, one after the other and walked in the river.

Palanor felt the rage return. The shock was wearing off, it had all happened so quickly, but now he felt it. Now he flet the tears in his eyes. They weren’t his kin, no, they weren’t his tribe. But children were sacred. This was evil! He felt distraught, lost, his head whirled with images of violence. He would rip and tear and rend the crowds before him, who even now hoisted limbs and body parts in ecstasy, he would level this temple and slay those who stood atop i….

Kibeth grabbed him in a bear hug, thick arms squeezing the air out of him. She hissed in his ear.

“Not now. Not here. You control it, breathe! Breathe Palanor! Think of Ashath! There are too many here for even you! They will fill you full of arrows tipped with spirit glass and cut you up as they did those pups. Breathe!”

She held him firm in her impossible grip as he struggled, wrestling with himself to stay in control, to deny the blood-fury and a glorious revenge.

Kibeth held the young warrior in her grip. She could feel his inner torment and she heartily empathised with his sentiments. But now was not the time, not yet. She had felt the spirits of the young man-pups go to the river, and she had whispered unheard blessings for each one, nudging them along to the starry sky that awaited all eventually. But tears rolled down her own human face now as she knew that some had been caught again, snared and hooked by one atop the temple who was an experienced necromancer. If she had helped each spirit escape, he would have known something was amiss. So she had held her powers.

Part of her shook as Palanor did now in her arms. She wanted to cast off this weak form and summon the wrath of her sisters to this accursed place. Let white-fire cleanse this tainted ground for these people had no place in the world her and her sisters were devising. But she held her tongue. All pettiness fell away. She knew what she must do.

They stood like that for what seemed like an age. Palanor locked in Kibeth’s bear hug embrace, until eventually he relaxed and she felt his mind calm once again. Unbeknownst to either of them, Ixsh-cli had looked over once, before snapping her head back to the crowds.

"You want to avenge those who died here today?" She growled.

"Aye." He felt empty, but he still wanted to.

"Find a way to get sent out the City to the fields, tomorrow if you can, I'll find the woman and son. You're going to find a weapon capable of slaying people such as these." She didn't explain further. she didn't need to. He just needed pointing in the right direction.

The elders proceeded down the gore-caked steps of the temple in a long line. The warriors pushed their war through the crowds giving them a clear path to walkdown.

The Ca’tani waved and danced and clapped and cheered as they passed through. The Helots stood in sombre silence, red eyes staring as they passed in finery.

Palanor watched as Cer’i’dwen and her sisters passed by, she pointed at him and said something to the large warrior escort that was following and preceding the group of elders and sorcerers. The warriors pushed through the crowd, using spears to hold back the masses as yet more took out swords to make threatening swings at those who did not move in time. Three of them grabbed Palanor by his tunic and dragged him away. The girl on his arm tried to struggle with them, clinging onto his wrist. Palanor tried to tell her to let go, that it would be alright, but before he could finish she was punched viciously in the face by one of the warriors. She stumbled back into Blackhair who even now was shepherding Ixsh-cli and the other women away from the warriors as other helots struggled, began to surge forward and wrestle with the guards for control of the spears.

But the Ca’tani were no fools. They knew how their captive population behaved at such festivals. Shrieking whistles and the whizzing of bullroarers brought hundreds of warriors into the plaza, armed with all manner of weaponry. The helots broke and ran en masse, stampeding out through the narrow passageways that had now been deliberately left un guarded. The Ca’tani themselves were also emptying out the plaza, though in slightly less panic than the helots.

Palanor was dragged along and held by his collar as the procession turned and retreated back to the temple steps with haste. Lines of warriors separated the small group from the rest of the now dissipating crowd. In the distance screams began to rise across the city, the shrill tones of women and the deep cries of men as they fought or fled in the stone streets.

Chapter Text

WARNING: PLEASE CHECK UPDATED TAGS BEFORE CONTINUING. CHAPTER CONTAINS SCENES THAT MAY BE UNCOMFORTABLE FOR SOME.

Palanor found himself deep in the temple tunnel complex. He had been dragged along by the warriors escorting the blonde witch he called Cer’i’dwen, journeying deep into the stone structure that housed the sorcerers and shamans of Dinas Affaraon.

The only lights were flickering oil lamps, simple wicks burning with dull flames, whisps of smoke occasionally drifted up as the group passed by.

They entered a large chamber. It was furnished with many lavish decorations; large, brightly coloured mats which had intricate patterns woven into the fabric, fine, patterned furs from strange animals, an assortment of silver and gold plates, bowls, and cups which were positioned on top of a well carved wooden table. A large stone frame occupied the centre of the room, and within it was a large pile of furs and woven blankets, small sacks of fine cloth had been placed on top of it and contained some sort of soft filling.

Along one wall was a series of hooks and shelves which held a variety of magical paraphernalia, some of which Palanor recognised, but most of which was unknown to him beyond the obvious taint of magic that emanated from the objects.

The air was heady with incense which burned from stone holders, some hung from the ceiling from little straps and others were placed about the shelves, tables, and corners of the room. A very occasional whiff of damp would get through however, the stone walls glistening with moisture in some places. Despite this the air in the chamber and tunnels was not cold, like it was in the great barrow back home.

Cer’i’dwen dismissed the warriors, who bowed their heads and left immediately, backing out the way they came, dropping a large, decorated rug across the opening to the passageway – sealing the room.

Palanor stood, arms limp by his side, eyes half glazed over, avoiding her. He did not fear the witch who now went about her own business, long skirt dragging across the stones, her fan shaped headpiece casting odd shadows on the walls from the light of the oil lamps. He feared what he would do if he did look at her. He feared he would lose control as he almost had in the plaza, or when Hallin had taunted him at Midsummer. He feared now that he would give in to the blood-fury and kill this evil woman who stood before him, before being slain by many warriors and sorcerers who would come pouring in like ants from the dank tunnels.

The woman hummed to herself as she removed bracelets and necklaces, her back to him as she placed them on shaped holders that displayed their polished beauty. She removed her headpiece with reverence, laying it down in the centre of the wooden table which dominated one wall of the chamber.

She turned about to face him. He felt a tugging at his guts, a distinct pressure behind his eyes to swivel them over to her now. He resisted, forcing his stare into blank space, a random point near the corner of the room.

She giggled and spoke an unheard word.

Palanor’s eyes snapped up and across to hers in an instant, he felt the faint tang of hot metal burn through the incense heavy air to reach him.

She had him in her control with a single word.

He looked at her now, dark kohl around her eyes, eerily similar to how Ashath painted hers for a ritual. Cer’i’dwen had rouged her lips, but not with pigment he realised, the colour smeared was instantly recognisable as blood.

His stomach twisted once more, but from disgust rather than any magic.

She approached him, with a deliberate slowness, each step a swagger as she looked him up and down, eyes narrowed in a sadistic, mischievous manner. It was clear that she was enjoying his futile struggle to try and look away as she pouted her lips into a lopsided smile.

“Ah, the hate, the anger. Mmmmm,” Her tongue darted out to lick her lips as her eyes widened in excitement, “Delightful!”

Palanor remained locked in place, unable to move or speak, only allowed to breathe, and listen to this horrid witch.

“You have the blood-fury.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Mhm, yes you do! A rare gift in these lands.” She was almost nose to nose with him now, if she stepped any closer, she’d walk right into him. Her hand came up and rested on his chest, feeling his heart beat through the rough spun fabric of his tunic. It was quick, the anticipation of being in her presence, the aftermath of the flood of emotions from the ceremony and plaza before.

“An auspicious time, the equinox. We shall not waste any mor…”

She was interrupted by someone coming through the woven flap. A woman, entering with her back to the room, hunched over carrying something. Palanor couldn’t really see as his eyes were locked to Cer’i’dwen’s and so only had peripheral vision to go by.

The witch whirled about, anger on her face.

“Ishta! Leave us!”

Ishta! Palanor’s mind suddenly snapped into action. This couldn’t be? Could it? He focused on the woman at the edge of his vision. It certainly looked like Marren’s description.

The woman put down whatever she had brought, keeping her face looking at the floor, half cowering as she backed out the chamber.

The blonde witch shouted after her “I’ll have that son of yours strung up if you interrupt us again!”

So Rollo was here as well! Palanor realised how close he now was to completing his blood oath.

Cer’i’dwen whirled back around to face him.

Palanor stood motionless, still held by her power.

“Oh! You like the look of her, don’t you?” Her tone now casual, almost mocking him as she fluttered her eye lashes.

“Well, if you satisfy me tonight, and succeed in your games this week, I may consider giving her to you. A reward for a good dog.” She gritted her teeth with the last words, all joviality gone from her face.

The woman was mad. Corrupted most likely by the infectious magic she practiced, no control or limit put in place to reduce her exposure or her lust for power.

She raised her hand, fingers spread wide, before sweeping it to one side.

Palanor stumbled to his left, falling over the stone edge of the bed and falling onto the piles of furs and rugs like a child’s doll thrown into a corner during a tantrum. He felt and heard her step up and once more now his limbs and joints had a life of their own. He flipped onto his back and began to wiggle backwards, arms pinned to his sides. Then she lowered her hand.

He blinked away the tears in his eyes from the pain of his muscles being used in ways they were not meant to, his chest shuddering with each breath. The tang of magic once again curling about his nostrils. His head was lifted, neck craning now to look at the witch whilst the rest of him lay motionless.

He had already guessed what this mad bitch wanted with him. His suspicions were confirmed when she slipped the delicate dress from her shoulders and let it fall to the fall, revealing her slim, tanned body in the faint lamplight.

She considered him once more now, licking her bloody lips in anticipation as her hand made its way to her groin. She pleasured herself for a while, staring at him as he was forced to stare back, neck bent painfully forward to watch her.

Once her breathing had quickened in time with her fingers, she stopped, lifting her hand to her lips she tasted herself for a moment, savouring it, before beginning to crawl on top of Palanor.

“Oh Uallus, you will put a child in my belly this night who will one day be the mightiest warrior in all the lands! He will rule Dinas Affaraon as a war chief sat atop a throne of skulls! The mingling of our bloodlines shall grant him our gifts and he will be unstoppable!”

She pushed at his tunic, lifting it up to his flat belly, even more toned now from weeks of hard training as a hasti.

She sighed in disappointment when she saw he was not in the mood.

Another word, muffled to his ears, was spoken and he felt his body betray him once more. Within a minute Cer’i’dwen was satisfied he was ready and climbed up before easing herself onto him.

She bared her teeth in a snarl that was part pleasure, part madness.

Palanor lay there as she gyrated her pelvis back and forth on top of him, body locked stiff, his head bent forward still.

The witch upped the pace and switched to a quick bounce, her firm buttocks slapped against his thighs, the gentle sound echoing in the chamber. She would lean back, and Palanor felt sure she would snap him, such was the pain of it, his eyes screwed shut and his own jaw clamped tight.

After some time she released his neck and his head flopped back, to stare up at the dark stone ceiling as she continued, oblivious to anything else it seemed.

He lay there, numb. It wasn’t that he felt guilty toward Ashath, he had little choice in this matter, but rather the ease with which this woman had puppeted him about, how little he truly knew of magic despite his talents. The scenes from before with the helot children flashed through his mind, interspersed with Ashath’s face, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying in sorrow.

The witch leaned forward now, presumably realising that he could not finish in such a painful position. Her breasts were over him and she looked down with eager eyes.

There was no love in this act. No gentle caress or passionate embrace. The pair did not press their faces together to kiss and nip and nibble at one another in play, nor did they pull one another in, in that vain attempt to be truly one with each other. No. There was none of that. No thrill or excitement of being with a soulmate.

It was uncomfortable and he felt ashamed of how weak he was to allow this to continue.

With gritted teeth he eventually was spent.

Within moments she waved her hand and he flopped over like a fish until he fell from the bed onto the stone floor in a heap whilst she lay upon the furs face up, bracing her hips up.

“Ishta! Ishtaaa!” Her piercing shriek made Palanor wince.

Within a few moments the curtain hanging over the passageway was pushed aside and Ishta once again entered, this time face forward, head bowed.

“Take Uallus to the guards, they are to send him back to the hasti barracks.”

Palanor got to his feet, he was unsteady and dizzy for a moment but it passed. He wanted to check she hadn’t bent him out of shape permanently but he wasn’t about to show such weakness in front of her.

Ishta beckoned him, glancing up through her brows, her face still bowed down out of fear for Cer’i’dwen who remained lying on the stone bed, face staring up at the ceiling and hips and buttocks thrust up into the air as she murmured spells to herself.

The pair left in silence.

Once Palanor was sure they were out of earshot of the chamber he grabbed at Ishta and pressed her against the wall, one hand clamping across her mouth to smother her instinctive scream.

“Marren sent me! Marren!” He explained in a hushed and hurried tone.

She went silent, eyes wide, not sure if this was some cruel trick of the evil witch she served. He removed his hand.

“I have come to take you back to him, you and your son!”

He checked up and down shadowy tunnel in case guards patrolled them, but he heard and saw nothing. The diminutive woman remained silent.

“Is your son here in the temple?” Palanor asked.

A slow nod was her only response.

“I have to go and find a… weapon which can lay these people,” he motioned back down the tunnel toward the witch’s chamber, “Once I have that I will come for you and your son and we will go to the river where Marren waits for us.”

She let out a silent, choking sob, her own hands coming up to her mouth in what Palanor realised was tears of joy. She spoke in a whisper.

“W-When?”

Palanor didn’t actually know this yet, Kibeth was the one calling the shots now, he remembered her face and jaw set in disgust back at the plaza. Something had changed within her at that moment, he felt sure she meant to kill all the shamans and sorcerers. But he didn’t know how long that might take.

“Soon, soon, there are others…friends who might come looking for you, a-a tall woman with shaggy black hair,” Kibeth wouldn’t be hard to miss if she came looking for Ishta, “Or maybe.. a dog, it’s hard to explain. Be ready to leave, but do not make it obvious!”

She nodded as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

She took him back to the guards and they parted ways without a single look between them.

He was led back out of the tunnels though this time he was not dragged or pulled along, the guards merely walked in front and behind him until they emerged out the side of the temple at the level of the plaza.

The sun had set now and the sky above was darkening as clouds drew in to smother the light of the moon and stars. The air was cold and Palanor’s breath clouded in front of his face. He resisted the urge to shiver, once again, he didn’t want to give any sign of weakness to these people.

Small groups of warriors stood scattered about the plaza, their burning torches casting an orange glow about them.

The two guards handed him a wooden token.

“You go barracks quick, many trouble with helots, some die.”

He pointed at the token in Palanor’s hand.

“Show this to warriors in street, keep head. No show, lose head.”

Palanor understood, you needed tokens to move about in the city as a helot. But the punishment for being caught without one was normally a beating of some kind. As he stepped out and walked across the plaza he realised that there were bodies strewn about the place and that the warriors stood in the glow of the torches followed his movements across the open space.

Best not to run, he thought, walk like you have a purpose, a reason for being out and make sure you hold that token up if anyone approaches. It would be just his luck to get killed right when the plan was coming together. As he neared a narrow passage that led out of the plaza and into the streets of the city he recognised one of the bodies lying propped up against a wall.

It was one of Ixsh-cli’s friends, the girl who had clung onto him when he was first taken. He glanced around him, they were both in shadow now and no one was about, the guards had gone back to their huddled groups, wrapping cloaks about them as they chatted to pass the time.

A thin, faint trail of breath emerged from her swollen and bloodied lips. She was still alive.

He bent down, her face was swollen on one side, the left eye forced shut with dark bruises already showing through, the right eye stared ahead in a daze. Her lip was split but had begun to scab over. She was covered in bruises and cuts and her tunic had been torn to reveal a breast which seemed to have been bitten. Her hands gripped at the hem of her tunic, pulling it across her groin and over her thighs.

As he knelt, she flinched her head away.

“It’s me, Uallus, I am a friend of Blackhair and Ixsh-cli.” He whispered, the words emitting a cloud of breath in the cold night air.

At the mention of her friends name she looked back and recognised him, her breathing slowing as she realised he would not hurt her.

“Can you walk?”

She shook her head and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“I will carry you then.” She nodded at this and he rocked forward, pushing his shoulder into her stomach and pulling her arms over his head before lifting her up.

Compared to the yoke and waterskins she weighed nothing. Her hefted her once and she gasped in pain at what might have been cracked ribs shifting on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm about her legs and hurried through the dark streets. It was lucky he had been forced to listen to Blackhair describe in much detail everything about Ixsh-cli, including where she slept and worked as a weaver.

He had to stop twice en route, once to check the girls was still alive, and another to avoid a group of warriors who were patrolling the main streets in well-armed packs. The streets and alleyways were a shambles and some bodies were also strewn about, but less than had been present in the plaza, it seemed that once the helots had broken and fled, there had bene little trouble in the city.

He reached what he hoped was the correct set of stone houses, he lowered the girl to the floor, careful not to drop her against the cobbles, before he hissed at the door for Ixsh-cli, not wanting to knock in case the sound travelled.

For a while there was little response as he repeated her name, then a scraping sound came from behind the door, something heavy being moved out the way. Then a creak as it opened a fraction before a sliver of pale face peeked through the crack.

It took a moment for her to recognise him in the dark, but she opened the door wide and whispered at someone unseen inside.

Palanor helped the girl up and handed her over to Ixsh-cli and other women who emerged from the shadowy door. He turned to leave but Ixsh-cli’s hand shot out and spun him round. She planted a kiss on his cheek and hugged him tight.

“Thanks to you Uallus! You have saved her! Give my love to Blackhair and luck to you in your task.”

He didn’t know what she meant by the last remark, but before he could ask she had stepped back inside and the door was closed. The scraping sound returning once more as the women presumably barricaded themselves in.

It didn’t take him long to get back to the barracks, presenting the token and calling out to the guards well in advance to avoid getting an arrow to the guts. He did not mention Ixsh-cli to Blackhair, nor anything else of his evening with Cer’i’dwen, brushing it off with excuses that the witch had merely said some spell over him for the fights in the arena tomorrow.

He lay awake, waiting for the dawn so that he could take the waterskins down to the river and meet Kibeth for the next stage of the plan.

Dawn broke. The sky paling in the east with an agonising slowness. The hasti were called up, guards rattling their clubs on the wooden doors of the cells they shared to wake them. Palanor was already on his feet, eager to be away to the river.

But as the morning tasks were handed out he was instead instructed to prepare weaponry for the games of the day. This meant staying in the barracks sharpening and polishing weapons, not running down to the river to fetch water and meet up with Kibeth to plan the next step of the escape!

He had to think fast, how else would he get out to the fields? What other task might get him sent out the city? The answer came to him.

He spat at the feet of the head guard who was issuing the tasks. The man stopped and turned back to Palanor, an open-handed blow already on it’s way for such impudence.

Palanor blocked it, he’d anticipated the strike and hit back, a solid punch to the chin which rocked the man back.

Within a moment Palanor was seized and wrestled to the wall, pinioned down by the warriors as the other hasti were also pushed back. The head guard stood back up, testing his jaw a little and rolling his neck from side to side, well accustomed to such blows. He stepped up to Palanor and leaned in with a smile on his face.

“Shit Pits for you Uallus.” He spat as Palanor was dragged off to be assigned to one of the nightsoil carts that began their rounds at dawn.

Palanor had never been more pleased to hear those words.

Chapter Text

By the Dead it stank. It really smelt bad. Palanor was stood in the cobbled streets of Dinas Affaraon with a large wooden cart in front of him.

The cart itself was something he had never come across before coming to the city. Almost entirely made of wood, it made carrying large loads incredibly easy without needing to lift the weight yourself. Two large wooden discs allowed it to be pushed along the flagstones and cobbles and four stumpy legs meant that when you let go of the handles it didn’t tip forward or backward too far. Something particularly useful when the cart was carrying excrement and urine in large volumes.

Palanor was tethered to the cart by his collar – a thick, braided leather strap that had been tied through a ring on the cart handle. It took two people to shift the cart, one at the front and one behind, Palanor had been unlucky enough to be tethered behind. It wasn’t pleasant work regardless of which position you were in, but the one at the front typically only got splattered from the back.

Most people in Dinas Affaraon, whether it be lower class Ca’tan or Helots, brought their waste out and tipped it into the cart, but some of those who lived in the houses built upon one another sometimes opted to tip it out of a window from height, leading to a cascade that may or may not end up in the cart.

Palanor kept his mouth shut with a firm determination. He tried to look away whenever such a deposit was made but the tether stopped him from turning away fully.

This morning’s collections were made all the worse by the presence of three corpses which had been placed in the cart prior to beginning the rounds. These were the bodies of helots from the plaza the night before. They had been dumped unceremoniously into it, to be taken along with the rest of the waste to the fields below the city.

The helots who brought out their waste had tried in vain to be somewhat respectful, avoiding dumping their pots onto the faces of the corpses, but the Ca’tan who brought their own waste out had no such qualms. It didn’t take long before the three were buried under a layer of slurry.

Palanor did not doubt that their spirits would be offended by such desecration and hoped the river had taken them with speed.

After the last person on the street had turned back, carrying the now empty pot, the supervisor called for them to move on. The supervisor was a single, lower class Ca’tan (you could tell because of the job and the short-cropped hair under a broad straw hat) who carried a long, shod staff and a leather whip curled up in his belt. He was always careful to stay a good few paces back from the cart, avoiding the splash zone and most of the smell.

Palanor picked up the smooth wooden handles of the cart as did his fellow helot up front. Together they lifted the cart from it’s slightly tilted resting point and began to haul it up the street, it’s axel squeaking as the wheels struggled in the higgledy-piggledy cobbles of the side streets.

Flies buzzed about the mound of human detritus, sometimes humming in Palanor’s face as he twitched and shook his head to dissuade them from landing on him, as always, the collar and taut tether made this difficult.

Within less than an hour the cart was almost full, brimming in fact, the wheels threatening to pop off with the additional weight of the bodies. They had only visited a few small streets and courtyards, but there were many more such carts going about the city, each pulled by two helots and each attended by a supervisor. The supervisor called to them to head for the gate and Palanor willingly obliged.

They were ushered through the gate without needing to stop, the warriors on guard covering their noses and mouths as they passed, waving them through with haste.

The hardest part of the job was about to begin – descending the switchback path down to the fields in the lower valley. The cart was immensely heavy, and despite the wheels taking most of the weight, as you began to descend the carts had a tendency to do one of two things; either runaway downhill dragging the helots with it, or tip over on tricky corners or sections of steps, often crushing one of the helots tied to it, or at the very least dumping it’s contents on them.

Palanor and his cart mate took their time, despite the occasional shout or crack of the whip from the supervisor. This wasn’t their first time on the shit pits, you take it slow on the descent. The strain of stopping the cart from rolling away tired the young men quickly and by the time they reached the edges of the first fields - which were reserved for grazing rather than growing due to being too steep to harvest easily – both men were sweating and panting, the reek no longer bothering them.

Palanor caught sight of Kibeth down in the fields. She was stood casually, leaning up against a low, drystone wall with her arms folded across her chest. Her form that of the tall, dark-haired woman still. He was worried someone would see her and raise the alarm, but no one did, no one actually seemed to notice her at all.

As they passed her she winked and snapped her fingers. Two things happened within an instant; the left wheel came off, tipping the cart to one side in a sudden lurch that dragged both men stumbling with it, and Palanor’s tether untied itself and slipped to the floor, freeing him from the cart.

The supervisor ran up from behind shouting curses at the two helots, Palanor looked up at Kibeth from his half crouch, his cart mate struggling to right the broken wagon, she made a face which seemed to convey ‘get on with it then’.

The supervisor was right behind Palanor.

He whipped around and hit him with all his might, catching the man in the jaw and flooring him, his straw hat blowing away. Weeks, if not moons of training had given Palanor such strength that he realised he had probably killed the man with a single hit, he certainly wasn’t moving.

Palanor grabbed his staff and looked at Kibeth.

“What’s the plan?” He garbled as he looked about, no one yet having noticed the sudden altercation.

“By the Endless Night you stink!” She pulled a face, wrinkling her nose.

“KIBETH!” He shouted in exasperation.

“Alright! There’s a mound - a barrow - west of here on a low plateau of brown heather that overlooks the river. Go to it and retrieve the sword from within it. There might be a wight guarding it, so you might have to deal with that.” She nodded up the hill where two or three warriors were looking down at the tilted cart.

“What? Are you not coming?” He began to step away as the distant guards began to shout and point at them.

She shook her head.

“Me? Nooo… I’ve got to stay here unfortunately.”

“Why?” He was confused, why was he always confused when he spoke with Kibeth?

“Because I’m going to lead them on a merry little chase whilst you get away.”

He turned back to Kibeth, from looking at the guards who were now approaching, he jumped as he caught sight of a young man with long red hair and a beard grinning back at him where Kibeth had stood.

“Go on, run! It’s a good day’s run at least to the barrow!”

She turned and waved, screaming some obscenities at the guards as Palanor began to run down the path, cutting through the tall fields of grain, ducking down amongst the shoulder high crops as he made his way west.

Within a few minutes he had slipped out of the palisade fencing that marked the boundary of the fields below Dinas Affaraon. The sound of whistles and bullroarers had carried on the breeze, along with the baying of hunting hounds that were without a doubt now chasing Kibeth down river, eastward as she led them on a pointless chase.

He picked up his pace. By the Dead it felt good to be free! Out from the valley, away from the constant presence of guards and the threat of whip or cane, or worse. He felt his face break into a smile as he ran, loping strides now pounding easily on the earth as he followed the river, being mindful to stay amongst the copses of trees and shrubs should any of the search party come this way.

The running cleared his head of all the rush of the last few days; the plaza, the ceremony, the encounter with Cer’i’dwen, Ixsh-cli’s friend, the shit pits. It all faded away into the background noise as he scouted his path ahead, picked his foot placement over uneven ground, felt his body respond to the drive to run, to leap, to race across the land in search of this barrow. He felt free, but he did not feel as he had done before. He was still Palanor, that much was true, but Palanor had changed. He had made friends with strangers from far away tribes, had fought and killed other trained warriors in the arena, and had witnessed great evil. No longer was he unaware of the wider world, blind and ignorant of the knowledge of other tribes, of cities in the mountains, of strangers from far off lands who spoke in tongues never uttered in his village.

But he did not weep for his past self, who had merely been unaware of such things. He knew that his feelings for Ashath, and his tribe, had not changed. He felt sure now, surer than previously, that he would succeed in his promise to bring her home.

He climbed with the river, gaining height over a grassy lip in the large valley where he turned back to look over the green vale. A slash of silver cutting through it where the rising sun now caught the river. He could make out the distant patchwork of fields and the haze of smoke rising from the city hidden in the hanging valley above. He looked out for but a moment before turning west again picking up deer trails, looking now for the sign of heather moors and a barrow overlooking the river.

As he travelled further west, the valley widened out, the fells to either side diminishing in height as the land flattened out and rose into a great, broad moor of grass and brown heather. It was too early for snow yet on this high plateau but the skies above, which had been clear on this cold autumn morning now clouded over to a dull grey, threatening a cold downpour of rain.

Palanor had only his tunic, sandals, and the shod staff he had taken from the supervisor, a heavy downpour at this time of year, especially one followed by any kind of stiff breeze, would quickly sap his heat, and his endurance.

He prayed to the ancestors that it would pass him by and fall elsewhere upon the land.

Chapter Text

Whether the ancestors had heard his prayers, or if he just had good weather-luck regardless, it did not rain.

Palanor carried on his punishing pace, aware now of the need to find this sword and return to the city as swift as possible. His earlier concerns, which had fallen to the wayside when he first took off from the fields, had now returned as he had settled into a loping stride.  

He now worried that if Cer’i’dwen got word of his escape she might kill Ishta and Rollo out of sheer rage and spite, even if she didn’t know of their whispered exchange in the tunnels the previous night. He also thought of Blackhair, who no doubt would be questioned along with the others who shared his cell at the barracks. For sometime now Palanor had considered taking Blackhair with him, but now committed to the idea. If Kibeth was certain he would be able to kill the shamans, witches, and sorcerers in the temple, then he would be able to free Blackhair with ease.

He felt better about this and for some time forgot the rest of his worries and concerns as he concentrated on the goat trails he was following along the river bank, checking the heights and moors above him for an obvious barrow or mound.

He rested a number of times in the shadows of rocky crags or large boulders, making sure he sat so that the rocks were between him and the river, hiding him from any boats that might pass by.

On he ran, dogged pace slowing over the course of the day.

Even though he had been kept fit and strong as a hasti in Dinas Affaraon, he found that in the moons he had spent in the mountain city his ability to run great distances without effort had diminished somewhat, perhaps as he had never run further than the river and back in that time.

He kept turning away from the river to climb the low slope that it occupied and see out over the moors through which the river had cut it’s way. He scried the bleak landscape for an obvious mound overlooking the shallow river valley.

As the sky began to darken, a red glow appeared on the western horizon. The clouds that had pressed down on the high plateau of heather during the day began to clear, revealing the stars and a full moon that had begun to wane, its pale light bright enough to see by.

Palanor continued, now at a walk, supported by the staff, picking his way along. The land was contrasted against the night sky, illuminated in a faint grey-white light.

A good two or three hours after sunset he came across a cairn - a pile of stones used as a way marker – beside a worn trail that lead through the heather and bracken toward a taller standing stone in the distance, a pale finger pointing skyward.

He followed the trail, this had to be it.

At the standing stone the trail led around it in a half-circle before continuing onto a larger mound that was now clearly visible.

Palanor stopped well before the shadowy entrance that was flanked by two slabs of stone turned a milky white in the moonlight. The worst time to approach a burial place was at night, when the blazing sun was long gone from the sky and the spirits of the dead could roam freely under the sky.

He squatted down on his haunches, eyes closed as he extended his senses out around him, a tentative search of both natural and magical means for anything amiss.

The moorland was quiet, barely a whisper of wind now passed over it and time seemed to stand still as he breathed in deep, slow breaths. Eyes closed, he could have been crouched there for a mere moment, or a year, such was the quality of silence and the barrow’s appearance of permanence against the flow of time.

Then he broke the meditative trance, lids lifting to consider the mound of sod, turf, and drystone wall once again before him.

The barrow was roughly twice his height at least, and was a good dozen paces across in diameter. A low, drystone wall was visible around the entire circumference of the structure, built to waist height before the rounded sod roofing began, covering the rest of the mound. Interspersed amongst the grassy turf on top were small white flowers of an unknown species, each had a delicate, short stem and had five miniscule petals that gazed up at the moon above.

The only break in this structure was a foreboding shadow of an entrance. Depths untold seemed to echo forth from the slight opening between two large post-stones, weathered and rounded from standing vigil over the entrance of the mound for generations.

It was somewhat smaller than the Barrow of Palanor’s people, which held their sacred remains and ashes to allow the Shaman of the tribe to contact them from the starry sky beyond the river for rare advice and guidance in times of trouble.

Kibeth had warned of a wight – a Hau’g Buin in the old tongue which really meant barrow dweller. They were all the same term that described a Dead spirit which had repossessed it’s own body and was confined to it’s burial place, often cursed to guard in Death what it had jealously possessed in Life. Most likely the presence of the magical sword that he sought would be the item the wight haunted, presumably it had wielded it in Life and it’s spirit coveted the power in Death and fought the river to possess it once more.

The best thing to do would be to wait until the sun rose once more and enter with the refuge of day to retreat to should the spirit prove strong. But there was no telling what might happen back in Dinas Affaraon because of his escape, who could predict the cruel madness of the witches or warriors of that city? To wait all night for the morrow would then mean a full day’s travel lost, delaying his return and ultimate revenge on the sorcerers of the mountain city.

He would enter the mound this night, armed with his stolen staff and what wits and magic he could muster. Magic would be a last resort. The energy required to summon fire and flame would drain him and leave him stranded on this barren fell, and he had no food with which to revive himself. He knew that the dead responded to sounds, claps, whistles, and the silent wind flutes that picketed the Barrow of his people.

He had searched for thistles but that particular plant was absent from this great plateau. No matter, he thought, he would proceed with caution, Kibeth could have been wrong after all, though he knew that was purely wishful thinking.

With the staff extended before him, ready to thrust and strike into the darkness, copper ferrules dull in the faint light from the night sky above.

As he passed the threshold and his eyes adjusted to the murk, he smelt the foul stench of decay mixed with the dank earth and stone that pressed in from all directions as he shuffled sideways along the narrow passage that descended a gentle slope down into the earth.

Small bones and dried twigs cracked beneath his feet as he probed the darkness ahead, ensuring he kept his balance should a sudden ghoul come rushing at him. But no such spirit lunged out of the shadows.

He licked his lips, so that he could whistle freely. He had not the same talent nor knowledge of the Dead as he had of the Kindred, neither Mala nor Shaman Vel had passed on much of their secrets to him on dealing with those who walked the river beyond Life. He had had little interest in such things beyond how to deal with free-willed dead who very occasionally stalked into the Tribes territory.

He regretted his ignorance now of course as he eased himself between stone and dirt walls, moving ever deeper into the barrow. But he knew that whistles or claps could distract the dead, enough to make an escape perhaps.

Up ahead the darkness changed in tone, and he realised the faintest shaft of light was present as he stood on the threshold of a larger chamber - the passage opening out into what must be the centre of the burial mound.

About the chamber, visible through the hazy shaft of blue-grey light was all manner of things. The bones of some animal, possibly a large deer or wild horse lay to one side, whilst baskets and wooden chests lined the edge of the chamber. A variety of weapons were present, leaning up against the damp walls or lying haphazard on the floor, metal reflecting the faintest light. One woven basket had rotted away, revealing large silver pieces spilled in a pile. A great horde of treasure that must have belonged to some warrior chieftain or renowned raider of these parts.

Directly opposite the entrance to the chamber, directly across from where Palanor stood, was a throne. He recognised the furniture from his time in Dinas Affaraon, a large chair of wooden construction, with a high back, typically owned and used by the higher classes of the Ca’tan.

In this throne sat a hunched shadow with the silhouette of a person.

Across its lap, clasped in both hands, lay a sheathed sword.

The scabbard was of a simple, wooden construction, and from the hilt and pommel jutting out the end, this too looked none too magical to the uninitiated, but as soon as his eyes passed over it he felt the object tug at his guts.

This was it. The sword he required to slay the shamans and sorcerers and witches, free Ishta, and the others, and escape from Dinas Affaraon to complete Kibeth’s task, find Ashath, and take her home.

He stood still for a few more moments, the hunched over corpse seemed very much dead and the sword was right there, four or five paces and he would have it!

Palanor stepped forward, one foot entering the chamber.

The desiccated head of the wight lifted with a crack that seemed to echo about the place. Palanor froze, and could now see that its skin was shrivelled and sunken, clinging to the bones beneath that now moved through force of spirit rather than any natural muscle or flesh. Atop it’s head was a strange head piece, a sort of metal hat that Palanor had never seen before. It had two panels that hung down and covered the wight’s sunken cheeks whilst a plume of what he assumed was horse hair stuck up from the very top.

The wight’s jaw opened, revealing a dark maw as it tried to speak but no sound emerged, it’s voice long lost to the river of Death.

The two stared at each other, still for another moment, then when Palanor did not retreat, the wight stood. It’s joints clicked and cracked as it moved in a stiff, unnatural manner. It’s physical body having lost the ability to move of it’s own accord, the sheer force of will from the spirit now it’s means of motion.

There was a clinking and a jangling as the wight stood. Palanor could now see that, as well as the metal helm on it’s head, it also wore a tunic made entirely of metal rings that were interlinked with one another. This person must have been a mightier chief than all the elders of Dinas Affaraon to have such objects!

The wight drew the sword with a jerk of its arms.

The blade was long, he hadn’t realised it’s length when the wight had been sitting hunched over, it must have been as long as his entire arm shoulder to fingertips! A bronze sword, even a good bronze sword, was limited in length by the size of the mould and the quality of the cast, too long a design and it was likely to have imperfections that would ruin the blade before it had even been sharpened.

This sword had no such imperfections, and it was certainly not bronze. It was a silvery complexion, but Palanor doubted it was actual silver, too soft to make such a blade. He had heard that the People of the Fens to the south had discovered a new metal, one that they guarded jealously, perhaps this was it.

He didn’t have much time to appraise the blade as the wight was already staggering across the dim chamber, raising it’s arms to cut at him.

Palanor sprung forward, ramming the butt of his staff into the chest of the wight, sending it stumbling backwards as he drove with all his might. It brought the sword down onto the staff and cut right through the inch thick wood as if it were a blade of grass.

Palanor was stunned for a moment, unable to believe what had just happened, it should have taken multiple swings to even hack at the wood, let alone slice it perfectly as it had done.

He ducked and dived to one side as the barrow dweller delivered a back swing cut at his neck, barely missing despite the awkward movement of his opponent. He crashed into the piles of treasure lining the circular wall of the chamber, knocking the wind out of him as the corner of a chest struck his back.

Palanor scrabbled back now as the wight tottered over him, sword once again raised in a shaky manner to strike down at him. As he writhed and wriggled in the grim of the tomb he kicked out at one of the jars containing the small silver bars, which tipped over, shattering and spilling it’s contents over the floor.

The wight stumbled back, jaw once again hanging slack in a silent scream as it’s dull eyes looked down in horror.

Silver! Palanor realised within an instant what he needed to do. He threw himself forward onto his belly and scooped up a handful of the silver pieces. He hurled them overhand at the wight as it still moved back away from the spilt pile that had scattered over the floor of the chamber.

It tried to bring its arms up in a vain attempt to shield itself from the metal. As the pieces hit it, bright sparks flashed and burned, the withered flesh igniting upon contact with the silver. It dropped the sword and mustered a piercing shriek, the shock granting the spirit some raw vocal power.

Palanor scrabbled over and picked up the sword, hurling another fist full of silver at the now retreating figure. It clutched at it’s helm and let out a mighty roar of hate and rage, it’s dull eyes becoming burning coals as the spirit desperately fought the lure of Death.

“ORRRRRAA…..”

It did not finish whatever it was trying to say as Palanor severed its head from its body with a single swing of the sword.

Its body collapsed, the sinewy legs giving way as the head spun to the floor. As the remains fell, they turned to dust and grave mould. Even the metal helm and the tunic of interlocked rings, which Palanor had hoped to take, became naught but dirt.

The spirit was gone, taken by the currents of Death it had evaded for so many years, possibly centuries.

The river waits for us all, Palanor thought as he looked down at the sword. It felt as if it were ever so slightly vibrating or singing even, as if he had tapped it against a rock to hear it ring out. The metal had a swirling pattern down it and in the faint light from above it seemed almost to shift. The strange sensation stopped as soon as he drove the sword home into its wooden scabbard.

He took a moment to catch his breath before he searched the remaining treasures. He eventually found a leather sack that had survived the ravages of time and did not instantly crumble when he touched it. Inside were strange flat discs of some sort of stone, but they were not runes as far as he could tell so he tipped them out on to the floor and scooped up as much of the small silver pieces as he could into it.

When it was bursting at the seams but still able to close, he tied it tightly to his belt and then, for good measure, tucked it against his hip so that it would not bounce about as he ran.

He decided to hold the sword by it’s scabbard for his return journey, to avoid adding too much weight to his scrap of rope that was his only belt. As he left the barrow he looked back once more, such a shame to leave such wealth, with the contents of the tomb he could return to his tribe and they would be able to get the best trades from every neighbouring tribe and clan all the way up and down the Great Eastern river! But, alas, he could not carry it back, the silver he had collected would at least make up for the loss of his sword and the ivory spear, which he doubted he would ever see again.

He also now had this new sword, one that made impossibly fine cuts with the slightest flick or swing, one that shone bright in the light, like water reflecting the sun.

One that seemed to sing with delight when it was drawn and used.

Chapter Text

Palanor crested the grassy ridge as the grey light of dawn crept outward from the far horizon. He was drenched with a cold sweat. The effort of the run to the barrow, followed by his encounter with the wight, and then the run back to the river valley of Dinas Affaraon had brought him to near exhaustion, he was now bent over as he stumbled along the now widening trails beside the river, sword clutched in one hand as he drew ragged breaths.

By the Dead! His head felt light. He staggered to a stop, hands on knees as he heaved, dry retch muffled by the vegetation that flourished down in the lower valley.

He spat, panting to slow his rapid heartbeat.

He went over to the river, still bent double, before collapsing to his knees on the bank and scooping handfuls of cold water into his mouth. His fingers tingled with the snap of the freezing water, and his mouth went numb with the deep drafts of the refreshing drink.

He searched in the dawn shade of a copse and found a patch of sorrel which he plucked and chewed, tangy taste delightful enough to make his mouth water, but the fragile leaves would not fully restore his strength.

He would have to continue on for now, he was nearly there.

He was running back along the bank.

Had he stopped? He didn’t know if he had merely imagined it. Keep on, the sun is almost up, it’s warming rays shall spur me on, he thought.

He felt more revived than before. A second wind from the water and the sorrel. It was known as Hunter’s Bite by some, for it’s refreshing tang and sweetness, easily gathered whilst on the move. He carried on.

At last he climbed up a ridge which seemed familiar to him, he slowed to a walk just before reaching the top and panted as he gazed over at the now revealed landscape before him.

The river still meandered through the wide, lower valley. But the fields of the growing and grazing grounds looked odd, discoloured in places. There were flocks of birds gathering in the skies above. His eyes followed up the slope to the half-hidden wall and beyond, plumes of black and grey smoke drifted out and across from the city. That didn’t look good, he absent mindedly thought, dazed from the run.

As he approached the palisade fences that marked the boundaries to the fields he could now see that there had been fighting. Helots and Ca’tani lay slumped over, open wounds still wet in some cases. Carrion crows scattered to the heavens as he hopped through a gap, cawing in anger at being startled from their meal. Some of the fields had also been torched, blackened stems of plants poking up from scorched earth. There were a few injured about, nursing their wounds but the up the slope were more people, many seeming to flee as soon as they left the switchback path, heading in all directions.

As he climbed he spotted overturned carts, possessions strewn across the grass slope, discarded by owners who had fled from sword and spear, many failing to escape in time.

As he ascended, passing the occasional frightened person, some helots, some Ca’tani he realised that the violence from the reaction to the ceremony, the ritual sacrifice, as well as his own escape may well have started trouble within the city which had quickly spread to an all-out war.

Before he reached the gates he spotted a great black hound standing tall on the last switchback before the city.

Kibeth was clearly waiting on him. She pounded down the slope tongue lolling on one side of her mouth, skidding past him as he jumped to one side as she scrabbled and regained her composure with a fierce grin.

“What’s happened?” He gasped, bent over, hands on knees to ease the stitch he felt.

Her eyes lit up at the question.

“I made a little trouble whilst you were gone, managed to kill a few nobles from notable rival houses and staged it in such a way that they looked equally guilty!” She kept leaping back and forth, turning about in excitement, “They saw to the rest and your friend with the black hair organised an uprising once he’d heard you’d escaped, the Helots control the lower city, nearest the gates, but the various houses are struggling over the upper city. It’s quite a mess!”

Her grin got even wider. It was too much to take in.

“What about the temple? What about Ishta and Rollo? Did you get them out?”

“Well… The temple is sealed off by a number of wood-weirds and spirit walkers so…you can get them. You have the sword I see!” She settled down somewhat as soon as she had mentioned it, he held it out and she shrank back.

“Don’t let it touch me!” She barked, “The power within it knows of me, we do not want to wake it with my presence.”

Curious, Palanor noted to himself.

“Don’t get any ideas. Let’s get to the temple, get the woman and her pup and get down to the river, Marren’s waiting with the boat ready to cast off!”

“Alright, you coming?” he set off for the gates, one of which was off it’s great hinges.

“Of course!” She yipped in seeming delight.

His sandals slapped at the flagstones of the main streets, numbing his feet, but he was now too close to his goal to care.

The city was chaos, bodies lay piled in the streets, blood splattered and pooled in every alley. Flies buzzed about the day-old corpses. Many were helots, but lower class Ca’tan were also amongst some of the groups he saw, clusters of people who had tried to leave the city. Groups of scavengers and warriors prowled, engaged in running battles in the streets. Houses were burnt out or still smouldering, the possessions and furnishing inside enough to sustain a blaze within the stone buildings. Certain areas of the city had been blocked off with makeshift walls of carts, stools, baskets, and the crumbled remains of other buildings.

As he passed by narrow off shoots from the main street he heard shouts. Faces from windows near and far glancing out at him as he ran by, sword still sheathed.

“Uallus!”

The voice faded as he ran past, caught by the wind.

“Uallus!”

Helots emerged, tattered tunics, collars still fixed about their necks, they had armed themselves with stolen weapons, broom shanks, stool legs, even lumps of stone from the ruined buildings. They watched as he continued onward, up the main street towards the upper city and the temple. Then the bravest followed, racing to catch up and more gathered in their wake until he was leading a vast majority of the helots along the main street toward the temple plaza.

Up ahead two rival groups of warriors were fighting amongst themselves, bowmen on a nearby roof shooting into the fray.

Palanor did not want to stop or tarry. He had come upon them so quickly that they hadn’t noticed him yet. He drew the sword and felt that distant vibration as it sang once more, eager for a taste of blood upon it’s biting blade.

He cut through the first man he came to, splitting him almost in half with ease, his opponent caught the back swing and lost the top half of his head, the skull cap and upper face spinning away, eyes wide in shock. He ran another right through with the blade from behind, pinning him to another warrior next to him before wrenching the blade back out of the pair with a savage twist. Blood poured from the wound in the first man’s back, red stain growing on his tunic, a ripe red flower blossoming. Kibeth had leapt to the rooftop and had killed the archers, charging into one, sending him tumbling off the flat roof, and biting another’s leg in order to throw him from her jaws into the gathered crowd which surged from behind.

Other helots threw themselves into the group of shocked warriors, their pierced and scarred faces staring in disbelief at the wave of bloodthirsty slaves coming upon them.

Those furthest away turned and disappeared down the warren like streets.

Palanor burst through into the plaza, stumbling over the debris that had been used to barricade it off from the rest of the city.

The great open space was less chaotic, fewer bodies lying about and the temple was untouched.

The helots came to a stop in a great group at the far end of the plaza, gazing on in silence at the creatures atop the temple.

They were shaped like incredibly tall men - in that they had two legs and two arms, a body, and a head. But their flesh was twisted wood, the spirit within forced into the man-made form. From their ethereal, carved faces burned blazing white flames for eyes, and white acrid smoke belched from their gaping maws. Each hand had four great claws, scything blades of wood that could rend a man in two no different to Palanor’s magical blade.

Amongst the three wood-weirds which stood there was a smaller, diminutive figure amongst the wooden giants. A sorcerer, face masked in bronze, was chained by his neck, which was held by another who also levelled a spear at the sorcerer’s back.

Kibeth had moved through the crowd to stand beside Palanor, her great size and ferocity gave the nervous helots all the reason to make way for her, giving her a wide berth as she padded over.

“I’ll deal with these. You go round the side and into the tunnels, I can smell the woman and the boy, they live still.”

But Palanor did not move immediately. Atop the temple there was a commotion, the shaman scuffled with his captor, attempting to break free of the chain that held him. One of the wood-weirds had turned to strike at the warrior, but the other two seemed to be free of the Shaman’s control and had begun to descend the temple steps, great lumbering forms of wood ungainly on such a steep slope.

The crowd began to fall back in terror at the realisation that the kindred spirits were free to wreak havoc upon the scared masses below. Screams and cries went up as many were pushed down and clambered over.

A roar went up from behind.

“UALLUS!”

Blackhair pushed to the fore of the fleeing crowd, a great, round bronze shield in one hand and a short sword in the other. He had a conical leather cap on his head and his tunic was dirty with dried blood. About a dozen other hasti, similarly armed and armoured, albeit with a variety of plundered weapons it seemed, stood with him forming a tight pack of warriors.

“Good to see you hadn’t abandoned us after all brother!”

He pulled a grim face but exchanged a hand slap with Palanor.

“I seek a woman and child that wait within the temple. If I can free them, we can get away on a boat that waits for us now on the river.” Palanor paused, before lowering his voice.

“You would have a place if you so wish, you and Ixsh-cli.”

Blackhair remained silent, eyeing the wood-weirds as they continued their slow, menacing descent whilst he mulled it over.

At last, he gave a curt nod. The giant creatures of wood were nearly down at the plaza where it had emptied considerably in the last few moments.

Palanor made for the side tunnels, keeping a wide berth from the bottom of the steps.

“Stay with the hound. She is with us!” He cried over his shoulder, as he ran for the tunnel entrance.

Blackhair considered the great beast that was fixed on the wood-weirds ahead. A few amongst the hasti had spirit glass arrows, pilfered from dead warriors in the city, but he doubted they could manage against all three of the damn things! This great beast however seemed eager to make battle with the accursed creatures. He readied himself for the ensuing battle, conscious that Palanor needed a way out of the plaza in order for them all to get away.

Chapter Text

Palanor left the plaza behind him as he once again entered the shadowy tunnels beneath the temple. He had no time to worry about Blackhair or the wood-weirds, though some part of him realised he needed a way back out once he had found Ishta and Rollo. Kibeth would see to that, he reassured himself.

Compared to the city, the tunnels were quiet.

There was a stillness to the air that made him slow to a creeping walk, not wanting to give away his approach with echoing footfalls should warriors remain in the temple. He had no doubt that Cer’i’dwen and the other shamans and sorcerers no doubt had loyal warriors of their own, possibly controlled with magic to ensure they obey every given command, possibly even to fight on after death.

He paused in the dim light, the torches and oil lamps still burning as they had done not two nights before when he had last been here. Up ahead he could hear sounds of people moving and they seemed to be getting closer! He pressed himself against the wall where there was less light.

A small handful of warriors appeared round one corner, talking and laughing with one another, they seemed to be drunk, unsteady on their feet. Their weapons were on their belts or hung form limp hands.

They stopped when they noticed him peel off the wall ahead of them, dark silhouette stark in the dim tunnel, gleaming sword held at his side.

He felt it once more. That insatiable note, faint and distant in his mind. He felt the sword hum with glee, giddy with anticipation of the ensuing violence. But most of all he felt that deep anger within him beginning to surface, that terrible rage that had been denied in the plaza, smothered by Kibeth’s embrace, all the more stronger now that he was so close to his goal.

The warriors’ speech fell off mid-sentence as they gawped in drunken surprise at this lone helot before them.

He came at them before they could fully prepare, bright sword separating limb from limb. He hacked and slashed, the blade incredibly light in his hands so that he felt as if he were but 6 summers old once more, with a willow withy in his hands whipping it about with the other boys.

He had cut through the first four with ease, the final two having enough time to ready themselves, drawing swords and backing off, their drunk stupor quickly vanishing with the adrenalin from the scenes before them.

Palanor laughed as he leapt forward, sword flashing in the dim darkness. He drove it through one, the warrior let out a little ‘hoot’ as the hilt hit his chest, before ripping it sideways into a slash at the other, the blade passing through the ribs as if they were stalks of grain and it was the farmer’s scythe.

Gore spattered him, flecks of flesh decorating the walls.

All Palanor knew was a delightful rage. He had cut down these pathetic worms before him and would tear down this entire mound of stone with his bare hands before grinding each block to dust between his palms! He would slaughter them all, every man, woman, and child…

No, not the woman and child.

He needed them…for what? What was it he needed to do? He needed the woman and child to get the boat. Yes! That was it. What was the boat for? He grappled with the thought, his own mind a murky haze filled with naught but thoughts of violent revenge. At last a woman emerged in his mind. Red of hair and beautiful, with keen eyes and an even keener smile.

Ashath.

He blinked and looked down at the corpses in the tunnel.

All he saw were scattered body parts, limbs and heads in a heap on the floor. Blood spattered in great swathes up each wall. His stomach turned, knowing he had been the butcher of these men, whether they deserved it or not. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to remain in control despite the heightened state he found himself in.

The faint tone in his mind, could still be heard but now he brought the thought of Ashath to the fore of his mind’s eye. Her image seemed to calm him. His heart was still thumping in his chest and he was ready to cut down anymore foes he came across but he was set against losing control once again.

He proceeded further down the tunnel, following the same path he had travelled with Cer’i’dwen, and later Ishta when she had escorted him back. No doubt the witch would keep the woman close, her chamber was the best place to search for her and her son.

He arrived at the curtained entrance, heavy cloth barring the way. He could smell the incense wafting out of the room once more, seeping out from the edges of the curtain. Behind it he could hear some sort of commotion, muffled by the fabric. Strange noises, heavy breathing, perhaps the witch was in the midst of a ritual. Perhaps she had decided to sacrifice Rollo and Ishta!

Palanor pushed the curtain aside and entered the chamber.

He stood in a daze at what he saw.

In the middle of the chamber, on top of the bed Cer’i’dwen had used him on not two nights hence, lay all three of the blonde witches.

The two older ones - whom he had first seen back in the glade by the river when he had become enchanted by their singing - were sat atop the withered body of the old shaman completely naked. One sat on his groin and the other his face, both working their pelvises back and forth in a rhythmic manner as they grinned at each other over his wrinkled body.

The old man underneath the two women seemed to respond, his thin arms had come up to grasp at one of the sister’s thighs, pulling her eagerly into his face, whilst his skinny legs shuddered with effort as the other rode atop him.

Next to them knelt Cer’i’dwen, also naked, who fed fruits to the other two and pleasured herself as she watched, smoke curling about the frolicking group from the incense sticks which burned all about the room.

None of them had noticed Palanor enter. The sickly stench of the incense wormed its way up his nostrils and he felt light headed. There was more than mere herbs at play here, there was magic brewing in this strange ceremony of sex.

In the corner, cowering and shaking with fear was Ishta, who was hunched over her son, himself curled up into a ball, head pressed against the stone floor.

Palanor took it all in within a moment of entering.

He jumped onto the bed, knocking Cer’i’dwen backward to tumble off the furs as he thrust at the nearest sister facing away from him who was currently bouncing up and down on the old shaman’s groin. The sword punched right through her throat and he kicked her shuddering body to one side, her hands clasping at her open neck in horror. He hacked at the belly of the shaman, cutting a deep slash across his guts, the old man arching his back, writhing to get out from under the second sister.

The second witch hadn’t noticed the slaying of her sister or the shaman as she had her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut in ecstasy as she neared completion, the spasms of the dying man beneath her pushing her over the edge and she gasped with pleasure.

Palanor saw the pink mouth open, her head still tilted back and he rammed the point of his sword down her open gullet, spitting her like a boar at the midwinter feast. Her hands flew from where they had been fondling herself and her breasts, one clutched at her neck as she gagged on the blade as it slid down into her lungs and belly, the other vainly gripped at the hilt which now neared her parted lips. Her eyes wide in shock, she still managed to muster some magic as Palanor felt a tugging at his guts and whiff of burning metal cut through the incense. But she could not complete her spell, it was difficult for a witch to curse a man when she had his weapon down her throat.

With a savage wrench he twisted the sword and drew it up and out, her twitching form fell to the side, blood welling from her mouth and nose as she spluttered and coughed her last breath.

Palanor turned to deal with Cer’i’dwen but he stopped, for it was not the blonde witch who faced him at all.

It was Ashath.

There she was, standing at the edge of the stone bed, red curls hanging down to cover her breasts as she gazed up at him, that warm smile spreading across her face. She was here! After all this time she had been here all along! Why was she naked? It didn’t matter, he brushed it away.

Palanor was stunned and he felt a sudden rush of relief. He felt all limp and giddy. He dropped the sword onto the pile of furs. She beckoned him and he stepped over the still twitching bodies, careful not to fall and embarrass himself.

He stood over her, looking down as she gazed up, big wide eyes meeting his. Her hand reached up under his tunic gripping him. Ah! She was firm, he thought. She worked him up and eased him down so that he was lying on the edge of the bed and she knelt before him on the floor, taking him into her mouth. By the-! He lay back, still overjoyed at having finally found her.

She went back to working him with her hands as she whispered in a sultry voice.

“My warrior has returned to me! You are the greatest warrior to ever live and together with you at my side we shall rule this land! I will bare you a child who will grow to be the greatest chieftain of his time, and he shall rule over all the peoples of the land!”

He barely heard her, the words all distant and vague, but he didn't mind what they did, so long as he was with her. She took him into her mouth once more as he rested his hand on her hair. Palanor was light headed, dazed by it all, heady with the overflowing emotions within him. She did something with her tongue. By the fucking Dead! She’d never done that before! Then she was muttering something again, he half raised his head to smile at her.

“…my warrior, my Uallus.” She smiled as she went about her work.

He smiled back.

Uallus.

His name was Palanor.

Ashath would never call him Uallus. She would not even know that name! He looked down once more.

The hair beneath his fingers was not burnished copper at all but silvery blonde, and her skin was a deep tan rather than pale like his!

And her eyes. Ashath had eyes of burnt amber, deep brown, but the eyes that met his now were an emerald green.

He gave her a lopsided grin, playing along with her ruse as he took her hair in his fist, sitting up.

Cer’i’dwen gave a little giggle, still believing he was in her thrall. He laughed with her before twisting her hair in his fist down and punching her jaw with all his might.

The words of Mala, his mentor echoed in his mind.

When fighting another sorcerer, always stop them from working their magic, cut off their head or slit their throat, gag them or wind them to stop the spell from being uttered. Ultimately end them before their will can be enacted.

Her head snapped to one side with the blow, but he held her up by her wan hair that was entangled in his fingers. She cried out and raised her hands but he hit her once more in the throat, a ragged intake of breath punctuating the punch as she gasped for air.

She spluttered “THE CHILD, I AM WITH CHILD, YOUR SEED IS WITHIN ME! I KNOW IT TO BE TRUE!”

He stopped; eyes narrow. What trickery was this?

“No lie,” She panted, bloody nose streaming down her face.

Palanor didn’t know what to do. He could not slay her for if she spoke the truth, he could not harm a child. But nor could he wait around nine moons for her to be proven false!

He throttled her and she clutched at his hands, weak fingers unable to pry herself free.

He reached into her mouth with one hand, forcing open her mouth. He pulled down at her bottom jaw, shifting his grip from her throat to her face, just as he had done moons before with her attack dog in the pit of the arena. He pulled his hands apart and felt her jaw pop out of place, a faint moan issued from her mouth as she collapsed with the pain.

“What the fuck?!”

Palanor spun about.

Blackhair stood there in the entrance way.

Palanor pointed at the still cowering woman and child.

“Get them to the boat, that’s the woman and boy. Make sure they get to the river!”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you! GO!”

Blackhair sheathed his bloody sword and grabbed the whimpering woman and her child, dragging them out the tunnels with a glance back at Palanor.

Palanor grabbed his sword and went about severing the heads of the two witches and the shaman, careful to press their faces into their buttocks, one of which was a mess as the body had voided itself in death. This was the least he could do to offend the spirits. They deserved worse but he had neither the talent nor the time to torture their spirits beyond this insult. The river had them now.

He went to the tunnel, but glanced back at the unconscious witch lying with her lopsided jaw open, he could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest and her tanned belly. If she really did carry his child then its fate was tied to hers.

He left without looking back.

Palanor caught up to Blackhair and the others quickly, the group now hurtling out of the tunnel and into the light of the plaza once more. Two of the wood-weirds lay motionless in the open space, their carved eye-sockets devoid of the white fire that had burned so brightly within just moments before.

A quick glance in all direction showed the local vicinity to be almost empty, no sign of warriors, helots, or Kibeth. Perhaps she was dealing with the last wood-weird.

The ragged group made their way across the plaza and through one of the narrow archways that led out into the streets, heading for the gate.

As they ran down the main street of the city more shouts and rising cries could be heard all about them.

“The great houses have realised the temple is unguarded!” Blackhair shouted. “There will be warriors flooding these streets in a race to capture the elders!”

This only spurred the group on, even the young lad, eyes wide in bewilderment kept pace with the two strange men and his mother, who was openly weeping as she ran.

As they approached the gate Palanor could hear a rising tide of noise from behind and he glanced to see another great clash down the main road of the city. Men swarmed like ants, boiling out of buildings and spilling out onto the wider streets from narrow courtyards. Many fought with each other, a mess of spears and swords in spaces too tight to properly use them, but some saw the group and began to give chase.

They were through the gates and down the switchback path that led to the river. An arrow or two looped down from the higher paths as the warriors tried to stop the fleeing slaves but their aim was rushed and poor. Blackhair kept switching sides so that his large, round bronze shield could cover the woman and child.

As they entered the fields they saw to their left a boat half moored on the furthest jetty, a skinny man waving and shouting at them whilst waving an oar aggressively at two women who were trying to climb aboard.

It seemed Blackhair must have managed to warn Ixsh-cli to get to the river.

Palanor waved his sword blade over his head, catching the sailors eye before bellowing at him to let them on.

He turned to Blackhair, “Cast off I’ll follow, we won’t have time if they reach us!”

Blackhair wanted to stop but he had to see to Ixsh-cli that she was aboard first. He shouted much as Uallus had, encouraging the sailor to cast off as he cried with joy at seeing his family returned.

Palanor whirled about and faced the oncoming group of warriors. There must have been three or four dozen of them now, a stampede of people kicking up dust from the dirt path.

He gritted his teeth once more, taking a deep breath as he charged alone at them, hollering an ululating war cry.

Damn it, he thought. He was going to have to hold them here to let the others get away. The warriors were too many, even with his magical sword that cut through anything with ease he could be cut down within moments. He didn’t turn away though. He stayed the course and carried on charging at them, his last thoughts of Ashath, no guilt anymore, just her smiling at him.

The warriors were upon him and he hacked at them, but as they prepared to overwhelm him with spear and sword they tumbled forwards and to the sides, something pushing through them.

A great black wolf barrelled through the group of men, snapping at whatever she could reach as she leapt towards Palanor.

“GO PALANOR! Her bark more than a statement, it contained magic that twisted his body about and gave his legs a life of their own, carrying him unwillingly toward the river and the now free boat that Marren was barely holding in place, fighting against the current with a punting pole shoved deep into the river bed.

Kibeth snarled as the warriors reconverged on her, a man speared her in the side. He burst in to flames and let out a harrowing scream as he became naught but ash in an instant. Others hacked at her but found their hands missing, bitten off in a swift blur. Her hide was a mess of spears and swords half hanging off her as she turned to face the group.

She roared a deafening bark that saw at least two dozen warriors collapse, their spirits sent straight to the river upon feeling the full force of her wrath. She shook herself, weapons clattering to the floor before hurtling across the fields to catch the now moving boat.

Palanor had barely clambered over the gunwale, dropping the sheathed sword as Blackhair hauled him into the watercraft, before Marren cried out from the tiller.

“It’ll swamp us, it’s too big!”

Kibeth launched herself from the bank, stretching wide as she jumped toward the boat, but she must have heard Marren’s cry for she seemed to shrink in mid air before landing in a heap on top of Palanor, the pair tumbling against the far gunwale and rocking the boat dangerously.

She scrabbled away from him. “The sword!”

“It’s over there,” He pointed, one sticky, red hand indicating the plain wooden scabbard lying on the planks against a coil of rope.

The now relatively normal sized dog nodded, before padding up to the prow to curl up.

Blackhair laughed in amazement as the boat moved away, sail unfurled and carrying them against the current. Ishta and Rollo hugged their lean father at the tiller, whilst Ixsh-cli and her friend embraced Blackhair and Palanor, overjoyed and thrilled at having escaped.

“You have earned your namesake Uallus!” He grinned looking down at the young man’s gore covered hands.

Palanor was confused.

“Uallus means ‘bloodied hands’ in Ca’tani.” He slapped Palanor on the back as the young warrior slipped down against the side of the boat, exhausted and drained.

He closed his eyes and slept.

Chapter Text

Life in the mountains was peaceful. For the most part, at least, Ashath thought.

The Athask - for she had now learnt some of their strange tongue and this was what they called themselves - were mostly hunters and seemed content to roam their deep valleys and the rocky peaks of their territory, isolated from the rest of the world. She had seen no outsiders here in the time she had spent amongst these people, and the camp was far from any river large enough to sail up or down.

Ashath had settled into a hut of her own, somewhat separate from the camp, but still close enough for them to keep an eye on her. There was no wall or great thicket of thistle of gorse here, and although the valley was filled with streams which ran white with water, the camp was not situated to take any advantage of such defences. Ashath had worried at first about how vulnerable the village was, but in the five moons she had been here, she had neither seen nor felt any presence of such beings.

The Athask practiced magic regardless, though only the older women seemed to be allowed to openly practice such power. As such, Ashath had spent much time with them, acting as an apprentice to them, assisting with the preparation of rituals and such when she was not required by the Pale Man.

He was treated as a chieftain, or something even greater, she observed. He did as he pleased, not living with the tribe as such but always roaming the mountains, appearing here and there, but she gathered from the broken conversations she had with the other witches, that he now appeared more and more often, to converse with Ashath, for he still wanted to know all her visions and dreams.

It was all he cared for.

He was still distant, a stranger to her, despite the time they shared together in her skin hut, often during the bright frosty mornings that came ever later in the day as winter approached. There he would sit, cloaked and hooded and listen to her recount some boring vision, it had become so common place it was tedious for her. A daily chore no different to fetching water or tending the fire.

Though, she never had to do such work here, a small stack of wood was left by her hut each day, and her waterskin was always full. Food here was more communal than it had been back on the plains, where only great feasts were shared by the whole tribe, many making their own meals from a shared catch or harvest. Here in the mountains the meals were an event for the whole tribe, and often consisted of meat and stews – the valley was not suited for growing grains nor roots, the soil to stony – and would be passed about on wooden platters, the elder women in charge of who got what portion.

Ashath was still kept separate from most of the tribe, but the children had come to know her and often played games running about her legs until the older women chased them away as she laughed and waved. She had seen furtive glances at her from across the communal fires in the evenings, and pointedly ignored them. She interacted with very few of the menfolk of the Athask, with the Pale Man - who was not Athaski - the only exception.

It was most certainly his power which kept the surrounding valleys free of kindred and Dead.

His wandering presence, roaming the jagged heights in the midst of the autumn storms whilst sky fire split the heavens and the rocks were slick with rain. His secretive cave where he dwelt in shadow and shade. His disappearances for days or weeks at a time, only to reappear once more with not a word or change in his disconnected manner.

But all that changed.

Ashath had at last seen something that was not some petty squabble or unknown fate. She had seen her lover, Palanor, oh how she had missed him! She had cried herself to sleep for many nights when she had first arrived, alone in her furs, no one beside her to comfort her. But she had stifled her tears and set herself to work with the old women, to give her something to do at the very least.

Her dream was great, and when she experienced it, she felt the weight of the events that she saw even more so than if she had actually been there, such was the power of the sight.

At first the dream had been as one before. Of her beloved crossing a great torrent, to fight off shadowy beasts before being confronted by a great wolf of the night. In it’s jaws Ashath saw many things, light and life, strange symbols that danced in an endless whirl. She saw a glade in summer and the bleakest fells in winter, but most of all she saw a sword, long and silvery, though she knew in her dream that it was not silver. And the great wolf gifted the sword to Palanor and he took it gladly and sang with delight at such a thing.

But Ashath saw the sword was drenched in blood, that everything it touched, it fouled with its bite and she worried for Palanor for he was blind to such things.

She watched as her lover entered a great maze of stone, and fought with many others, emerging victorious atop a mound of corpses, his eyes wild as they had been that midsummer night during the ceremony with Hallin’s taunts. She saw a woman, with blonde hair like the pale stalks of grain, lying on a stone floor naked. Ashath stood over her as the hazy air cleared to show her struggling, managing at last to push her jaw back in place with a howl of rage and anguish. Ashath saw her leave the stone maze with a swollen belly.

Then she was flying. Up above the land so that it disappeared beneath her such was her height and she felt afraid that the sky spirits would cast her down and she would fall forever. But she did not fall. She floated amongst the stars, more about her in this vision than could be seen on a winter’s night in the mountains. The brightest of the stars shone and danced about the sky, free from their tethers like the others, and eight of these descended to the land below, whilst the ninth went elsewhere. Seven danced in a circle and wove a great rug, it’s pattern was that of all the world, though how Ashath knew it she did not know. The rug would last from the day it was spun until the sun itself set no more and the seas would rise up and swallow the land and everything upon it.

This was Vash nah ga’ath, the splitting of the world.

But the night about her became the walls of a cave, shadows flickering from torches as she watched a great white cave lion prowl its den. One of its eyes was scarred whilst the other was the green of the grass in spring, and it cast a shadow on the cave wall that was not always that of a cat.

She was in the cave now, she could hear the echoes and feel the weight of the mountain above her, the air still and cool upon her face, stirring her hair.

She watched the great cat prowl, ever back and forth about the cave, and thought it would prowl forever. But she was mistaken, for Palanor entered the cave then. He was masked, a great snarling face of wood covered his face but she knew it to be him and her heart leapt in both joy and fear. He wielded his sword and shouted…

Ashath awoke in the darkness of the hut. She was drenched in sweat and her heart beat in her chest, hammering to get out. She lay there in the sickly coolness of the hut until her chest had stopped thumping, the movement replaced by her shivers.

She knew now that Palanor sought her, that the wolf would guide him to her, but the Pale Man would not let her go. He would not give her up without a fight. If she warned him of all she had seen in her vision, then Palanor would have no hope of ever finding her and they would never be united.

She would lie. She would tell the Pale Man all that she had seen except the final part in the cave.

When the Pale Man came as he always did in the mornings, she presented a bored and tedious face as always.

Then she recalled what she had seen being as vague as possible, hazy on much detail which angered him, he had leaned in, eyes eager at what she had to say, licking his pink lips in anticipation.

She left out Palanor, blanking the scene from her mind as she ended her retelling with the cat pacing forever at the mouth of the cave.

He had laughed at this, clapping his hands and had left her be.

She had made her decision, she would protect Palanor, her lover and the father of the child she now carried in her swollen belly.

Chapter Text

Winter was closing in. The skies were ever more bleak and grey now, and the days were shortening at an increasing rate, foretelling the long night of midwinter.

The river had begun to narrow and the winds that had billowed the small sail Marren used to carry them up stream began to fail. Palanor and Blackhair took to the oars and punting poles to make a steady but much slower progress up river, following Kibeth’s only vocal request since escaping Dinas Affaraon; ‘Head up river.’

In the down time, when the anchor was dropped over the side or the boat beached on a islet or even just a sand bank for the night. The rag-tag group would gather together for warmth and comfort, sharing stories as much as they shared body heat. Palanor realised that it was a peaceful change, being on the boat with the others. Kibeth had stayed curled at the prow and had hardly moved, he had even checked on her to see if she was still alive. She was, but had retreated into herself, presumably to recover. Although she had seemingly shrugged off the spears and swords of the Ca’tani warriors she must have been wounded to some degree he thought.

He and Blackhair spent their days under Marren’s instruction, hauling on ropes or pushing at poles to shift them around a particularly tricky bend, or just taking up the oars to help the slack sail. They laughed and talked much during this time. Free of their collars and their servitude they both felt lighter, buoyed up by their valiant escape. Blackhair was a gifted story teller and had a good, deep voice that was perfect for recounting fire-songs of ancient heroic deeds. When they weren’t needed to help Marren, the two would train, with sticks and staves, sparing one another whilst the women watched.

Ixsh-cli and her friend, Belaea, whom Palanor had rescued that night from the Plaza, spent most of their time with Ishta and Rollo, working on all sorts of other minor tasks that life on a boat required for the most basic comforts. They prepared food and stitched sails. They sat together and sang or gossiped as they broke old rope down for oakum which was prepared on the beach with pine resin and plastered onto the overlapping joints of the wooden hull, the boat half dragged out the water by the three men.

The company of the women was a much-discussed topic amongst the men. Marren was, of course, overjoyed at the return of his wife and son, and Palanor had had to forcefully separate Blackhair from Ixsh-cli in the mornings when the oars were needed. Blackhair himself often talked about her as they worked. Smiling with pride as he spoke endlessly about her. Palanor listened politely but kept his own thoughts on Ashath to himself, hiding the worry that plagued him.

“You should make Belaea your woman Uallus.” Blackhair grunted. They were hauling on the oars once again, stripped to their waist despite the cool air, such was the effort required that the pair were shining with sweat.

Palanor had told him numerous times his name, but Blackhair refused to call him anything else, apparently ‘it’s a fitting name, a good name for you.’ There was no persuading him otherwise. Palanor had also reminded him on multiple occasions that he had a woman waiting for him, who they were, hopefully, going to rescue in the coming months. This wasn’t the first time they had discussed this topic.

Palanor sighed, “Your ears are full of rope fibres Blackhair! Ixsh-cli whispers such ideas into them at night before sealing them up! I’ve told you, Ashath waits for me.” The pair strained at the wooden oars, pulling in time together to the stamp of Marren’s foot in front of them.

“Ah but this is no issue!” Blackhair grunted jovially. “A man can have more than one woman you know. Well, a young pup like you probably struggles to satisfy one woman, let alone two but you must try!” he laughed and Marren chuckled.

Palanor shook his head in mock exasperation, a grin spreading across his face.

“I reckon Ashath would disapprove.” He repositioned his grip mid haul, forearms bulging with the work, but he kept time with Blackhair.

“Ahh, but she is not here brother! Belaea, she has eyes for you! After all, I heard you saved her single-handedly, from a mob of ravaging warriors!”

Palanor shook his head again.

“It is not the way of my tribe to have more than one woman.” He pulled on the oar. “This is the way that leads to boys never becoming men, too busy chasing other men’s women, eventually the tribe will collapse. Perhaps scoundrels who drink salt water can manage in such conditions but we of the plains are made of sterner stuff!”

Marren scoffed and Blackhair laughed heartily. Always the same insults traded between the three over the last few weeks.

“You plainsfolk! Ha! You call yourselves men but can’t handle more than one woman.” Blackhair shook his head, “A shame, I think I will make her my woman then. Ixsh-cli has no such jealousy in her heart!”

Palanor had seen Belaea’s glances in the dark of the night, had held her gaze on more than one occasion. But each time he was about to go further his guilt would rise and Ashath would appear in his mind, then he would curse himself for his weakness. But it didn’t stop Belaea. Her face had healed, the swelling reducing, leaving an awful bruise, but she was attractive. Blackhair could have her. There was only one woman for him and she was waiting for him, she was relying on him, she needed him.  

Palanor turned his attention back to the other thing which had occupied his mind these last few weeks. The silvery sword. It certainly wasn’t silver, nor was it the new metal of the marsh peoples to the south. The first few nights after escaping Dinas Affaraon he had taken it out of it’s wooden scabbard and looked at it in the moonlight. Gazing at the swirling pattern within the metal of the blade, tentatively running a finger down the fuller groove, something bronze swords did not have. The edge was incredibly sharp and he was wary of it. He would sometimes flick the tip and listen to the ring of the metal. It sang to him and he was worried by it, it seemed to have some sort of magic deep within it, and yet he always came back to look at it. Even now when the conversation dried up, his mind would turn to think of it. Back in his hand in the tunnels of the temple, dripping with blood.

Palanor shook his head and brought his attention back to rowing. Marren was stamping out the beat and had begun one of his shanties, humming and singing, Blackhair soon took over the vocals though even with the strain of the oars as the little boat made its way upriver.

The first snow fall saw the women of the boat break out the thick packs of furs and pelts Marren had managed to trade or steal whilst Palanor had been enslaved in Dinas Affaraon, aware of Kibeth’s plan to continue north well in advance of the others. The little sailor had become somewhat accustomed to the great shaggy wolf, despite her obvious magical nature. Blackhair had taken more convincing but the manner in which she had dealt with the warriors at the jetty seemed to ease his distrust. Ixsh-cli had reacted in a strange manner, cautious but almost reverent of the sleeping dog, and Belaea, well she didn’t care so long as she no longer had to wear a collar.

Kibeth finally stirred properly and seemed to really awake once more on the day of the first signs of snow. White flakes had gathered on her fur, settling on the coal black curls in thick clumps whilst the rest of the wooden deck became slick with rime and slush. The great hound uncurled and stood, gave a huge, snapping yawn before shaking herself off, throwing snow all over the prow of the little craft and rocking the boat with the movement.

The others seemed more cautious now that the beast was fully awake, but Palanor was now anxious to know when his task would be complete, and when he could focus his efforts on Ashath.

“Rested?” He asked her, a bear fur slung over his shoulders for warmth, pelt almost matching Kibeth’s in colour, but lacked the depth and hue of her own dark coat.

For a moment she ignored him, nose facing the river bank, sniffing the air. But then she turned her attention back to him and merely grunted.

“Hungry?”

At this her eyes brightened up and a great pink tongue lolled out her jaws to lick her lips as she broke into a smile.

“Of course.”

Palanor walked over to a wooden crate and removed a freshly caught salmon, one of eight that they had managed to spear in shallows the last day. Now was the time of the great run, in which hundreds of thousands of the fish swam upriver all the way from the sea to lay their eggs far in land. The water was so thick with them in certain narrow spots that the surface was white with froth and glittered with shiny scales, such were the shear numbers of fish present.

Palanor had not known of such an event until Marren had run the boat onto a sand bank and commanded the other men of the little craft to take up spears and wade in the shallows until they had speared at least five of the fish. Six fish remained, gutted but whole, packed in a crate which was wrapped in furs to keep it as cold as possible, the frosty mornings aiding in preserving the fish.

He tossed the smallest one he could find, which still was as long as his arm to the large dog who snatched it out the air before lying down and immediately gnawing at the pink flesh, demolishing the huge fish in a matter of minutes.

A pile of scaly skin and a partial skeleton remained in a discarded pile as she looked expectantly at Palanor for another.

He shrugged.

“The rest is for the journey; we might be able to stop again for more. What say you Marren? Will we get another chance to take on more fish?” The young man turned to the helm, addressing the sailor.

Marren stared back, quiet now that the wolf had awakened. He gave a non-committal shrug. Palanor realised the rest of the little group were huddled up by the helm, at the opposite end of the boat, swaddled in furs and pelts as they watched with anxious eyes at the exchange between man and kindred.

“They fear me. Far more than you did.” Kibeth was staring back at the humans from the prow of the boat, appraising the group at the far end of the little water craft.

“They do not know you.” Palanor said, “But they know you are no threat to them.”

The dog snorted, a cloud of air billowed from her nostrils before drifting overboard with the cold breeze that chilled Palanor, making him pull his bear fur cloak tighter about his shoulders.

“I know you, Shiner” Ixsh-cli gave a curt nod, an awkward sort of bow of her head as she looked at the Kindred being with a mix of awe and fear.

Kibeth nodded and blinked before returning back to her customary position curled up in the prow, circling about until she was satisfied before settling back down to sleep.

She opened one eye and spoke out one side of her jaw to Palanor.

“I’ll stay out the way for the time being.”

Then she closed her eye and seemingly went to sleep.

For a while, the boat was silent, only the lapping of water on the clinkered hull timbers was heard, highlighting, rather than hiding the obvious lack of conversation.

Marren broke the silence in the end, calling for Palanor and Blackhair to assist in punting the boat into position to run it aground on a shingle bank. The sun was already low in the sky, red clouds bleeding out in a thin smear to the west as the small crew disembarked to stretch and pad about the pebble bank, free of the confines of the boat and the unspoken presence of Kibeth.

The women stamped their feet but remained huddled somewhat together, long cloaks and ragged furs about their shoulders as their breaths mingled above them into a single cloud of mist in the cold, clear air. Blackhair and Palanor unloaded wood that had been gathered a few days earlier from a safe islet to use for a cooking fire. Marren tended to the sail and the anchor, before checking the hull, spidery fingers checking joints between planks, muttering to himself.

The light and warmth of the fire, as well as the scent of food cooking in the small copper pot, lessened the tension of the group and small chatter and conversations started once more.

Blackhair left Ixsh-cli and Belaea, trudging round the fire to sit beside Palanor, pebbles and shingle crunching as he settled down next to the brooding young warrior.

Palanor stopped subconsciously handling the haft of the sword as his friend sat beside him, crossing his arms about him and pulling the furs once more, tight about his body. The cold seemed to always find a way in.

“The beast unnerves me Uallus.” Blackhair whispered, voice low as he leaned in, so that no others could see his face as the two warriors looked at each other in the flickering light of the fire, one with hair of flame, the other black as night.

Palanor did not respond immediately, stroking his beard instead, nodding to show that he had heard his friend. He pondered his response, ignoring the faint memory of the ringing in his ears.

“She has saved my life, more than once now, and I do not sense any malign intent.” He continued stroking his chin, muffling his response so that only his friend could hear clearly, “Many times she could have slain me, corrupted me. Her power is great indeed, see how the water does not bother her?”

Blackhair hissed, “She? You speak as if it’s a person Uallus.”

Palanor looked his friend in the eye, holding his steely gaze, reflecting naught of the emotion displayed by the older warrior, outwardly calm and inwardly distracted by faintest hum of metal. He was tired of the topic already, Kibeth had saved them, she was an ally.

“I have business with her, and she with me. Until our tasks are complete, our fates are linked.” There was nothing else to be said and he turned back to the fire. Palanor knew his friend was not satisfied with such an answer, but he did not know what it was he could do. They could not set Blackhair and the others on the nearest bank and leave them be, nor would they willingly leave the safety of the boat for the open wilderness. The kindred being was no threat, he would have to hold his tongue, and hopefully his thoughts as well until one or the other could part ways.

Palanor was not sure whom he would rather see leave, for he considered both Kibeth and Blackhair to be companions of his, both had his trust and respect. Kibeth had journeyed with him across the mountains, he had hunted with her and had come to know her for who she was, or at least had some inkling of who she was at least, for she was ever mysterious, even now. But he had met Blackhair in the fighting pits and the arena of Dinas Affaraon, has shared servitude with him, fought and trained with him for many a day. They were alike in many ways. Both were warriors with a notion of honour.

When Marren thrust a wooden bowl into his hand with stewed fish in it, Palanor accepted it without comment, content to eat in silence, gazing at the dying flames, blood red embers glowing and warming his face as he retreated into his own thoughts. Thoughts of silvery swords that sang of dark tunnels, of blood and rage, of death and destruction.

Chapter Text

Blackhair’s mood lifted somewhat over the next few days as Kibeth remained curled at the prow of the boat, keeping quiet and still, allowing herself to be overlooked and forgotten.

Soon enough he was back to singing and laughing with Palanor and Marren. The nights were getting colder and longer, the sun setting ever sooner each day. The skies were white and grey with cloud for much of the days and snow showers were common, but it did not settle for long. As such, in order to prepare for the winter nights, they had to take on more food and wood for fires.

After Palanor had spent some time gazing out at the wooded bank of the river, extending his senses out to feel for any Kindred or Dead that might lurk in the wild land, he nodded, satisfied that they were clear to disembark.

They kept the boat moored by the anchor close to the bank, a safe refuge should something emerge from the dense woodland. Palanor and Blackhair went to hunt what they could, both knew full well that it was unlikely that they would come across anything with the winter season now upon them. Most animals would have settled down to hibernate or moved south to warmer climes. Regardless the pair set off, eager to stretch their legs properly.

Kibeth took her chance to disembark and Palanor would have liked for her to join them, for she would have easily flushed out game and been useful if they came across anything. But he knew Blackhair would then refuse to join them, and would sulk and brood at the camp on the river bank. Palanor pushed it from his mind as the pair strode into the forestry, still crisp with frost and rime from the night before.

Palanor took his mask, but carried it slung over one shoulder. He had lost his ivory spear and his bronze sword in Dinas Affaraon, but he carried a borrowed spear from Marren, and had his new sword in its plain, wooden scabbard on his hip. He had his bear fur on, its face and upper jaw pulled over his head as a sort of hood, hiding his bright hair, the rest of the pelt hung as a cloak down his back, it’s front paws over his shoulders.

Blackhair had a similar cloak of goatskin over one shoulder, leaving the other bare except for his sleeveless tunic. He didn’t seem to mind the cold as much. He had a throwing stick in one hand and leant on his spear as a staff as they trod slowly and with care through the eerily still forest.

It was good to hunt once again, Palanor thought. The two didn’t need to speak in order to communicate, a look or a gesture was enough for both men were well versed in the hunt. They padded through the thawing wood as the sun emerged for a while from behind the clouds, the weak, dappled light sparkled in droplets that fell from the boughs above. Soon enough the patter of the melting frost covered their crunching footsteps and the rime turned the forest floor damp, deadening the sounds of the two prowling men.

The woodland was not expansive and soon enough it cleared as they moved further from the bank of the river, revealing hilly grasslands and scattered woods. The pair paused in the shadow of the tree line, contemplating their next move.

“Well brother, what say you?” Blackhair muttered, keeping his voice low as he gazed out, looking for any sign of movement, scanning the sky for any sign of wheeling scavenger birds or raptors.

Palanor also looked out, appraising the lack of animal life.

“I’m not sure.”

He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the hillside nearest to them.

Had it been just a clump of brown grass shifting in the wind? No. A little flash of white under that brown lump. A rabbit.

And where there was one rabbit, there would be many more.

Palanor pointed and Blackhair leaned in and followed his gesture, the pair as still as the trees around them. After a moment or two Blackhair also spotted the tell-tale signs of the rabbit. He flashed a grin at Palanor.

“Uallus, let us be as your beast and come upon them like wolves!”

Palanor nodded and the pair sank bank into the dull shade of the wood to prepare for the approach, for rabbits were tricksome things to catch, ever swift and alert.

Blackhair set down his spear for it would be of little use here. Palanor kept his but had little choice for it would be of more use than a sword, choosing to ditch his hunting mask. They both knelt as they rubbed pinches of cold earth onto their armpits and brows, smothering both their scent and their pale skin.

Once they were ready, they set off crouched over, crawling in places to move round the hillock and get down wind of the rabbits. The ground was good, for it had many furrows and dips which hid them, and the brown and yellow grasses were long from the summer growth.

Once they were close enough Blackhair hurled the throwing stick and it flew silently across the grass, spinning about itself as it went with such speed that it clipped the first rabbit before it had even finished looking up at the blur or Blackhair who had leapt up after it.

Palanor also tossed his spear, but to no avail, it landed behind the next closest rabbit as it dashed away, jinking side to side to throw off the pursuers.

“Close Uallus! Close!” Blackhair clapped the younger man on the shoulder before reaching down to pickup the stunned rabbit, quickly easing it’s suffering with a swift snap of it’s neck.

“Let us go round the hillock, there will be more on the other side if the warren holes are anything to go by.” Blackhair pointed and Palanor could see many such rabbit holes above them, little scrapes sometimes joined to closer ones so that bare earth showed through, a brown scar amongst the yellowed grasses.

In the end Blackhair got four rabbits with his throwing stick and Palanor speared one, having thrust his spear down into the burrow and plucked one out. They slung them on their belts and headed for the campsite on the river bank, stopping off to collect the discarded spear and hunting mask.

Everyone was welcome of the change in food, for the fish had soon become monotonous to all except Kibeth, who had spent most of her time splashing about in the shallows trying to catch fish. She had succeeded in getting two apparently, and had snapped them up greedily from the icy waters.

Marren and the women had split much wood and a fire was already going by the time the two hunters returned and began to skin and prepare the rabbits for a meal.

Kibeth retreated to the boat, content with her catch, which surprised Palanor more than anything for she was always keen for more food.

The group sat, once again about the fire as the rabbit joints stewed in the copper pot.

Blackhair had saved the skins and was already tanning them in their own brains, a quick process that took less than a day to complete.

He began to tell a tale of how the rabbits came to be so fast and swift as he worked the soft, damp skins in his hands, stretching the hides in order to aid the tanning process and produce good furs.

“In the early days, when the world was young, there was naught but grass upon the earth and the sun-god Fritha shone down upon this green land each and every day.” Blackhair began, his deep voice lulling the others into a peaceful doze as they huddled together around the glowing fire, savouring the warmth it gave off. Even Kibeth, ears pricked at such a tale, poked her head over the gunwale of the boat and listened from the water as Blackhair spun his tale.

“All the animals of the land ate grass back then, for there was nothing else to eat. All the foxes, and wolves, and bears ate grass alongside the rabbit, and the deer, and the auroch. The birds ate naught but seeds, for there were many seeds from all the grasses, the kestrel and the buzzard ate seeds alongside the sparrow and the wren.”

Rollo tentatively interrupted, asking if people also ate grass back then. The older warrior shook his head.

“This was a time before men and kindred emerged in the world,” Blackhair clarified, “Anyway, all the living things of the land ate the grass, including our friends the rabbits.” He illustrated his story with one of the furs, placing his hand inside it as a puppet, it’s ears on the back of his hand as he mimed it running about and eating at the thin, cold air around them.

“The lord of the rabbits was called El-Ra, and he had many wives.” Blackhair winked at Ixsh-cli and Belaea who huddled together and smiled back at him. “And these wives bore El-Ra many sons and daughters, so many that Fritha himself could not count them all they were so many. Each son, and daughter, and wife spread over the earth like wild fire, eating all the grass so that the other animals went hungry.”

Kibeth chose this moment to pad over to the fire and settle beside it in a gap next to Palanor, her great bulk leant against him as he leaned in toward the fire, captivated by the tale. He absentmindedly scratched at her fur with his right hand as his left rested on the scabbard of his sword by his side. Blackhair either ignored her presence or was more interested in telling his tale so he continued without any change.

“Fritha was not pleased by this, for he shone down for the sake of all the animals not just the kin of El-Ra. He warned El-Ra that he and his get must control themselves lest all the other animals starve. But El-Ra ignored this warning, arguing instead that his people were the most blessed and the most grateful to Fritha for they made the most of his gifts and ate the most grass. El-Ra’s arrogance angered Fritha and he devised a plan. He summoned each of the animals of the land to him and gave each a different gift. To the fox and stoat he gave sharp teeth and a ravenous hunger for flesh so that they would always seek rabbits. To the cat he gave silent paws and the owl, silent wings, and to both he gave eyes that could see in the dark. To the kestrel and buzzard he gave hooked beaks and swift wings and the greatest vision of all the animals for spotting the kin of El-Ra from afar.”

Ishta interrupted the story with the announcement that the food was ready. She ladled out the rabbit stew before gesturing Blackhair to continue with his tale.

Blackhair took a moment to eat and savour the warmth and nourishment before carrying on, stopping occasionally to eat.

“Now was a time of fear for the kin of El-Ra, and many of them were slain and eaten, such that the grass of the land recovered, nourished by the rabbit blood spilt and the reprieve granted by the lessening of the ravenous rabbit grazers. El-Ra himself fled and hid, forewarned by the swift who sang of the coming of the fox and stoat. El-Ra began to dig into a hillside, hoping to hide beneath the safe earth and wait for his enemies to pass by. Fritha saw this courage of El-Ra, for he had refused to give up and had sought to fight on in his own way. Fritha came to the hillside then and offered a gift to the plucky lord of rabbits.”

Blackhair once again took up the rabbit fur in his hands and mimed the following scene, himself as Fritha.

“ ‘Have you seen El-Ra, oh rabbit of the hill?’ Fritha asked, knowing full well it was El-Ra he spoke to.

‘No, I haven’t seen him, he is far away and I too must be away to my burrow!’ El-Ra replied.

Fritha continued on, ‘I wished to give him a gift, but as he is far away, I shall grant this gift to you instead, come and receive this gift.’

But El-Ra had fear in his heart and would not emerge from his burrow, ‘You shall have to bless my bottom, for I am too busy digging.’

Fritha laughed and blessed the rabbits bottom, granting him strong, swift legs, the fastest of all the animals of the land, and his legs thumped upon the hillside and gave him great ears with which to listen for all the enemies of the rabbits and he said to El-Ra, ‘Lord of rabbits, he with a thousand enemies, you and your kin shall never rule over the land again, but if you use these gifts your people shall never be defeated.’

El-Ra emerged at last and having been transformed with his gifts took off across the grasslands, and all his kin, to this day are the hardest of prey to catch.”

Blackhair grunted, satisfied he had told his story well and finished his meal with gusto. Once he had finished, he put down his platter.

“What say you to my tale kindred?” he looked at Kibeth, who returned his gaze, eyes flickering in the firelight.

Kibeth paused, considering her words.

“It is a good tale, told well by a gifted storyteller.” She growled in a gentle voice.

“Hmm,” Blackhair said no more, but Palanor thought he had softened to the great dog.

Ixsh-cli chose to speak up, clearly nervous at addressing the hound.

“Shiner, were you there in the early days when the land was young?”

Kibeth nodded slowly and blinked, staring at the young woman, but did not elaborate further. The group fell silent and each of them retreated into themselves. 

As the fire died down the group sauntered back to the boat, to huddle together and fall asleep in piles of furs, with full bellies as the snow fell softly about them.

Chapter Text

The boat could go no further up river. The water course had opened out into a lake, before it narrowed and the land began to climb up into a great valley which was surrounded by rocky peaks, now white with snow. Kibeth had announced that they were almost at their destination; the Athask mountains.

Palanor had both longed for this day and dreaded it. For although he was now one step closer to finishing his bargain with Kibeth and could soon seek out Ashath, he would now have to part ways with his new found friends, for he had become much accustomed to their company.

He stood looking out from the prow, gazing at the lake and the distant valley, bear cloak about his shoulders. It had not been removed in many days now such was the cold. His left hand was stroking at the pommel of the sword on his hip as he watched the clouds above move across the sky, foreshadowing yet more snow.

He felt and heard Kibeth sidle up beside him.

“We must continue our journey Palanor Uallus.”

“Aye.” He grunted. His mixed emotions were obvious to her, even without the ability to know his thoughts.

“They have said that they will wait here for us. For you. This valley is a good place to winter, the islands on the lake will keep them safe.  There is much wood and food to be found on the slopes of the valley. We will come back to them once your task is complete.”

Palanor remained silent.

“Palanor. It is important now that you focus on the task ahead. Your mind must be clear for you to even have any chance of success. Thoughts of your friends, and of Ashath must fall away here. Thoughts of the sword whose ringing note still dwells on your mind must also be controlled.”

This drew some response from the brooding young man. He looked at her now, eyes meeting.

“You knew?”

Kibeth nodded.

“There is some modicum of great and terrible power within the blade…you will need that power for what you will face.”

Palanor was curious, now she was revealing the task which had remained a mystery since he had met her. She already knew his thoughts.

“I said I would reveal all in good time and I will. Now your task is to disembark and climb the valley with me.” The large dog growled softly before leaping over the side, splashing in the cold water as she waded in the shallows onto the dirt bank before showering the group in freezing water as she shook herself dry, tongue lolling.

The others shot filthy glances at her for the sudden shock of the cold water on them, this was not the first time she had drenched them.

She wagged her tail and wandered into the sparse woods that dominated the lower valley, trees bare of all leaves waved their many-fingered, bony hands in the breeze as Palanor vaulted over the side and went to the shore to take his leave.

He hugged the women and ruffled Rollo’s hair, before clasping arms with Marren who nodded to him.

At last he hand slapped with Blackhair before embracing in a rough, brotherly hug. The older man thumped him on his back before letting him go.

“Take my shield, Uallus. You will need it, I think.”

Palanor slung it on his back. The heavy bronze gave a dull ring as it settled against his pack and supplies.

“Take care, I should not be long.”

He wanted to say more. He wanted to laugh and tell Blackhair not to waste the days lying with his women too long. He wanted to tell them to leave and head south without him, to escape the winter that was upon them. But he didn’t. He left in silence, refusing to look back, choosing instead to do as Kibeth had asked and clear his mind for the task ahead. It felt like many summers past when he had first set out from his village with the hopes of chasing down Ashath.

And with that Palanor Uallus, Palanor Bloody-Hands in the Ca’tan tongue, followed Kibeth up the valley. Each step taking him unknowingly closer to his Dh’uume, closer to his fate, closer to Ashath.

After many weeks, even moons, aboard the little craft Palanor found the valley climb something of a shock to him. His body was still lean and strong, made even more so by his time on the oars and previously as a hasti in Dinas Affaraon. But the mountains never fail to humble all those who climb them, and soon enough he was sweating under his fur cloak and had to loosen it in order to cool off as he followed Kibeth’s great paw prints in the now settled snow.

The valley was white with snow and the paths and tracks the pair followed as they began to climb up it were hard with ice, prompting Palanor to cut a stout walking staff for himself for balance on the slick surfaces. His leather boots became wet but the dry grasses stuffed inside kept his feet warm and dry even when wading through thick drifts of snow that had been blown down from the heights to settle in great, frozen waves lower down in the valley. He was once again grateful for the bear fur cloak which he had pulled up and over his head, giving him the appearance of a small bear walking on two legs with the aid of a stick.

After half a day’s walk, leaving the lake far behind them, Palanor and Kibeth sighted the head of the valley. The rolling heights to either side tapered inward, gaining height and became far more rocky and jagged. A lower shelf of land emerged at the head of the valley, a white step which led further up to the tops of the mountains. To one side of the rocky shelf, a waterfall had frozen solid. Its plunging column eerily still in the mid-winter weather, the wind whistling through the icy spines which dangled over the edge and down the rock face.

Palanor stood and looked at the marvel of ice as they crossed a half-frozen stream, following a goat-trail that led up the side of the slope toward the lower shelf, with the aim of ascending the saddle ridge which looked down upon the entire valley.  Beyond the saddle ridge lay the Athask mountain range. An entirely strange and unknown place to Palanor.

The lower shelf was more of a bowl like depression, its rounded sides sweeping up to the steep rocky crests and crags that overlooked it. The silent mountains which slumbered under white furs seemed far more ominous to Palanor than when he had journeyed through the mountains to the south in the summer. These mountains were more rugged and rough, taller too now that he thought about it.

His pace slowed as the way become more difficult. The path became naught but deep snow, some of which was frozen in large patches, allowing him to walk upon it rather than wade. But the way was slippery and twice he slipped and began to slide over it, only stopping when he dug in with his staff, which sprayed cold shards of ice as it dug into the solid snow.

Kibeth bounded down, crashing deep into the snow, her weight too great to be held up by it, instead she was forced leap and plough through it. She snatched him up by the cloak, her jaws clamped about it and his jerkin, hauling him up the slope to a flatter area.

“Let me go! I can climb from here!”

Kibeth stopped and released him.

“You could have fooled me! The aim is to go up not down!”

He scowled, wiping her saliva from his jerkin in mild annoyance at being treated like some pup.

“I don’t have your claws, my boots slip on this ice when it is so steep.”

The great dog nosed at the long arms of the bear.

“You have claws, just not on your feet.” She observed.

Palanor took his sword and cut the claws from the cloak, and scrabbled about in his pack for lengths of leather strips. He bound a set of claws to the sole of each boot, lashing the four long claws tightly together so that they lay flat against the balls of his feet. Each claw was longer than his own middle finger, and curved gently downward. When these were placed under his weight, they gripped the ice so that he did not slide about on the steeper sections anymore. Coupled with the staff braced across him, digging into the hard snow beside him, Palanor did not slip again.

Kibeth watched as he took his first tentative, somewhat awkward, steps up a steep section high up the side of the great bowl they were trying to climb out of. She grunted in approval as he kicked his boots into the snow and climbed steadily, with a better pace than before, more confident of his foot placement now that he had the makeshift climbing spikes.

“Better, almost as if you have claws of your own now.”

She bounded ahead, sending fine crystals into the air as she plunged into deep drifts, her legs seeming to lengthen so that her body stood above the cold surface.

“I’m surprised you haven’t simply grown wings and flown us to the top.” Palanor grunted in response to her now familiar morphing and shifting of her form.

“I would have but I don’t want us to be seen. We are in the enemy’s territory now.” She walked on, long legs now stepping over the snow, leaving Palanor to either wade or find patches that were firm enough to walk on, probing with his walking staff to find such snow.

For a while they climbed up until they entered into the low cloud, where everything became grey or white, and Palanor could see no further than a few paces in any direction, with only an occasional, brief break as sunlight glowed through the thick cloud about them.

He followed the black tail of Kibeth, trudging through the snow and crossing the ice with his spikes and staff keeping him upright.

Then the emerged onto a ridge and were above the cloud.

It was an unearthly sight.

In all directions there was naught but the flowing, ebbing layer of cloud, golden in the low light of the winter sun. waves and crests rippled across at a glacial pace as the pair followed the lopsided ridge along to the obvious peak.

Palanor could see other such peaks rising out of the golden sea about them. White points and mounds, also glowing in the light, speckled with black and grey as the rocky surface showed through the snow in patches. It was as if all the world was a great lake or sea of pinks and golden yellows, and the peaks were islands dotted about it.

“How high are we Kibeth? Surely I could see my village from here were it not for the cloud!” He was stunned by the vista as they picked their way along the crest, an ominous drop, hidden by the mist to his right, but a gentle slope to his left.

The great hound turned, quizzical look on her face.

“We are too far to see your village. It is beyond the horizon for many, many leagues.”

This confused Palanor, but she sensed his thoughts then and understood.

“The earth is rounded, hence your village lies below the horizon, like a rabbit hiding on the curvature of a hill, you only see it once you walk over the crest. Did you not know this?”

Palanor narrowed his eyes as he thought about it.

“Is this true?” He asked, with suspicion.

The huge black dog nodded, her eyes showed no jest, and she had no wicked grin on her jaw.

“Like the moon then? We are rounded. Strange. The world is full of mysteries.”

“All the worlds hold such mysteries. My task, some of it, is to provide answers to these mysteries…” But Kibeth did not elaborate any further, her voice drifting off, lost in thought.

He pondered on this but the vista once more drew his attention, the weak sun still blinding in its glory, rays casting long shadows from the island peaks of other mountains.

The pair paused at the summit peak, man and kindred wolf gazing at the low sun for a mere moment before they began to descend on the far side.

Soon enough the twilight world of dull glowing white light returned. Cloying mists swirled about them now as the wind picked up, scouring the snow and lifting sparkling crystals up into the air, to whip at Palanor’s eyes before scattering them into the air, to be lost amongst the cloud.

The light was fading fast, even though they had not been climbing all that long. Kibeth ordered Palanor to use his sword to cut out a snow cave in a deep drift on the gentler slope of the ridge they had followed.

He cut a narrow entry way under her direction and managed to scrape out a large enough area in which to climb inside the drift, packing the blocks of snow - which held themselves together such was the cold – as a doorway to the little cave.

Kibeth shrank then becoming far smaller, almost the size of a normal dog, clambering over him with scratching paws as Palanor secured the door, leaving a small gap for air. He left Blackhair’s shield outside, but marked it with the walking staff, lest it be covered overnight by fresh snow.

She was already rummaging through his pack, snaffling food when he shuffled back to settle his fur cloak under him, lifting him off the snow enough to stop cold from seeping through to him as he dozed.

“Hey. Leave some for me!” he snatched the pack up and held onto it tightly as he got his share of the dried fish, yielding the pack only once he had taken additional food for himself for later. Kibeth gave him a wide-eyed look, whimpering in mock upset, he scowled back at her but relented as she gave off plenty of warmth.

The two snuggled together. Man and kindred beast huddled in the snow cave, lost to the heights of the world. Palanor slept a surprisingly deep sleep, unknowingly aided by Kibeth’s gentle magic.

Chapter Text

Palanor had entered a deep sleep, his mind adrift in the void on unconsciousness as Kibeth waited in the snow cave.

She pondered on her task, and whether the young man sleeping beside her now, swaddled in a bear fur against the cold, would be capable of succeeding in her venture. Would he be capable of surviving the aftermath of what her and her sisters had planned?

It was a bold plan and had taken centuries to fully take form. But these last few stages were the most daring and held the most risk. She was committed, beyond a doubt, but he did not know the stakes involved. Which is why she had hidden it from him.

It was a strange thing, to feel guilt for such an act. He was just a human. They lived such short, messy lives, and before they knew it their spirits were in the river and on to the beyond. Not like her and her kindred. Those with white fire in their bones who had lived countless ages since the dawning of the stars.

Kibeth’s train of thought was interrupted by a soft, acute note called out on the high winds of the mountains. She carefully unpicked herself from Palanor’s embrace, slithering free as the young man slumped over, dead to the world.

She squeezed herself out through the air gap he had left, body shrinking and elongating to her will and whim. As her paws touched the snow, she took on her most favoured form. The great dire wolf once more stood upon the snowy mountain side, gazing up at the patchy sky, swathes of cloud smeared across the starry sky above.

Her impossibly keen eyes spotted her sister, descending from on high. A great owl, feathers speckled like the sky above with flecks of silver-white cast across midnight black, alighted next to the wolf. Her terrible talons sank into the thick snow of the slope, hiding the dreadful claws as she folded her wings and cocked her head at the wolf, quizzical.

There was no need to speak for their minds were known to one another, both being shiners.

Greetings first of seven, what news of the great plan? Kibeth was jovial but calm, now was not the time for games.

And to you third of seven. Our sisters are nearly ready for our crescendo, we thirst for it’s coming but there is a part of me… -Kibeth felt hesitance and some doubt fill her mind, transmitted from her sister’s thoughts to hers- …Once we begin this, there is no going back. This world shall be changed. Forever.

Kibeth nodded in agreement, pushing thoughts of comfort and trust across the mind-gap between them, It is for the good of all life here that we do this. Remember the last time? Remember all the souls lost when our brother last had his way? This shall be different. A tear fell from the wolf’s eye, rolling down her jowl to drop into the snow.

The great owl cocked her head the other way, hooked beak rotating round as she considered her sister’s thoughts. She stretched her wings out and beat them once to stretch before folding them once again, settling back into the snow. She was aware of the young man sleeping in the snow cave beside them. His thoughts were drifting out of the snow, hazy dreams reached her mind and she studied them for a moment.

Is this human ready for what he faces? She asked, curious rather than judgmental.

Kibeth turned her head and considered the sleeping young man, her gaze piercing the snow, he seemed so peaceful and vulnerable huddled there. But already he had sent many to the river and had vanquished many lesser kindred despite his years numbering less than a score.

She did not answer directly, instead musing on the wider point.

They are a strange sort of being Ranna, these humans. So fleeting and yet so full of life, they live in a world of danger and woe and yet they cling to it with such strength and will. They enslave and butcher one another, or are wiped out by plagues and famines, they have but the briefest moments under the sun and yet still they do not yield themselves to the river willingly. Many come back if they can. It is beautiful, in a sad way.

The great owl considered these sentiments. After aeons of existence, it was difficult to see such small and insignificant life with any amount of compassion.

And yet here they were…

He can sense us, even when dreaming of his woman-mate, some part of him knows I am here, observing his thoughts.

Kibeth responded.

He is strong in the magical arts, a good candidate for the stewardship.

Ranna narrowed her great round eyes.

I am not so sure. His fury runs hot and his hands are drenched in blood. Alas I cannot see further into his fate than this. Perhaps when he deals with our wayward brother his true nature will be revealed.

Kibeth shrugged. What did Ranna know of Palanor? She had not spent long moons travelling with him. But still the words rang with truth and she felt a distant pang of uncertainty for his future.

You have spent too much time amongst them Kibeth. You have become too attached. We do this for them, for all of them, but the river waits for us all in the end. Do not cloud your mind with concern.

Palanor tossed and turned in his snow cave, subconsciously aware in his deep sleep of the presence of the kindred forms outside.

Ranna whistled a high note, light and trill which rang through the snow and settled him into and even deeper slumber, quelling his dreams. Kibeth yawned, jaw snapping shut afterward.

The owl and the dog stared at each other for a while longer, neither spoke. The mountain ridge was desolate and remote, the clouds once again obscuring the stars above, bringing freezing mists to the mountain edge. After some time Kibeth turned, bidding her sister farewell in silence as she crawled back into the small air gap that led into the snow cave shelter where Palanor lay, her form shrinking and slithering through the hole.

Though the young warrior was asleep, his dreaming mind had indeed detected the unmistakeable presence of the two kindred beings, and though they hid their presence well – and Ranna’s song settled his mind – part of him knew and sensed the interaction outside the snow cave. His magical senses wove such signals into his dreams, creating a bizarre and surreal blend of talking owls and dogs, interspersed with encounters with Ashath. At first, they were memories; familiar scenes from their childhood. Their first kiss under the full moon at thirteen summers old, then he watched on as she spasmed in agony from a particularly bad vision in her hut before he relived the midsummer festival and the night of passion that followed.

Now the dream changed.

Ashath danced with Hallin, smiling at him, and scowling at Palanor and he could not get close enough to catch her as she spun about. He desperately wanted to ask what was wrong, what had he done to upset her? But she refused to look at him.

Then he was back in the arena, collar about his neck as Cer’i’dwen knelt before him as the crowd roared in approval at her work. He pulled away but as he did so he caught sight of Ashath in the crowd, turning to run, face screwed up in anger and sorrow. But the witch held him by a silver chain and he couldn’t follow, no matter how hard he pulled.

He was in a cave. Was it the snow cave? He wasn’t sure. Ashath was stood before him, a look of fear on her face as he approached. He was naked, drenched in blood so that he was slick with it, thick globules dropped to the floor with an audible spatter. He was a beast, with claws for hands and he snarled instead of speaking, causing her to shiver in fear and cry out in terror. He ran from the cave. Ran from Ashath, for he was the cause of her woe.

He ran on all fours into the night and howled at the moon. This was how Kibeth saw the world, he thought. Now he was on a mountain and a great owl had alighted once more. This seemed familiar, had he been here before? There was an unfamiliar voice in his head.

His fury runs hot and his hands are drenched in blood.

Who said that? The owl? It gazed at him, great eyes piercing him right through with that uncaring stare. He could hear a ringing in his ears, the sword was calling to him but he did not know where it was.

Some part of him knows I am here.

The voice echoed in his mind once more. A female voice, but neither was it Ashath’s nor Kibeth’s. It was gentle but dispassionate, distant even. The ringing grew louder, did the bird hear it too? Was the owl talking about the sword?

Is this human ready for what he faces?

What was it that he faced? He did not know, he only hoped the ringing would stop, his mind was overwhelmed by the sound.

What news of the great plan?

He knew that voice, that was Kibeth. But, as usual, she made little sense. Typical, he thought, a moment of minor annoyance breaking the whirlwind of the dream, and ultimately severing the magical link he had tapped into subconsciously. The ringing stopped.

He fell into a deep, undisturbed peace for the rest of the night.

When Palanor awoke, he was shivering with the cold. His beard and hair had frozen partially and rime had formed about his mouth. He shuddered as he pulled his bear fur about him and snuggled next to the warmth provided by Kibeth beside him. A glowing light weakly shone through the air gap in front of him and he could see a little circle of pale blue sky. His breath misted in front of him as his hands shook. He tucked them into his armpits.

He nudged Kibeth as he did so, who promptly awoke, tail wagging in his face as she twisted about. She saw his sorry state and that oh-so familiar tang of magic caught Palanor’s nose as she warmed him through magical means. She stopped as the snow cave began to thaw, cold water running down the walls.

“Thanks.” The young man said, despite his wrinkled nose at the obvious taint of magic. How long had it been since he’d cleansed himself and purified his body? Still. He was alive. He was warm. He didn’t care for much else right this moment.

“Sleep well?” The dog asked innocently enough. But he had a suspicion that she was aware of his fevered dreams, some of which still haunted him now in his waking hour.

Palanor grunted, aware that she already knew his thoughts, but not yet fully awake to share them properly in conversation.

Kibeth surreptitiously tried to nose at the pack for food but Palanor snatched it up, rummaging about inside it himself in order to fuel himself first, before the hound snaffled all the food. He chewed on a dried meat twist, the smoky flavour and the meaty goodness warmed him even more and his mind fully awakened.

“Strange dreams.” He grunted once more. The kindred would know what he meant.

“Hmm.” She nodded at him, though her eyes were fixed solely on the jerky in his hand.

“Help yourself…to one.” He offered the open pack to her.

She tentatively reached in with her snout, snatching up at least two long, thin strips of dried meat. Her eyes remained innocently contrite throughout.

“I think it is time you revealed this task to me. Fully.”

The dog paused, their eyes locked together in the silence.

At last, she spoke, “I agree.”

Palanor waited for her to continue.

“Well. I suppose I should start with the good news…”

The young warrior cocked an eyebrow, curious to hear what it was.

“…Ashath is not far away, she is waiting, in-fact, at our destination. For you, my young warrior friend, are going to fight the Pale Man for me. And you will slay him, with that.”

She nodded at Palanor’s sword as he blinked, still taking in what she had just said.

Chapter Text

Palanor and Kibeth descended the ridge in silence. The weak, early morning sunlight barely warming them as they made their way down the rocky crest. The only sounds were the faint whistling of the wind as it passed over the rocky edge and the crunch of the crisp snow under Palanor’s boots.

The young warrior stewed in his silent anger, he could not understand why Kibeth had withheld and hidden such information from him regarding Ashath. All this time they had been in search of the same thing!

She had tried to explain to him that her task was far greater than a mere rescue, that somehow there was some great event in motion which she was a part of and required the Pale Man to be dealt with. It was pure luck she had stumbled upon Palanor all those moons ago that night with the bear and the Ferenk. So, the wily Kindred had hidden her intentions, for fear of refusal or distraction. What really annoyed him was that she hadn’t confided in him sooner, that he had resigned himself to not seeing Ashath for many more moons, he felt like a child, kept in the dark.

Kibeth walked ahead, suitably contrite, her ears pressed back against her head, big eyes looking round occasionally. Palanor ignored her. Let her go a little longer before breaking the silence. He was being immature, it didn’t really matter, he supposed. He was glad to hear that Ashath was close, and would be closer still if they hurried. His heart had been beating fiercely in his chest since Kibeth had broken the news at dawn. A quiet nervousness bubbled up in his chest, which he was only just managing to control, his mind distracted by the snowy descent.

Kibeth must have sensed his changing mood for she soon began to tell him of her plan.

“The Pale Man, as you know him, is a powerful Kindred. Much like myself, but stronger. He is a self-centred being, but he will not be taken easily.” The dog padded alongside Palanor now, elongated legs stepping over the deep snow.

“If he is Kindred, I will need to prepare protections, surely he will unleash his full presence as soon as I engage him?” Palanor tried not to let his concern seep into his voice.

“I will gift you my protection for the battle. Part of my power shall shield you from his inimical nature, plus, I suspect he will have Ashath close to him, he may not risk harming her.”

“Why did he take her?” It had always been a mystery to Palanor, the cause of everything that had happened since that fateful midsummer night.

The great hound mused on this for a while, considering her answer carefully, “He needed her for her gift of sight. Having her close by allowed him to use her to see his own fate, to be able to predict his enemy’s movements. Our movements. He is astute, incredibly sharp of wit and mind, and knew that my sisters and I would come for him one day. I suppose that he though Ashath would warn him.” The dog paused for a moment, “Perhaps she has and we are walking into a trap.”

That last thought gave Palanor little confidence. Kibeth continued on.

“But I doubt it. Fate led me to the perfect counter to the power of her sight.”

Palanor was confused and Kibeth grinned at him.

“I very much doubt that she would betray you to him, if you were the one to slay him then she would see it. And if she loves you like you say she does, then I’m sure she will have found a way to hide such a vision from him.”

Palanor remained silent as he thought of Ashath, cold and alone in some dark cave, huddled in rags as the Pale Man reared over her, forcing her with magical power and might to tell him of what she had seen.

“Relax! Have some faith!” Kibeth gently growled.

Down they went, dropping through the golden clouds once more, revealing a great confluence of valleys and mountain ridges, like the spur of a mighty, gigantic wheel carved from ice, rock, and earth.

“His lair resides in that far valley.” The wolf tossed her head to the most distant vale, hazy with morning mist, “It will take us most of the day to get there.”

It took them most of the day and then some to reach the head of the valley, the sun having set some hours before they came to a stop atop a great sloping shoulder of a mountain, which dipped down into the head of the valley. Even in the murk of the late dusk, with the dark sky above, Palanor could make out a great crack in the side of a steep cliff – jagged opening like a great maw.

Further down the valley, dots of light could be seen. Campfires and torches of a large village, but Kibeth paid it no heed, fixated on the great void opening before them. She gazed into it for what seemed like an hour before finally turning to Palanor.

“Now is the time to prepare.” She didn’t need to say anything else.

Palanor felt a sudden rising within him, the quiet nervousness had risen into a roaring anticipation now, and he was torn between eagerness to proceed and cautious apprehension at the task which lay ahead.

He dumped his pack, eating a final, measly meal of dried fish, barely two mouthfuls, washing it down with the melted snow he had packed into his waterskin - the cold set his teeth keening as he swallowed.

He knelt, muttering a quick prayer to the ancestors, before blessing his bronze shield. Force and will coming to the for as he reached within himself. Without herbs and certain trinkets, it might not be as powerful as usual, but the spell seemed to take as his lips blistered with the words.

He checked his sword. Drawing the insatiable blade which flashed silver and white in the pale moonlight, it’s shimmering surface seemingly alive. He felt it’s call, it knew what was to take place this night and it revelled in it, humming with glee, his palm tingling as he gripped it, driving it home to it’s wooden scabbard.

He removed his bear fur cloak and tossed it onto his pack. He also untied the bear claws from his boots and shoved them into the pack, along with other small pouches from his belt.

At last, he took his wooden hunting mask into his hands, considering the intricately carved snarling face of a cave lion for a moment before turning it about, revealing the inner bronze lining which would sit against his face when he donned it.

“Wait.” Kibeth whispered.

Palanor paused, mask in hand. The great black wolf padded over and stood before him, barely visible in the dark of the night.

She blew upon his brow, and he smelt the familiar tang of hot metal as she worked her magic. And yet it felt…different, somehow, this magic was subtle, and he knew it to be benign. His brow stung slightly for a moment after she had finished.

“There. Now you carry my mark.” She nudged at his bronze shield, “See for yourself.”

Palanor knelt over his shield, looking into the somewhat reflective surface. A gentle glow could be seen mirrored back at him, he reached up and touched his forehead, feeling a slight scar or mark upon his brow. His dull, murky reflection copied his movement.

“This shall provide protection to you against his full presence. Wear it well Palanor Uallus. Are you ready?”

The young warrior nodded.

He donned his mask, securing it at the back so that it would not come loose. He hefted the bronze shield in his left hand, the weight now familiar after many moons of training with it in Dinas Affaraon and on Marren’s boat with Blackhair. Best not to dwell on them now…

Kibeth stood behind him.

“You must go first, lest he sense me…I wish I could lead, but it must be you. I will follow. Be brave Palanor Uallus. Remember who you are.”

Palanor could barely think straight, such was the anticipation now within him. But he stepped forward, into the shadow of the cavemouth and entered the Pale Man’s lair.

The floor of the cave was slick with water in places and dry in others, forcing Palanor to pick his way deeper into the maw of the mountain, cautiously creeping further in, his vision reduced by the mask. The way narrowed and twisted many times, the path snaked about, sometimes climbing upward, sometimes descending.

On he went, squeezing through narrow gaps, pushing his bronze shield ahead of him at funny angles in order to get it through at times.

Then he saw a flickering light dancing at the end of the passage. He paused in the deep shadow of the tunnel, watching the light on the rockface. A great shadow fell across it momentarily but disappeared once again. Palanor felt his heart beat ever faster in his chest. Surely the Pale Man must be able to feel it through the walls of the cave?

He took a deep breath, slowing his heart. He closed his eyes and thought of Ashath. Her beauty came to his mind’s eye, her smiling in the summer sun as the walked back from a hunt. They would hunt once more when he was done with this task.

His eyes opened once more. He was ready. He crept forward, drawing that terrible sword as silently as he could from its scabbard, feeling that delightful vibration in his right hand.

He rounded the corner and entered the large opening that was the Pale Man’s lair.

The opening was large and cavernous. Bare rock arched high overhead; the ceiling full of deep shadowy clefts. Several blazing torches were set into the walls, the base of which was cluttered with baskets and chests and many small bones. The back half of the cavern was raised up on a slight rock shelf.

A hooded, incredibly pale man sat on the rocky step. He wore a deep green cloak and hood, which covered his face, but revealed his arms which were as pale as the snow outside and ended in hands with wicked claws.

As Palanor stepped into the flickering light the figure looked up, the unnatural glint of an eye showing from the hooded shadow of his face as he appraised this intruder.

A strange, almost mocking voice called out in a lazy manner to Palanor.

“Who are you?”

The Pale Man sounded almost amused. Palanor felt his anger surge at such an affront. This was the man, the being who had stolen his woman! Had led him halfway across the world to find her. This was the one responsible for all the pain and suffering he had experienced these last six moons. His answer came easily to his lips.

“I am Palanor Uallus! Son of Iscar! Born out of Hilti! Warrior of my tribe, hunter of the plains!”

The Pale Man gave a little, almost forced chuckle, before a single pale arm pushed back his hood to reveal a strange face. It too was pale, with a great scar across one eye, the other glowed a deep green, like the grass in spring. It’s nose and mouth was that of a cat, the top lip split in two, white fangs flashing in the dancing light of the torches as the Pale Man chuckled once again as he, or rather, it, clapped it’s clawed hands together.

Behind him, a mound of furs stirred, and a young woman sat up, eyes wide as she stared across the cave. Her hair was alight with flame as the locks tumbled down her shoulders and chest. Palanor knew that hair. It was Ashath. Palanor’s heart skipped a beat as he glimpsed his lover.

“What a mouthful!” The Pale Man’s single eye flashed green once more, “And why are you here, Palanor-with-the-long-name?” The kindred beast leaned forward, seemingly eager to hear what this young warrior had to say.

Palanor pointed to Ashath with his sword.

“That, is my woman. You took her from me. I am here to bring her home!” Palanor barked, though his voice was not quite a shout, it echoed in the cave.

The feline grin fell into a savage sneer as the Pale Man stood, his movements just like that of a cat, svelte and menacing, with a deliberate slowness, as if he were toying with a mouse. He cocked his head to one side, great green eye swivelling briefly to where Ashath now knelt, clutching at the furs in fear as she watched on, before it fixed once more upon Palanor.

The Pale Man came at him with astonishing speed and fury, a blindingly white blur. Palanor barely shifted his shield up in time before being barrelled back against the rock wall, the force of the blow knocking the wind from him. The Pale Man stood over him, cloak seemingly vanishing to reveal a long, fur-covered body, a great, bushy tail snapped back and forth behind the kindred as it morphed fully into a huge cave lion, eye alight with glee as it brought it’s paws together and readied to pounce on Palanor as he struggled to his feet, sword skittering on the rocks.

Ashath screamed, scrambling to her feet, calling to the kindred beast, pleading.

His gaze left Palanor’s briefly, eyes sliding over to Ashath, one smiling, one scarred shut, as he tried to speak. Palanor saw his opportunity and slashed at the cave lion with the sword. It did not cleave as easily as normal, the point barely scratching the skin of the lion, surprising Palanor as much as it did the Kindred beast who jolted back.

“Where did you get that?” It hissed.

Palanor roared and thrust forward, shield up as he drove off the wall and at the mighty beast.

The cat swatted him with one large paw, swiping at the bronze shield and sending Palanor flying once more into the wall of the cave. His mask came loose and clattered to the floor.

Ashath tried to hobble over but stopped as the lion gazed at her.

“As you have betrayed me, I feel no need for anymore reticence, I shall reveal my full might to you both and watch with pleasure as you burn…to ash.”

Palanor felt a sudden tugging at his guts, smelt the all too familiar tang of hot metal and blood, his eyes were blinded by the bright light that emanated from the giant cave lion. Palanor’s own brow seemed to sear hot, but still he felt the force of magic about him.

So much for Kibeth’s mark of protection, he thought.

But before the full force of the kindred’s caustic presence was felt, it was interrupted, by someone else entering the cave.

Kibeth squeezed her own giant form through the narrow entrance of the lair, a figure of an inky, black dog in opposition to the great cat’s searing white.

“It has been a long-time brother mine.” She hissed as she prowled at the edge of the cave, jaw hanging loose, snapping with each word as her hackles came up, a low growl rumbling with each breath.

The great lion turned to examine Kibeth.

“You always were rude, sister. But to interrupt me when I am enjoying an evening delight in my own residence is beyond the pale, even for you!” The cat snapped back, equally vicious, as its tail puffed up and it let forth a deafening yowl.

The white lion leapt at Kibeth, claws wide, fanged mouth open for a killing bite.

The great wolf met the beast in mid-air, the pair tumbling together, blurring almost into shapeless forms of black and white as they snapped and clawed at each other, savage barks and yowls echoing about the cave. They rolled as a ball, one atop the other, crashing into the cave walls, tails and legs scrabbling for purchase as each giant animal clawed at the other, tearing fur and leaving scars of white fire across their flesh. One moment Kibeth had the lion pinned beneath her but then the large cat kicked out with it’s back claws and managed to flip the wolf, kicking her back against the wall.

The cat became a man-like shape once more, glowing bright with white light, it’s lower body a whirling mass of fire and energy. It seized the wolf, strangling it with long, clawed arms, hauling it against the wall as it leant in for a savage bite.

Kibeth howled then, “You have to will it to cut! Force it to pierce!”  Her mouth was snapped shut by a white tendril that snaked out from the maelstrom of energy.

Palanor staggered to his feet and charged at them, bringing his sword up by his shield, dropping his shoulder as he barrelled into the whirling column of white fire, his own brow ablaze as he thrust at the torso of the thing that had been the Pale Man. Kibeth’s mark of protection shone bright upon his forehead as the nausea and tang of blood became nearly unbearable as he stabbed at the kindred creature. He focused all his anger and will onto the point of the sword, driving it deep into the fiery-white back of the Kindred.

The sword went in this time, pushed deeper by the will of the wielder, Palanor felt a great resistance still but his strength forced it further in as the Pale Man screeched, releasing Kibeth and whirling about to face Palanor, its maw a jagged split across its face revealing needle teeth. A terrible pain shot up Palanor’s sword arm, but he could not release the blade.

Flaming tendrils shot out and wrapped about Palanor’s arms and body, burning with an intense heat wherever they touched his skin. Kibeth’s mark turned an angry red, the glow reflecting in the silvery needles of the kindred’s teeth as it leaned in.

Ashath, fuelled by desperation and sheer emotion raised her hands, eyes wide as she gave herself over to her will and fury. She stretched her arms out wide and slammed them together, fingers pointed forward as she screamed, voice cracking. Skyfire shot from her fingertips, a bolt of bright light that leapt across the cave and struck the whirling column of white flames, throwing it away from Palanor.

She stumbled to one side with the effort and collapsed in a heap.

Palanor tried to scramble up and over to her but managed more of a half crawl, collapsing beside her, one protective arm thrown over her. She was alive, but exhausted.

The thing which had been the Pale Man was at Kibeth once more, many tendrils wrapping about her as she squirmed and slowly shrank under his increasingly pressing presence, the air itself seemed to crackle and hum as the white column of fire grew in size. She howled, long and loud, such that the cave itself seemed to rumble and shake with her cry. Palanor felt his feet twitch and jiggle at the sound.

Another tendril emerged from the torrent of blazing flame, a long limb which curled back, many claws forming at it’s tip ready to strike.

There was a crack which split the air.

A silver chain had wrapped itself about the limb and held it taut, preventing the killing blow. Palanor followed the chain and saw it led to a giant, muscle bound woman in a sleeveless tunic, the chain wrapped about one arm all the way to the shoulder as she heaved on it, dragging the kindred beast off Kibeth. She wore a circlet which held back her choppy hair and her face was stern and severe.

The column of roaring flame yowled, once more setting Palanor’s teeth on edge.

“YOU! BE GONE BINDER, I HAVE NO PATIENCE FOR ANYMORE OF MY KIN-SISTERS!”

The giant woman spat and she set her jaw with a grim determination, arms bulging as she hauled on the chain, her legs driving into the earth in a half crouch a she leaned back with all her might.

With gritted teeth she cried, “Now sisters!”

Palanor watched as more beings entered the cave, some he could not look at directly, nor behold their forms in his mind, only able to see shifting shapes from the corners of his eyes. But others he could see. A great owl swept into the cave and dived, turning into a spear of yellow light which pierced the column of flame, turning it into a cave lion once more. The spear burst into a flock of tiny birds which darted away as one, chirping as they flew. A pale woman, as tall as the giantess with the chain walked into the cave, at her feet water flowed and mists curled and Palanor knew in his mind that they were the waters of Death. Kibeth got to her feet and joined the fray.

In total seven beings now came upon the cave lion, who now shrank, the silvery sword still embedded in it’s back, as the other kindred beings closed in about it.

“I AM EIGHTH OF NINE! YOU FOUL RATS! I AM YRAEL! I AM GREATER THAN YOU ALL! HE WILL COME NOW! YOU FOOLS! ALL FOR NAUGHT! OUR BROTHER IS ALREADY ROUSED BY HIS SPLINTERED FORM!”

The cat cackled once more but it turned to a choking whimper as it shrank even more, the silver chain about its neck tightening like a snake about its prey.

The nausea and tang of magic seemed to lessen with every moment.

Kibeth barked from the huddled group of kindred beings.

“Palanor! The sword! Retrieve it now!”

The young warrior scrambled up and staggered over to the mewling cat, no larger than a fox now, the sword seemingly pierced right through it. Palanor tentatively reached out, fearful of the searing pain from before but gripped the haft and pulled, drawing the blade from the creature which cried out once more, only to be silenced by the cloying chain about its whole body.

Palanor was pushed aside by the larger beings as they closed in, blocking his view of what had been the thing known as Yrael, the thing which had been the Pale Man.

With a great keening sound, which seemed to come from all seven of the kindred forms, the presence of magic vanished leaving only a faint tang on the air.

Palanor collapsed beside Ashath, throwing his arms about her as she hugged him, tears streaming down her face as she cried with joy. He released her and looked down at her large bump, his hands went to gently touch it, but he was afraid of hurting her. She smiled through her tears and took his hands in hers, pressing them to her swollen stomach. He rested his forehead on hers, eyes closed as he breathed her in. He wanted to just stay like that forever, in her arms.

“Humans are coming. The tribe in the valley…”

“…Sisters we must fly now and face our Brother…”

“…he shall remain bound until our work is done, after…who knows…”

The voices seemed to mingle and mix in the air of the cavern, until it was just noise as each being talked over the others.

Kibeth padded over, limping on one leg, her form much smaller than before, only reaching up to head height.

“We must go. Now. Before the Athask arrive. My sisters and I have little time…”

“Ashath can not climb the ridge route back! She is with child!” Palanor exclaimed, eyes wide as she showed Kibeth his lover’s belly.

“I can make it.” Ashath gasped as she struggled to her feet, and Palanor pulled her up with him, steadying her.

“No. The climb is too steep and the snow and ice is treacherous. You cannot go that way.”

“I will take her.” Kibeth growled, “But I am much weakened from the fight and I will need as much strength as possible soon. I can only take her.”

“No!” Ashath looked from Kibeth to Palanor.

“Yes. Take her to Blackhair and the others, see that she is delivered to them safely.” He turned to her, stroking her hair as her face cracked once more into tears, “Kibeth will take you to my companions, my sworn-brother Blackhair, he will protect you…until I can return.”

Ashath shook her head and clung to Palanor.

“Pala, please, don’t leave me! Not now. Not when we’ve just found one another again!”

He kissed her, drinking her in with a deep breath as he broke away and whispered, “Be brave my love. For me and for our child.” He felt her stomach once more, it was such an odd thought that he was to be a father. So unexpected, and yet he was overjoyed at the idea. Buoyed up by that, the thrill of the fight, and being reunited with Ashath his head was spinning with emotion. He hardly felt the searing burns on his arms and body.

He helped Ashath onto Kibeth’s back, gently lifting her, which was awkward with her belly, but she managed to clamber onto the wolf.

“Take her. I will begin the climb back.”

The wolf merely nodded.

The other Kindred beings looked to her in silence then as she stared back. Palanor felt as if he was missing something, some unspoken communication between them all.

Without warning they shot up as beams of light, blasting the cave apart, the mountain shaking and groaning with an ear-splitting noise as the starry sky appeared above and the columns of light flew upward into the heavens.

Kibeth sprouted wings and leapt up, paws galloping at thin air as she climbed with Ashath on her back, clinging on for dear life.

Palanor, dazed and now feeling the pain from his encounter with Yrael - Eighth of Nine - looked up as they rose. Strange, had Kibeth not called herself Third of Seven? He shook the thought from his mind and picked up his shield. His mask was a pile of ash where it had been discarded during the fight. No matter. He hefted the sword once more, but it’s familiar ringing was gone, replaced by an angry grumble, as if it now groaned and seethed inside.

Palanor was afraid but clutched at it regardless as he ran back through the passageway. Heading back out, to take the mountain pass back to the lake and be reunited with Ashath and his unborn child once more.

Chapter Text

By the dead this was tiring. Palanor was exhausted. The fight in the cave had left him sore, the burns on his skin were not too bad, but they chafed as he climbed in the cold night air. Below him he could see the flaming torches gain ever more ground now. The occasional shout or cry drifted up from below as the hostile tribe hunted him up the long ridge.

Even with his climbing spikes he found the going tough and he made slow progress. His heart was hammering in his chest, partly from the exertion of the ascent but also from worrying about Ashath. Would Kibeth make it to the lake? What if Ashath slipped and fell as they flew? What if the exposure to the magic the cave hurt her or the child?

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus on lifting his heavy legs through the snow. Best not to dwell on it…for now. By the dead it was cold now as well! The sky above was eerily clear and crisp and the stars seemed to glow all the brighter. One star in particular seemed to be shining incredibly bright, increasing in its illumination over the course of the night from when Palanor had first emerged into the night air and gathered his things to begin his flight from the angry horde of the Athask tribe who now chased him.

As he marched up the switchback, meandering trail he and Kibeth had taken earlier than evening he glanced down and saw the first runners below him, torches aloft casting a yellow light onto their young, grim faces. They were certainly angry about something, probably trespassing onto their land and blowing half a mountain to pieces might have something to do with it.

By the dead they were fast!

But he was fatigued and they were fresh. He was also a stranger in this land, whilst they most likely knew it as he knew his own territory, they could run these routes blindfolded and would never put a foot out of place. There was no sign of cloud to hide him or cover his tracks with fresh snow. They would be able to follow him with ease all the way over the mountain crest and down to the lake.

They would catch him one way or another.

There was only one thing for it.

Stand and fight.

Pick his ground and set the battle on his terms, especially as they would come at him in dribs and drabs, the line of torches strung out like a great patterned snake down the valley. They may come upon the fallen bodies of their clan-brothers and decide not to follow. That was unlikely, but it was worth a shot.

Palanor nodded to himself as he made his decision, but not here, not yet, he needed the edge. That awful drop might help if he could lure or drive some of them over it, it would save his aching sword arm for sure. But the shield was just as heavy. Not that he regretted keeping it, all the better now that he would have to face many such warriors before he could make his escape.

He left the switchback section and managed to jog along the lopsided ridge for a while, the snow seemingly shallow here. At last he came upon a flatter area, a small, somewhat level part of the path that would service as his battleground.

To the north the mountain curved away gently, snowy slopes descending off toward another valley, whilst to the south the vast drop of the edge presented itself, granting a grand vista over many peaks and summits which reached up to the sky above.

Palanor ditched his pack, slinging it behind a snowdrift. He drew the sword once more. Something was different. It did not hum or ring with pleasure like normal. This felt…angry. Whatever magic was in the blade railed against what had happened in the cave. Palanor ignored it.

What he would have given for a bow or a sling! But alas he only had what he had.

He crouched down behind the snowdrift as best he could, shield and sword at the ready, waiting.

By the fucking dead how long would they be? They had not been far behind him earlier. Was this a mistake? Had they turned back… His thoughts were interrupted by a torch emerging a little way down the ridge. His first opponent. No. There were two of them. Young, probably a similar age to him from the looks of their strange, dark faces. He wondered if the roles were reversed whether he would have been first of his tribe to encounter an intruder. Best not to dwell on such things…

Haska felt elated. He and Neth would be the first to reach the mysterious enemy. This fiendish interloper who had seemingly stolen the red woman away with the help of other Kindred, who had also slain the Great Athask! By the stars he would pay! And they would be the ones to enact their revenge! They would hold much status and would get a wife each if they caught him. They would not kill him. No that would come later. No! they would hunt this wily fox and break his legs and drag him back down the mountain in triumphant victory and all the tribe would roar their names.

Haska ran on with Neth beside him who held the torch aloft so they could see their footing.

They were so eager they nearly missed the obvious footprints turning away from the ridge. But Neth skidded to a halt and Haska turned, slowing as he did so.

The snowdrift to their right exploded in a great flurry and a huge shining disk emerged, hurtling toward Neth.

Haska watched, stunned by the suddenness of it all as a man barrelled into Neth and sent him tumbling backward, over the edge. He didn’t even cry out as he fell away into the darkness below.

Haska managed to backpedal as he brought his spear up, face only just turning to a snarl as the man leapt forward, great bronze shield held before him. Haska saw a flashing line cross his vision and tried to jerk back, he tripped and fell.

There was a splash as Haska crashed into water. What the fuck? He surfaced and found himself in a misty river…

Palanor grunted in grim satisfaction as he dispatched the second Athask warrior, sword cleaving his neck wide open on one side. The blade certainly seemed less keen than before, but it still cut incredibly deep.

Palanor’s blood was up now but there was no time to repeat the ambush. An arrow flitted passed his head, burying itself in the snow further up the ridge. He turned and charged at the next enemy, hollering a war cry as he mustered all his energy and strength.

On they came, some alone, some in small groups. Some held swords, others spears, some only had wooden clubs. But they all fell to his blade.

Palanor whirled about sword arm outstretched as he cut about him, great hacking swings which severed hands, fingers, even a nose in once case. Then he would get a moment to pause and catch his breath as he found himself alone, with only corpses for company, but these moments were all to brief as yet more enraged warriors clambered up the ridge to face him.

His eyes were wide and he was barely holding himself up. Deep within him he felt the anger bubble up but he tried to keep his mind focused, tried to stay in control.

He raised his shield as he saw another archer take aim.

There was a dull thunk as the arrow hit the shield dead centre and the tip exploded into a great gout of white flame. A spirit glass tip. The stench of hot metal lingered for a moment before the searing flame died down to a fizzle. Palanor charged at the archer, shield up and sword locked against its rim. The warrior panicked and fumbled the arrow, trying to draw a dagger but it was too late as he was ran through with the blade and battered with the shield.

The archer crumpled in half and twitched on the floor as he died. Below, Palanor could see a larger band approaching. At least seven or eight warriors, some seemed to be women. It didn’t matter. They had seen his work. They had made their choice. Let them come.

Something glanced past his temple, grazing him and spinning him half about. A stone from a sling, he thought absentmindedly, lucky, because an inch to the left and it would have brained you.

But something else was rising within him in response to the pain and the fatigue and the exhaustion.

Palanor snapped his head up with a savage roar as he charged down the slope at the group. His eyes wild as he growled through gritted teeth, spittle flying from him with each grunting breath. He hacked and slashed once more, with glee this time. He cackled and laughed as they darted back and came at him once more. He spun, in an intricate dance to dodge them as spear and sword and axe came at him.

The weapons clanged upon his shield like a great drum, setting the beat to this joyous occasion. One of them tried to cut at his legs but he jumped back. Easier to fell the tallest tree in the forest than cut him down. Easier to fell the mountain they stood on. His shield was ripped from his arm by some great stone mace wielded by a screaming brute of a man. So what? He didn’t need it. Ha! He let out another gleeful laugh as he brought the beautiful blade up once more to meet the hammer blow coming from above.

He caught it on the flat, letting the haft slide off to the side harmlessly as he took the blade in both hands and with a mad cackle swung it round and round his head in a great looping arc. He was the scythe and his enemies the grain stalks.

His hands felt gentle tugs as he nicked at necks and bit deep into their flesh, spattering the snow with pink flecks. He barely felt their own cuts upon him, minor wounds that he ignored. Pathetic attempts really, an insult to him.

Yet more enemies boiled up from the path below. But above was a bright light. What was that? An owl? The thing was huge and it flew over the ridge and gave a mighty hoot which caused the warriors to stumbled and fall into the snow where they stood. He felt tired himself and let out a yawn. He thought it looked familiar; he had seen this giant bird before. Where? In some sort of cave…who had been in the cave?

Ashath.

He blinked and Palanor was back. He stood alone. The ground was dark with blood, the snow and ice now slush about his feet. His body was on fire, muscles burning and skin aflame. He was bleeding from multiple wounds on his arms and legs but a quick glance showed no major injuries.

His shield was buckled and bent, useless now. In both hands he held the sword, left hand clamped about the pommel as the handle was not long enough to fit both palms about it. He let the tip drop as the owl alighted before him.

One last task Palanor Uallus then you are done.

The voice seemed to echo in his mind.

The owl bowed its head forward.

Climb up.

He was too tired to argue. Hopefully the bird was taking him back to Ashath.

Not yet. First, we must make Him whole once more. Only then can He be bound.

He was so used to Kibeth being as mysterious and confusing, and was also exhausted that he did not even care. He just clambered up the feather shoulder of the bird and straddled its neck, clinging onto the large feathers as long as his arms, hoping they wouldn’t come loose as the bird spread its wings and leapt out into the abyss.

With each wing beat they climbed higher.

The wind picked up and whipped at Palanor’s hair.

He clung on with his legs and his left hand, hugging the huge owl tightly as he held the sword out, careful not to let it cut the bird. He could feel the spirit within the blade now. It was enraged, furious, hateful. Its terrible presence was faint but it frightened him such was the force of the emotion that seemed to seep from the weapon. It was evil.

Higher still they climbed, so that the land below dropped away. It was even colder here than on the mountain side but Palanor clamped his jaw tight and bore it.

Then they were above the distant clouds, amongst the stars.

A great star hung above them, shining with silvery light. About it flew smaller stars, some golden, others blue, red, green. Five in total harassed and harried the larger blazing ball. The silver sphere became a monstrous thundercloud, towering high into the heavens, plumes grey and black and from it shot forth bolts of Skyfire, striking out at the smaller stars which circled it in swooping arcs.

Beneath Palanor, the owl turned into a shaft of golden light, a spear which flew at the heart of the cloud.

The beam of light jinked left and right, swerving as bright bolts shot forth, trying to hit it as it approached at an incredible speed. They were almost upon the humungous cloud.

Cast the sword! Do it now!

Palanor hurled the blade, sending it tumbling across the divide as the owl appeared beneath him once more, turning sharply, wings spread vertically as it pivoted on a wingtip. A bright flash burned the silhouette of the bird into Palanor’s eyes.

He was falling.

His stomach was in his throat and his heart was desperately trying to burst from his chest. Palanor desperately clutched at thin air, fingers raking naught as he tumbled down. He realised what was happening which only made things worse.

He was spinning now, head over heels, getting glimpses of the starry battle above interspersed with the white and black land below.

Stars.

Snowy land.

Stars.

Snowy land.

Sta…

Something grabbed him and jerked him upward, nearly snapping him in half. It held him by the leg so he was still dangling in the air. He looked up.

His foot was trapped in the jaws of a wolf.

A wolf with wings. Odd.

Then he realised it was Kibeth.

Thank the fucking ancestors!

She plunged downward, gliding with him dangling upside down from her mouth.

Then he felt her release him.

He hit the water with a mighty splash.

By the fucking dead! It was cold.

He tried to breath, sucked in freezing water. Thrashed about, kicking and screaming as bubbles rose from his mouth.

He was up. Air. Breath. Beautiful air. Sucking it down as he spluttered.

Fuck it was cold. He was shaking. Couldn’t stop it. People were gathered about him. Vague shapes.

His teeth were chattering. Someone was pulling at his jerkin.

There was a face looming over him. Brown eyes. Beautiful brown eyes. He knew those eyes.

He hauled himself up as someone threw a fur cloak over him.

He pulled Ashath into him and kissed her. The pair stayed like that for a long time, oblivious to the raging sky above.

Chapter Text

t became known as the War-in-the-Heavens. All night the sky would dance with wreathes of shimmering light, great swathes of reds, greens, and blue-white waves of iridescence, typically only seen occasionally in the far north during the winter. But now the light was constant. And the eight brightest stars danced about the night sky, regardless of the endless march of the rest of the glittering masses that hung in the dark above.

For the first few days the others had huddled in fear and gazed up, expecting the world to end with such a sight.

Vash nah ga’ath.

The splitting of the world.

But soon enough, when the earth failed to tremble and the waters failed to rise-up, the rest of the group soon became accustomed to the strange, unearthly sight that occupied the night sky.

The long night came and went and although winter still gripped the land tightly, snow lying thick upon the earth, Palanor was eager to get away from this place. They had not seen any other tribes in the area, no Athask had descended into the valley or been seen on the lakeside but they had stayed on one of the small, wooded islands just in case.

Now that he had Ashath, and had seemingly completed his task for Kibeth, Palanor wished nothing more now than to begin the long journey back home.

“What say you brother?” Palanor said as he sat down on the shingle next to Blackhair, the pair gazing out over the still, grey waters, the dull sky above overcast with the dim light of a winter’s day.

“What say I?” Blackhair responded in a pensive manner, thoughts on distant things.

“Ashath and I are homeward bound now, to the plains to the south. Marren will take us to the Eastern Sea and from there we can journey up the Great Eastern River to my homeland. I was wondering what you, and Ixsh-cli, and Belaea would do…” He trailed off, unsure of his friend’s thoughts.

Blackhair considered the question in silence, staring out at the thin film of mist that clung to the water’s surface far out at the head of the lake. His breath was calm and steady.

“I would have thought you would know by now brother, that we will come with you. I have spoken to the girls, they too agree.”

Palanor was pleased with this, for he had worried that Blackhair would choose instead to leave him and return to the far edges of the world on the western sea.

Blackhair continued, possibly sensing the younger man’s thoughts, “I have been away from my own people so long now that I fear to return, too much has passed. No. I think you and I are sworn brothers now, and if you and your tribe will have us, my wives and I shall stay with you.”

Palanor touched his forehead briefly before laying his hand on his heart, “I am honoured brother, my tribe shall be much strengthened by your family.”

Blackhair nodded and grinned.

“And to think, soon you will be a father!”

“Aye.” Now it was Palanor’s turn to gaze out pensively across the water.

The two returned to the little camp which had served the group over the mid-winter.

Marren had taken Rollo out to fish in the middle of the lake, leaving the Ishta, Ixsh-cli, Belaea, and Ashath to tend the camp. There wasn’t much to do besides keeping the fire going with a constant stream of wood or cooking at meal times, so the women found themselves working hides from the game caught for food or gossiping about their respective men.

Palanor was pleased that Ashath was getting along well with the others. He had had some concerns that her somewhat bristly nature might cause issues but she seemed to have mellowed a little in the time she had been captive, and perhaps the child within her also altered her moods.

In the few weeks they had been reunited things had gone back to how they had been before. He would comfort her and rub her now swollen legs, seemingly worse due to the pregnancy. She would laugh and whisper in his ear and the two would snuggle deep within their bed of furs and blankets when the sun set.

Her and Ixsh-cli both seemed to get on well. Palanor suspected that it was their shared magical talents that brought them closer, for Ixsh-cli had some vague presence, and had on more than one occasion displayed some insight and power, albeit it subtle.

She had checked Ashath over when they had first returned from the mountains, ensuring the child was unharmed by the presence of the Pale Man or the magic Ashath had wielded in the cave.

For the first time in months, they had all performed the cleansing ritual together, building a large fire on the shingle of the wooded island and dipping into the freezing lake, applying a miniscule amount of precious, scented oil to their skin as they warmed back up by the flames. It was the first time in six moons that Palanor had seen Ashath naked, her body changed drastically from the last time at midsummer, but still she was strong and lithe, and had a hold over him as he looked upon her. Even with her swollen belly, perhaps because of it. 

He looked at her now as they approached the camp. Palanor and Blackhair sat down on the logs used as perches around the cooking pot and the main fire pit. The women went quiet, a good sign that they had been whispering about the men, but the two warriors didn’t mind, smirking at one another.

There they waited out the day, conversing with each other, preparing food or fuel for the fire, making slight repairs or improvements to the shelters they had built, whilst they waited for Marren and Rollo to return.

When the sailor and his son returned, they feasted on some of the fish caught by the two, and the rest of the catch were smoked in preparation for the journey down river.

Within a few days the camp had been packed up and as much food and fuel as possible had been gathered and loaded onto the small watercraft that would once again become their home for the next moon or two, as Marren had assured them that the journey would be far swifter downriver than it had been coming upriver.

The gunwales sat low in the water as they cast off from the little wooded island, a cold grey mist clung to the water and there was little space to sit or huddle with all the rough woven baskets filled with wood and packs of smoked food. Palanor helped Ashath along the narrow boat to sit in the prow with Ixsh-cli and Belaea, Marren’s family sat with him by the tiller. Ashath winced as she sat, her discomfort obvious on her face as she grunted.

“Will you sit with me and keep me warm?” She looked up at him with those brown eyes.

“I will be needed on the poles to help punt us back to the river with Blackhair, once we’re on the river proper Blackhair and I can rest for most of the journey.” He reached down with an apologetic face and pulled her cloak about her shoulders before kissing her forehead and leaving to man the oar or punt pole.

The journey downriver was far swifter and easier than the journey upriver had been.

The river flowed slowly in the winter but even with the reduced current, the boat was carried quickly along the banks which Blackhair, Marren, and Palanor had struggled and sweated to pass by last autumn. The days began to lengthen with a slow, but inevitable pace, the sun climbing slightly higher each day, but the nights remained long and dark, leaving long periods spent at anchor in the middle of the river, slowing the progress somewhat.

Ashath soon became frustrated with life on the cramped boat and all the trappings that came with it.

“I’m sick of smoked fish. If I have to eat smoked fish for another meal, I’m going to throw myself overboard.” She whispered to Palanor, who kept silent and passive, well versed in dealing with her occasional outbursts. It was to be expected, with the discomfort of the child now becoming ever more regular as she neared her seventh moon of pregnancy.

“Soon the days will be longer and we will pull onto the bank and hunt something fresh, soon I promise.” Palanor also felt the same but had long resigned himself to it. He focused on finishing his own meal.

Suddenly she teared up for a moment and turned her face away and wiped at her eyes, “Sorry Pala. I don’t mean to whine like some child, I just…”

“Shhh… You are not yourself, and everyone is beginning to feel cramped.” He consoled her and reached round her shoulder to pull her in for a squeeze. She blinked away her tears and smiled at him. Her emotions were constantly changing now, it was like how she used to be with her visions. Thank the ancestors the crystal she wore around her neck kept the worst of the effects at bay. He dreaded to think what it would have been like if she had been both pregnant and wracked with spasms, unable to stand for days on end. 

Within a few days they had passed Dinas Affaraon. Marren had unfurled the sail fully and called Blackhair and Palanor to the oars, each armed with weapons, just in case. The fields were bare, deep snow covered the slopes and no signs of life were seen at the jetties, most having collapsed or become slick with frozen green slime. Up in the hanging valley above, no smoke or noise could be heard. It seemed that the great city, which had bustled with hundreds and hundreds of people had seemingly become a graveyard.

Ashath gazed at what ruins she could see around what had been the growing and grazing fields, peering at the place she had heard so much about the last few weeks. Ixsh-cli and Belaea turned their backs and stayed huddled against the hull of the boat in their allotted space between barrels and baskets, grim looks upon their faces at the memories of the place.

But soon enough they had passed the stone city and the river widened even further, with some small islets which gave the small group a much-needed break from the cramped watercraft for a night or two. Ashath waddled up and down the shingle, holding her own belly with joy at being free from the hated boat. Palanor had taken the opportunity to train with Blackhair, the two men clacking staves back and forth on the pebble bank as the women watched, egging their respective partner on. Marren even got some blood-sausage out as a treat especially for them all as a break from the dreaded fish and they all eagerly wolfed it down with glee, Ashath’s smile illuminated by the glow of the evening fire.

When the meal was done, she nestled into Palanor as they listened to one of Blackhair’s many tales and he would gently rub her legs and shoulders and swollen belly. And later, in the dark of the night he would whisper sweet things in her ear as they lay together under a mound of furs and blankets and she would stroke his beard and kiss at his neck.

Once they spotted a strange sight travelling down the river. Afterward, when they discussed it, they found they had each seen something slightly different. Whatever it was had beckoned and called to each of them using their name, and had taken on a pleasing or known form, Marren said he had seen two Rollo’s, one on the boat with him and another on the bank calling to him. Fortunately they passed by with speed and it was soon left behind, but the memory of it gave them pause when the sailor next suggested they step ashore.

Within a week the boat had passed beyond the great forests of the lowland areas and the river opened rather unexpectedly into a great delta, dunes covered in salty grass could be seen on either shore and sand bars dotted the way to the open sea - a great heaving mass of stoney grey water that frothed and swelled with the constant winds.

They had at last arrived at the Great Eastern Sea.

The land of the sea peoples and the home of the great leviathans that lurked beneath the waves, whose bones contained an essence that could pierce the inimical flesh of the kindred kind with ease.

The sea peoples lived all along the coastline in sheltered bays and coves, but also atop weathered headlands. Their villages consisted of Duns, Brochs, and Bields each term used to describe slightly different types of settlement. Duns were rocky fortresses built on the heights of the cliffs – a great stone wall enclosed drystone houses topped with turf that were linked with tunnels between them so that the occupants needn’t go out in the worst of the winter storms. Brochs were a sort of hive-like towers, the largest – Broch-i-Dain – stood some twenty paces high and looked like a giant clay pot that slowly tapered inward at the top. They could only hold a few families at most but were often built in clusters. Bields were the most similar to the villages of the plains; places with an exterior wall and separate huts.

But what united the sea peoples was, of course, their boats and sailing skills. Unlike the journeymen of the plains tribes, whose boats were sometimes little more than large dugout canoes or craft whose planks were stitched together with withies, the sea peoples often favoured larger, clinker built hulls that used many bronze pins, possible only due to the many veins of ore present on the coast.

Two such ships, each with eight oars a side were sighted in full sail by Marren not long after they had entered the open water. Here the sea churned and tossed the little craft about, causing all but Marren to hunker down against the gunwales. Only the old sailor stood tall, upper body steady and upright despite the steep angles the boat rocked at. He held the tiller firm and used one hand to trim the sail.

Palanor held Ashath tight to him as the pair clung to the little craft which rolled about at the mercy of the waves. Her face was pale and she looked sickly, and he did not doubt that he too looked the same for he felt a terrible nausea, almost as bad as when dealing with kindred or using magic. This was completely different to the time spent on the river. Here the wind and the waves and the spray made the going rough.

“Pala,” Ashath groaned through gritted teeth, her eyes locked ahead in grim determination to ride out the sea-sickness, “Pala, I think…I’m going to be…”

She turned and heaved over the side of the little boat, her hands clutching at the gunwale as she spat to clear her mouth.

She flung herself back down in a heap next to Palanor who pulled her in tight, holding her in his arms.

Marren was shouting and waving at something. It was another boat. Two boats, in fact. They were beasts compared to Marren’s trading craft. Hulls two maybe even three times the length of his, with enough space for many oars on each side – though they only had eight out currently. The sails were great square rigged things on masts that looked like they were carved from a single, humungous tree each. There was even someone stood atop one of the masts, even as they swung side to side in the swell.

Marren was laughing and whooping and Blackhair got up and tottered over, falling against crates and the side of the boat before making it over to the old sailor to find out what was happening.

Palanor got to his feet as well and managed to make his way over to the pair. Ashath clearly didn’t want to be left out but thought better of it as she got to her feet, choosing instead to waddle over with great care to Belaea and sit beside her instead.

Palanor could hear Marren now over the wind and the spray.

“-Skudiburgh, that’s where we shall stay tonight my friends, a great Dun just a short way to the south! Haha!” Raising his voice he cried to the women, “Not long now! The wind is with us and we shall all be on land once more!” The responses varied from a weak smile to an outright glare from Ashath. Palanor smiled to himself at that, she hadn’t changed at all these last eight moons, she was still the determined, free-spirited woman he had grown up with.

The old sailor seemed overjoyed to be amongst his own people once more, for the sea peoples were not as separate as the plainsfolk, and enjoyed a sort of kinship with all the people who lived along the coastal lands. A distinct lack of kindred and dead in such places made people far more trusting and open than in other parts of the world clearly, thought Palanor.

But whatever they were, the sea peoples were excellent sailors for all three ships were soon approaching a headland with a great mound atop it, like some rabbit warren made of stone and turf. 

This was Dun Skudiburgh.

Chapter Text

Palanor awoke from a dream with a start. For a brief moment he had been back in the arena, fighting some masked opponent and he had just twisted his ankle in the sand, toppling backwards as the warrior stepped in with a savage looking club when he jerked awake.

He lay in the dark for a moment, letting his heart calm its rapid rhythm as Ashath turned over beside him, muttering and murmuring as she dozed back off to sleep.

The internals of the Dun were in a constant twilight. Stone bowl braziers held oil lamps with multiple wicks which filled the air with the smell of fat, for many of them were fuelled by whale and seal blubber, rendered down to produce a clear liquid which burnt with a clean, if small flame. Near to the entrances and exits of the great warren-like structure were larger torches but these were only lit at night.

The Dun itself was an artificial mound built from a large, circular drystone wall that stood at head height. The mound itself was easily 30 strides across if not more. Above the wall, a great turf roof stretched over as a gentle bulge, covered in grasses and delicate white flowers, with patches of thistles dotted uniformly about. From the outside it reminded Palanor of the Barrow back home, where the remains of his ancestors and the Tribe’s dead were kept safe. Around the outside of the fortified dwelling stood a number of standing stones, intricately carved with swirling patterns pecked into the surface over many years, and a number of wooden structures, lean-to’s and small shelters for various non-essential items that couldn’t fit in the limited space of the subterranean structure.

There were four entrances or exits and these faced the cardinal directions; north, east, south, and west, and were more like slim gaps between large stone door posts which were sealed at night with a stone, metal, and wood door which was lifted into position as the sun set.  These entrances led to a tunnel which ringed the outer edge of the structure, running along the inside of the outer wall, on the inside were various small rooms which were used as stores, kitchens and washrooms, the walls made from the same drystone as the outside but presumably any dead space between was filled with soil and rock to be able to hold up the turf roof above. There were slits in the upper level that allowed smoke to escape from the lamps and the kitchen rooms out onto the turf roof, these were hidden amongst the thickets of thistles which prevented any dead or kindred from slithering down into the safety of the Dun. Alternating to the rooms on the inside of the tunnel was access to the central opening, a round shaft that connected the upper ‘ground’ level with the deeper, subterranean ‘lower’ level. The lower level was a repeat of the upper level but lacked the entrances and exits and contained only rooms for sleeping.

It was here, tucked deep into the warmth of the earth, in the twilight of the warren that Palanor now lay awake, calming his beating heart. The rest of the Dun, beside a handful of sentries - who guarded the entrances and patrolled the upper tunnel with ivory spears and silver lined masks - was quiet with slumber of the night. Eventually, Ashath’s heavy breathing lulled him back into an uneasy doze, filled with strange dreams of El-Ra - lord of the rabbits from Blackhair’s tale - and his great warren beneath the earth as the night sky raged on in it’s silent war of colour and light.

The next day, as the war-in-the-heavens faded with the rising sun, when the winds had calmed and the clouds peeled back from the coast revealing a sparkling sapphire vista out to the far horizon, Palanor and Ashath wandered out onto the headland, glad to be free of the oppressive air of the Dun. They were both somewhat unnerved by its semblance of the burial barrow.

Palanor stole furtive glances at Ashath, her skin seemed to glow with a warmth and a flush that hadn’t been there before. He took in her beauty as a gentle breeze caught her copper mane and splayed it behind her as they walked at a slow pace, Palanor stopping with each step to allow his lover to catch up with her careful waddle.

“By the dead, you are a beauty. What glamour is this you have conjured for me?” He smirked at her as he spoke.

She gave a little disgruntled scowl at him, but he saw a little twitch at the corner of her mouth and her eyes flashed back to check he was still watching her. She gave him a dazzling grin for a brief moment. He reached for her delicate wrist and pulled her over to him. She stumbled against him as he kissed her.

He was rewarded with a teasing slap to the face.

“Be careful! I nearly fell!” She had real anger in her eyes but it vanished in an instant, replaced by a mild concern as she stroked his beard.

“You must look after me! Afterall now I carry something precious,” She rubbed her belly, “…and I was stolen away and you took so long to rescue me…”

Palanor scoffed, she was joking of course, she always did have a dark sense of humour, but he still felt wracked with guilt. It must have shown on his face or in his eyes because she held his gaze in a moment of seriousness, a silent apology passing between them. She changed the subject.

“Have you thought about what we should call our child?”

“I’m still dealing with the fact that we will be having a child, let alone thinking about names…I hope to be a good father…”

“You will be! Why wouldn’t you?” Ashath stuck her chin out, defiant in her resolve.

Palanor looked away.

“My fury. My duty to the tribe as a hunter of kindred…it has dwelt on my mind these last few weeks. Before…it never bothered me, my fate, my mortality. To risk it all and walk in the river after only a score and ten of summers…but now, I’m not so sure.”

“Look at me. Look. At. Me” She pulled his chin, turning his face back to hers, “You will make a fine father. I know this.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“Have you seen it?”

She shook her head, “No. But I know it all the same. I know it from the way you have cared for me all these years.”

She blinked away a tear and continued her slow walk about the headland, shaggy sheep trotting away skittishly as the pair wandered about the grassy height.

Later that day, Blackhair sought out Palanor and the two went down the cliff path to train on the slim sand bars that were revealed at low tide. A few of the sentries from Dun Skudiburgh joined them, curious due to tales from Marren who had loudly proclaimed the skill and strength of the two guests. He had recounted on the first night of their visit how they had slain many enemy warriors on the jetties of Dinas Affaraon, to much murmuring by the sea people.

The two friends squared off on a thin stretch of sand, each with a wooden stave to fill in for a short sword, and round shield. The onlookers stood to one end, watching with interest.

The two men began to circle and test one another with feints and thrusts, the shields clashing with wooden staves, the dull thwacks and clacks echoing off the cliff face, sending sea birds scattering to the winds. The two had already agreed to put on a show and quickly worked up into a blur of an exchange, dancing back and forth with real vigour.

Blackhair caught a blow on his shield and rammed the rim down at Palanor’s knee, missing by a hair’s breadth as the younger man darted back on one leg, breaking away before anyone got seriously injured. A smattering of approval greeted them from the small gathering of sea folk warriors.

Afterward, when they had been left alone after showing the handful of warriors a few drills and tricks for them to work on, the two friends sat on the sand and rested.

“You are tired, Uallus, I could see it in the sluggish manner in which you barely escaped my strikes.” Blackhair chuckled.

“This place unnerves me brother, it reminds me of the burial barrow of my own tribe, when I go into it, I feel as if I am already one of the dead. Soon enough you will see my homeland and the barrow as well and I am sure you will agree then.”

“Hmm,” Blackhair nodded, “I am looking forward to finally settling down Uallus, perhaps I too shall father a child or two like yourself.” He grinned a little, “There has been so little privacy on Marren’s boat, Ixsh-cli and Belaea are both so prudish they refuse to lie with me when others sleep so close by us! You and Ashath would not mind such a thing would you?”

Palanor shook his head, he had no such issues, “Ashath may not take kindly if you disturbed her sleep mind, and no doubt I would hear no end of it! How do you cope with both of them? One in each ear!” He laughed at the thought of it.

“Ha! But they make up for it in the dark of the night my brother!”

Palanor thought of what his tribe’s elders would think of a man having two wives.

“Yes… you know it is not my people’s way, to have more than one woman, well…” He thought of the stories of the journeymen and the tales of having other women from far off tribes, “perhaps having two women so… openly.”

Blackhair sensed what his friend was trying to get at.

“You worry that I may not be welcomed into your tribe?”

“Yes. Would you be able to choose one should that happen?”

Blackhair frowned in surprise. “No! I could not do that! They are now as close as sisters! And I am fond of both.”

Palanor had not considered that his friend might choose his women over staying with him.

“Well, as you are not of my people perhaps it would be different… I think I will be able to convince the elders.” Though he was not sure how he would go about it. No doubt Ashath would stamp her feet and give the elders a good lashing with her tongue, fuelled by her pregnant fury. He smiled at that.

“Good. Good.” Blackhair looked off at the distant horizon.

“It will not be long, a few more days and we can leave this place and make for my homeland.” Palanor was keen now to return, so close to returning triumphant with Ashath safe, after all that had happened. The dreams which disturbed his sleep would fade in time and all would be as it once was, but now with Blackhair by his side.

When they returned to the Dun, their women scalded the pair for leaving them for so long, Ashath pulling Palanor away for massage duty, whilst Belaea and Ixsh-cli cornered Blackhair over some unknown issue, the older warrior pinned between his two women just as Palanor had imagined.

Back in the dim light of the Dun, Palanor was dragged by Ashath into the quiet privacy of their little burrow-like room. She dropped the woven mat that served as a door and pulled him in for a lusty kiss.

She pulled at his lower lip with her teeth.

“I need you. Now.”

He could feel her heart beating through her tunic as she pressed up against him.

“What about…the child?”

She rolled her eyes in frustration before planting another kiss on his lips.

“Men! Ugh! Your lack of knowledge about so many things is amusing but right now I need you to get in me! Just be gentle, not too rough, alright?” She looked him in the eyes, searching for a confirmation.

Palanor wasn’t about to complain but for the last few moons he had treated her as a highly delicate object, like a bird’s egg, which could crack at the slightest pressure. Now she was asking for…that, in her condition? Women. Blackhair was mad to want more than one.

It was awkward at first because of the bump but Palanor realised that if they repeated their last night of passion he could hold her whilst he knelt and she backed into him whilst straddling his knees. He was careful this time though, he reached around and held the weight of her swollen belly and she relaxed back into him with delight at the relief as she rocked her hips back and forth. They managed to share a deep kiss as she twisted her head round and up to meet his lips and he bounced her up and down, straining his leg muscles, which were already burning from the sparing with Blackhair. But he pushed through the pain and kept going.

They collapsed backward, Palanor unfolding his cramped legs as he carefully pulled Ashath back on top of him, to lie in his embrace.

She ran her hands along his knotted forearms, thickened by the many weeks spent on the oars or punting poles, and through rigorous sword work. Her fingertips stroking at the taut skin.

“Mmm, you’ve put on muscle since last time.” She whispered to him as he breathed in the scent of her hair, her head tucked under his chin as they lay there together. He grunted in response.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so many moons, you know?”

Another grunt in response. By the dead he was tired! She always took the wind out of him and then wanted to talk afterwards. He just wanted to hold her in silence, and breathe her all in, that beautiful scent would soon send him into a peaceful sleep. Lucky for him, she knew what he was like and would just whisper and talk, not really expecting an answer and he would drift off into yet more disturbing dreams.

Chapter Text

Despite having spent many moons aboard Marren’s small boat, Palanor found that he did not mind the cramped discomfort once again - for he was now more than a little anxious to return. Rumours from afar had filtered down the river all the way to the coast. Rumours of raiders, not seen since the Battle of the Rigg.

He had been plagued by nightmares and strange dreams recently. When he confided in Ashath, wondering if they were omens, she tried to reassure him that it was likely he was just eager to return home, for she had not seen any visions and was a far more powerful seer than he. It did little to lighten his mood but he spoke no more of it.

The Sea Peoples of Dun Skudiburgh had given them the largest river-worthy boat they had and they were even accompanied by a weather witch. The Sea Peoples were not well gifted with Sorcerers or Shamans, but weather magic was a speciality of theirs, and the witch who stood with the helmsman was certainly more versed in working the winds than either Palanor or Ashath.

It was certainly a mighty craft, and the honour and meaning of such a host was not lost on Palanor, for it would certainly make a fine sight to see. Their grand approach of the jetty, disembarking from the biggest boat most of the tribe will have ever seen.

But even with the weather witch aboard, the swirling winds of the end of winter, wracked by storms and changing weather patterns, soon tired the young woman who sang to the skies with an eerie wail and had summoned a favourable wind. She had to keep resting against such difficulties and so Palanor, Blackhair, and the four strong crew of the boat took to the oars once more, the reek of hot metal vanishing on the wind as the witch’s spells faded.

Pulling at the oars cleared his mind and gave him some modicum of peace, for he felt as if he were somehow in charge of the pace of their return, the action and effort alleviating his troubled mind somewhat.

They had left Marren, Ishta, and young Rollo behind, parting ways at Dun Skudiburgh with a firm handshake and embrace. The wiry sailor had pulled the young warrior in for a tight, bony hug, whilst Ishta - still nervous of him after his berserk moment in the tunnels beneath the temple – gave a polite, if hesitant hug, thanking him once more for freeing her and her son from that terrible place. The others said their farewells in similar fashion, for the four women had become good friends in their short time together. For a short while the boats had stayed together heading south, but eventually the great eastern river mouth was spotted and the boats parted ways.

The land began to change once more, not only as they left the coast behind but also as spring began to emerge. The grip of winter was loosening as each day grew longer, shortening the blazing night sky with its strange dance of stars and multicoloured aurora. Each night the crew lowered the anchor and slept under the bright lights. Palanor gazed up and wondered at the battle and how Kibeth and her six sisters fared against the unknown eighth being.

Soon enough they entered a stretch of river which Palanor recognised, but his joy was quickly smothered by the sighting of black smoke in the sky. It was the wrong time of year for wild fire, and the equinox was still a few days off, so it was not a bonfire either.

The men took to the oars and the weather witch once more called up a favourable wind to urge them on.

Palanor buried his foreboding anxiety, his mind running first to other possibilities; perhaps the smith’s forge had caught fire, perhaps the tribe were trying to clear fallow land for an early planting. But deep down the fear and angst gnawed at his gut as he heaved on the oars with ever increasing haste. The rumours which had been whispered in the Dun spoke of raiders, surely, they would not attack such a strong tribe though?

All thought of another explanation for the smoke vanished when they passed a number of corpses on one bank. Arrow shafts stuck from their backs; they must have been trying to flee the boat for it was halfway up the bank. The occupants had been killed by humans.

At this the helmsman stopped the boat, refusing to go on any further. Palanor and Blackhair argued to go on, but none of the crew wanted to risk the craft nor their witch falling to an unknown enemy who may still be about. They offered to take the group back with them to the Dun. Palanor would not think of it, and despite a hurried conversation between Blackhair and his women, he was adamant in his resolve to reach the village, even as he asked Ashath to stay on the boat.

“No! I will come with you! It is my home as much yours!”

He could see his own fear reflected back in her eyes when she spoke, but neither of them let it show beyond the urgency with which they moved as they disembarked on the north bank.

Palanor took a bronze sword and round shield, running ahead, ignoring Ashath’s cries to wait for her and the others.

He knew this land and his feet flew over the earth once more as he ran along the river bank. Memories from the previous summer flitted through his mind, the flood, the bear, the Ferenk. Meeting Kibeth. All so long ago and yet once again here he was running, this time to his village. Or what remained.

He passed other bodies. Crow people - far older corpses, rotten and reeking. He barely stopped, only checking if they were truly dead. So many deaths in such a place did not bode well come nightfall, for their spirits may linger in the river yet and return, especially to seek revenge.

He broke through the wooded forest, still bare from the winter and not yet truly awakened to the new spring, coming upon the growing and grazing grounds.

The fields were bare and blackened by fire.

No winter crops remained, nor were any of the pens left standing or had livestock within. The patchwork of furrowed fields he had played in as a child had been burnt and the ground seemingly ploughed and churned to a mire of dead earth.

But the sight beyond it caused even greater dismay.

The thicket of thistles and the great gorse hedge which stretched from one river bend to the next had been burnt to nothing but charred remains. Sickly black sticks clawed at the sky, stripped of all leaves and spines, leaving a clear path to the stone wall that was the last line of defence for the village. Amongst these remains were a few of the rotten corpses, burnt by an unnatural fire, Palanor recognised the tell tale marks of spirit glass.  

One watchtower still stood, though it too was blackened by fire and pricked with arrow shafts, the other had crumbled and collapsed, spewing a pile of cobbles down the rammed earth and into the ash and char of the now burnt gorse.

Palanor slowed to a stop.

He gazed in disbelief at the bodies piled by the gate, which had been smashed from its hinge.

Whatever had happened, it had been a mighty battle.

He could hear the others behind, calling out to him and the sentries that were long dead.

Ignoring their calls, he walked on. Passing under the gate, he picked his way through the corpses, some he recognised both of his own tribe and the enemy. More Crow people, their bodies far more rotten than his clan-brothers and sisters, used by a necromancer as foot soldiers, puppets which marched unwillingly to the tune of their master, but who and where was the puppeteer?

Up the ramp he went. The village itself was just as ravaged as the defences, huts had been turned out, their contents strewn across the spiral path, before being pulled down or set alight. Charred remains could be seen in a few and he wept at the sight before him. Up the main spiral was more of his tribe. At the fore was Selk, a hide shield that had been hacked to tatters was still strapped to what remained of his arm, behind him were many other warriors that Palanor had known. Warriors who had taught him how to fight or hunt, who had danced and laughed at Midsummer, now they would be in the river, gone.

To one side he saw Hexi, beautiful Hexi, lying under a different, unknown enemy. Her buckskin dress had been torn and she was covered in marks of violence, but in her fist, she still clutched at a stone knife which was embedded in the ribs of the man who had also killed her. The two lay together, their now still embrace belying their desperate last moments of struggle and fear.

Further up the spiral was another burnt patch, the ground and surrounding huts ruined by yet more unnatural fire, from the shape of the marks, and the remains scattered about, one of the village shamans must have unleashed it as the enemy pressed up the hillock.

Palanor continued up the spiral, finding more and more of his tribe slain.

At the top, by the boundary of the ziggurat which was set out by the wind flutes, he found Tul and Dara.

The two giant twins had fallen in battle as they had lived in life, side by side, together until the end. Their hulking bodies hacked to pieces and riddled with arrows and spears, surrounded by many dead. The brothers might now walk in the river, but they had ensured that they would not go to the beyond alone and had taken many enemies with them.

Palanor collapsed to his knees and wept.

The great ziggurat was broken.

The stone slab which capped the hidden place had been cracked and thrown asunder, the geodes inside had been broken, and the kindred within had escaped. Even the great geode in the centre had been split, but Palanor could not feel any presence about him, they must have separated and gone where they pleased, free once more to roam the land and prey upon life.

He was distraught, not only at the sheer destruction which he had passed through but also the guilt and shock of it all. He should have been here. Ashath should have been here, and then she would have seen this and the village would have been warned. But they had not been here, and now there was nothing left of what had been their home. All they had known since birth, all they had known up until last midsummer, all now lost to death and destruction.

He knelt in the ash and dirt, shield and sword slack.

There was a noise.

The sound of an axe on wood echoed about the ruined village.

It was close by!

Palanor got to his feet and wandered round the top of the small hillock trying to source the unmistakeable thuds of someone chopping at a tree.

He descended down the steep bank of short grass, green new growth just starting to emerge amongst the yellowed blades from the winter.

Below him was a small copse of trees which sat behind a hut, forming a sort of garden at the rear.

Palanor could see that a tall stake had been planted in the ground upright. Someone had been impaled on the stave, their body must have been lifted up and dropped onto the sharpened end.

Shanna’s limbs hung limp, her head tilted back and her mouth slack. Skewered right through her back and abdomen, she had slid halfway down the rough-hewn stave before stopping, leaving a now dry, dark brown stain on the wood.

Below her, someone was hacking at the stave with an axe, trying to chop it down.

As Palanor neared the sound stopped and a battered face appeared. For a moment Palanor didn’t know who it was and raised his sword and shield on instinct but then he saw those squinting eyes and he knew who it was.

It was Hallin.

He was missing an eye and his face was blackened with soot and grime. One side of his jaw was swollen and his hair and beard seemed to have gone wild, sticking out at odd angles. He was bare chested and only had a buckskin kilt and boots on, an angry red wound was visible across one shoulder and various other minor cuts and bruises covered his body.

For a moment there was silence as the two men stared at each other.

Then, with deliberate disgust, and a wince filled with pain, Hallin spat at Palanor’s feet, followed by a weighty emptiness containing only the heavy, laboured breathing of Hallin.

“You.”

Chapter Text

“You.”

Hallin hissed it, growled it almost. His eye’s had narrowed to slits as his frown deepened and his lips curled back to reveal his teeth, stained pink with blood.

“Hallin…I…” Palanor stammered, unable to find the words.

“Shut up!” He spat such venom that Palanor simply trailed off, shocked at the sheer force of the words, yet no magic or spell was uttered, only pure fury. His fists were clenched tight by his side, axe haft crushed in one hand, as he took a step forward.

“Where were you? Eh?” His one eye darted back and forth, searching both of Palanor’s for some answer that Palanor could not give.

“I always disliked you, you know that? Hmm?” Hallin sucked at his teeth as he nodded to himself, that lone eye piercing Palanor as he spoke, “All those years ago, ever since you first began to leave your hut and all the other children would play in the village or even be let out into the growing fields. I knew there was something off with you, even back then.”

Palanor stood in silence, sword and shield slack. He stared back at the older man who had taunted him his entire life, and felt nothing but grief and shame.

“And then you had to have the gift! Didn’t you? Oh yes! And old Mala, he snapped you up along with Ashath to go and study with the Shamans, eh? And you thought you were special I bet! You and sickly Ashath could be freaks together!”

That got a reaction. Somewhere deep within the layers of confusion, shock, grief, and guilt, something twinged in Palanor’s chest. He grimaced back at Hallin as the warrior continued his tirade.

“She was going to be mine you know! Even with her sickness her father had spoken to mine, he’d seen things in me y’see? Wanted a warrior for his daughter. But then you came along, with your wild blood-fury and your talent for magic and suddenly she’s yours!”

It was too much for Palanor to continue in silence.

“You’re a liar!”

Hallin scoffed.

“Ha! That’s not even the best bit! I remember your first fit, your first berserk moment, down in the fields with me, do you remember it?”

Palanor nodded, he remembered the aftermath alright, being summoned to the shaman’s hut for the first time, all those years ago. The confusion about what he’d done, he was sure he hadn’t done anything at all. Then it was all explained to him.

“I remember it as well! I remember waiting outside the hut, my face all battered and I remember hearing Old Man Mala and Vel talking about what to do with you…”

Hallin leaned in, a leery grin on his face.

“I recall Vel begging Mala to take you on and train you in sorcery and magic, to give the tribe more strength and might, another hunter of kindred to stalk the territory and keep us all safe! Ha! But I also remember Old Man Mala wanting to have you drowned in the river…”

“You fucking dare! You liar!” Palanor spat as the rage reignited within him, like a smith’s forge renewed with the blow of the bellows his previous dull apathy of shock had been burnt away.

“Oh it’s true brother!” He grimaced as he choked on the word, “You might have grown on him in the end, but he must have seen in you what I see in you now. You are death! Do you know why I still draw breath? Hmm?” Hallin drew another rattling breath, “…because She left me alive to give you a message.”

Palanor didn’t know what he was going on about but deep in the pit of his stomach he felt the faintest bubbling of fear as Hallin continued.

“The siege lasted three days. We’d had word that there were raiders about so we pulled in the sentries and hunkered down. Then they came. Must have been hundreds of them. Some of them were Dead, but She had living warriors with her as well. Burnt the crops, and the gorse. We sent plenty back to the river but she’d just raise them up again come nightfall.

Once they got through the gate, we knew we were done for. Tried to put the women and children in what boats we had but they had archers down river waiting for that. Selk got most of us to charge them as they came up the spiral, tried to push them back to the gate but they were too many. I went down but I watched on. Shaman Vel must have gone up to the Ziggurat, last ditch attempt I guess, came down with his eyes on fire and kindred by his side. She laughed. She fucking laughed at that! A word and he burst into flames and the kindred vanished. I never saw what happened up top, but I know that I’m the only one left. She plucked out one eye and half flayed my shoulder before she left.”

Hallin jerked a thumb at his face and shoulder.

“She whispered in my ear that I was tell you something…” He frowned as he recalled the message.

“The one you call Palanor, Son of Iscar, born out of Hilti, Warrior of his Tribe, Hunter of the Plains, you tell him this,” Hallin looked Palanor in the eyes.

“You are cursed. I have cursed you. You will have a half-life and will welcome the river of death.  I will bear a child who will grow to be the greatest chieftain of his time, and he shall rule over all the peoples of the land! And you, Uallus, will be forgotten.”

As Hallin spoke the pit in Palanor’s stomach grew, for he knew the witch Hallin had spoken of, and knew now that she had sought out his tribe and brought about all this ruin. He saw in Hallin’s one eye that he too knew this.

It was Palanor’s fault.

He had set the witch Cer’i’dwen on her voyage of vengeance to his village and was why it was razed to the ground and all his tribe had been slain and desecrated.

They were interrupted by Ashath waddling past the remains of the hut and into the open space amongst the stunted trees with the help of Blackhair, Ix, and Belaea.

Palanor and Hallin stared at them.

Ashath had tears running down her face as she looked to her lover for an explanation.

“What’s happened?” She sobbed.

Before Palanor could answer, Hallin stepped forward once more.

“I will not let this chance slip away!”

He leapt forward and swung the axe at Palanor as the younger warrior stumbled back, caught off guard.

Ashath shouted and tried to waddle forward to stop the two men, but she collapsed, her knees buckling and Blackhair had to catch her and lower her to the ground, torn between helping Ashath and helping Palanor.

Hallin came at Palanor with all his remaining fury and vitriol. Teeth gritted and spittle flying with every swing, he forced Palanor back across the open ground. Palanor got his shield up the axe whacked against it, a great dull clang ringing in his ears as Hallin came at him once more, drawing a long dagger from his belt and attacking in great looping slashes with both weapons now.

Palanor parried with his sword and blocked with his shield, both men were hardened warriors, both men had fought real enemies and won. All the history between them, all the anger and rage and guilt that had built up in this shock revelation boiled up from deep within Palanor and he fought back with abandon.

He caught Hallin’s axe on his shield and flicked the sword out to cut deep into his arm, not half as deep as he would have managed with the silvery sword but deep enough. With a yowl that reminded Palanor of the Pale Man and his cat like form, Hallin hammered his dagger downward at him as the two tangled together, Palanor heaving with his shield to make room and give himself enough distance to avoid the deadly point that jabbed at his face and neck.

Ashath winced and gasped in pain as she clutched at her belly, “Ahh! The child, I…think…”

Ixsh-cli looked to Blackhair, “The child is coming!”

The older warrior didn’t know what to do, everything was happening so fast.

Palanor pushed Hallin and he stumbled back, spinning around as he did so to come again, axe coming in low and across to hook the shield wide open.

Palanor felt his left arm get tugged outward by the axe but he had seen the blow coming and stepped up smartly and slashed with a backhanded blow to Hallin’s neck as he roared.

Hallin punched him weakly in the side of the ribs as his throat opened up, a deep gash appearing across it and blood poured from it. He seemed to smile as his knees gave way and he fell backward to collapse, staring up at the sky.

Palanor’s roar ended as his feeling of triumph faded and the guilt came rushing back to fill the void within him. Then he saw the others bent over Ashath and he saw what was happening.

He dropped his shield and lowered his sword arm.

Ow.

His arm had got caught on something hard sticking out of his ribs.

He looked down.

Hallin’s dagger was buried up to the hilt in his side.

Oh. That’s why he had smiled.

Palanor felt weak all of a sudden as he tried to walk over to Ashath. He couldn’t quite catch his breath either. Someone was screaming, it was Ashath he realised, she was looking at him, half sat up and reaching out to him.

He smiled at her and reached forward.

He fell and everything seemed to slow.

But he didn’t hit the dirt.

Palanor splashed into the cold waters of Death.

Chapter Text

It was cold.

By the Dead this was the coldest Palanor had ever been. Colder than that night on the Athask Mountains that was for sure. It was sort of murky and gloomy, a thick mist seemed to swirl about in all directions with only a faint light penetrating it.

This must be Death, he thought as he got up from the water and stood against the current which plucked at his hands and feet. Behind him he could sort of sense Life, a warmth that filtered through the murk and called to him.

He paused, holding fast against the current, his own will more than a match of it at this time. But he did not stride back to the border. He knew, in his heart, that his time was done. His fate had brought him here. But part of him wanted to ignore that, knew that Ashath would be left in Life with his child, in a ruined village with no protection for her or the child come nightfall.

He felt torn between going back, clinging once more to precious Life, to savour it, just for a short time and ensure she was safe, and lying back down and letting the waters take him to be with his ancestors in starry sky.

Somewhere nearby would be Hallin’s spirit. In the remoteness of Death, the fight seemed awfully petty and foolish. The result of high emotions, grief, and guilt.

But that all seemed to be fading away, leeched out of his own spirit by the cold waters that lapped at his calves.

Palanor knew of the realm of Death, but he had little talent for it, some shamans or sorcerers were gifted in it’s ways and some weren’t. He knew enough to know that lingering in any one place was not wise for those wishing to return to Life.

But he didn’t need to return anymore. All that remained was whether he wanted to return…

Ashath had watched the fight in horror, already mortified and full of confusion over the state of the village she then manages to find Palanor after he had run off like that and no sooner had she found him he starts fighting with Hallin.

All the emotions sent a shiver of pain up and down her legs and belly and she felt weak at the knees. She knew what was happening but now was not the time. She tried with all her might to hold it back, hold the child in, but it would not be denied.

Ix and Belaea were holding her, fussing over her, one ran off somewhere, where was she going? Blackhair kept a firm grip on her hand but kept looking up and away at the fight. What was happening? For the first time since the Pale Man, she was truly scared.

She felt the contractions, the dull ache in her lower back, the pressure down below like she needed to wee. But still she craned her head up at the two men who traded blows not ten strides from her.

Two men whom she had known since birth, had grown up together, despite all their differences, and now they were hell bent on hacking each other to death whilst she gave birth to a child in a ruined village that would no doubt be crawling with Dead come nightfall. Perhaps they could kill each other afterward! Stupid, bloody boys.

She let her head fall back and looked up at Blackhair who was muttering something under his breath.

“…Best not to dwell on it…”

Of course. All this time he’s been the stalwart, older brother figure to Pala, and now he’s panicking because a woman is giving birth… fucking typical.

She gritted her teeth as another ache came on and she felt like she was trying to piss out her innards.

“Help. Me. Up.” She hissed as she tugged at his hand which gripped hers.

He looked down at her and then across to Ix.

The pair helped rock her into an uncomfortable seated position, holding and supporting her back.

She cried out once more for them to stop it. Stop the fighting but then she watched with a terrible helplessness as Hallin hooked Pala’s shield to one side and drove that long dagger right into his ribs.

Her hand shot out but no magic came, no power flowed through her as her own body rebelled against her desperate will.

She let out a wailing gasp as Palanor slashed at Hallin’s neck, sending him toppling backward with a roar.

He looked at her, a grin on his face.

Then he realised.

She screamed as he faltered and fell forward.

She was crawling and pawing at his body, with sheer will, anger, frustration, and agony at all that had happened and all that was happening to her she wielded her power once more.

The dagger came out and she pressed her hands to the wound, muttering and cursing in the ancient tongue as the words she half-sobbed, half croaked blistered her lips and made her head spin with nausea.

She had learnt things from Yrael, from the Pale Man. She had watched and listened to him talk at length about his secret ways and knowledge and now she used such things to save her loved one, no matter the price.

The wound closed with an effort that left her drained.

Ix was saying something to her but she wasn’t listening. Blackhair was trying to lift her off Pala. But his eyes didn’t open.

He was already gone.

Why hadn’t she seen it?

There was only one thing to do.

She closed her eyes and felt, as He had taught her, felt for the border between Life and Death…

Blackhair had helped Ashath through the rubble of the village, as stunned by the destruction as she had been. They had heard the chopping of wood and had thought it was Uallus, hacking with rage at some post. Hobbling past the huts he had stayed close to her, and Ix had her other arm.

He didn’t like the idea of staying here once the sun set, so many unburnt bodies and death. The place would soon be haunted with the spirits of the departed and those who had been ritually desecrated.

The other man had caught him by surprise, he hadn’t expected survivors of such a fight.

The explosion of violence as Ashath bent double in pain had caught him off guard. He wanted to leap into the fight and cut the stranger down, but he was supporting Ashath and Ix was shouting instructions. The child was coming.

Shit!

His friend was fighting well at least, driving the wild stranger back in a flurry of blows. He would have to trust he could handle him.

Best not to dwell on it.

He turned back to Ashath as she tugged at his hand.

“Help. Me. Up.” She hissed through gritted teeth, her eyes made it clear she was not asking. He could see the desperation in her eyes.

He looked at Ix. Her beautiful face was stricken with a mix of concern and fear. She had already sent Bel to try and find water and cloth. She nodded, neither of them was sure what was going on. This was a foreign place and it was not as they had expected.

He hauled Ashath upright into a sitting position just as her hand reached out and he followed her gaze.

The stranger toppled back, gaping wound across his neck. Ha! Uallus had finished him rightly.

Then Ashath wailed.

And Blackhair noticed the dagger hilt sticking out of his friend’s ribs.

Shit. Not good.

He fell forward into the dirt.

Next thing he knew Ashath was already crawling over to him, there was the unmistakeable tang of magic, smoke curled from her nostrils as he watched her close the wound up. He backed away but Ix was shouting again, something about endangering the child. She looked to him and motioned him to lie her back down.

There was nothing he could do. Uallus was gone. Dead.

A dagger that size, even if you closed the wound, he was already in the river beyond now.

He tried to lift her gently. But she felt cold.

He looked down at the rime that covered her body.

Death magic.

He stepped back with revulsion…

Palanor heard a splash. Something was close to him in the river. More sloshing sounds. Whatever it was, it was moving closer, with swift certainty. He held his ground. What was the worst that could happen? He was already dead. If it was some grotesque thing that wanted to consume his essence, then he would let the river carry him with surety to the final gate and the starry sky that awaited all.

A shadow emerged through the mists and for a moment he was stunned.

Ashath stopped her wading and gazed at him across the murky gloom. She seemed to breath a sigh of relief.

“You hadn’t gone far…”

He was confused, why was she here?

“Why are you here? Is the child safe?” Some vague urgency to return to Life, to fight for what he had had returned to him, rebelling against the stoic resignation of Death.

She nodded.

“I came of my own will, to find you.” She smiled again, but it was tinged with sadness.

She stepped forward and the two embraced, sharing a tender kiss.

They broke apart but remained embraced, her looking up at him. He gazed into her eyes and finally he realised that this was his chance to say farewell. To make everything right before he went on. A feeling of peace seemed to well up from within and his spirit was at last still, satisfied with his choice to go on.

“I’m sorry.” He said, “For everything. For not being there, for taking so long to find you…for dying.”

She looked at him for what felt like an age, those beautiful brown eyes studying him. There was a sadness there, a resignation of the will, it was alright, she would have the child.

“You will have to look after the child…” He began but she placed a finger on his lips and gently shook her head.

“No.”

He didn’t understand.

He saw her lips move and he felt the magic, it was subtle but incredibly strong, but he didn’t hear the words. He tried to pull away but she held him fast with her gaze and all too late he realised what she was doing.

He tried to shout, to break the spell, the tell her to stop, that he was ready to go on and would wait for her. But he couldn’t. He was bound by her power and he was locked rigid in the waters of death.

She finished her magic and gave him one last longing kiss before she whispered.

“Go. Back. And. Live.”

She pushed him and he waded away toward the border with Life.

He couldn’t understand it. He didn’t want this. He tried to turn and cry out, to see her one last time. He was shouting in his head, screaming at her, asking her what she had done. But deep down he knew what she had achieved. He didn’t know how she had done it but he knew that he was being sent back, not as a hand or as a possessing spirit, but to truly live once again.

But now he didn’t want to live again. Not if it meant a life without her. Not if it meant his unworthy soul was to be traded somehow for hers. He tried with all his will to fight his own spirit as it sloshed through the icy waters. He tried to fire up the blood fury to try and break her spell but to no avail. She was far too powerful for that.

He pushed back through to Life with a terrible, distraught wail…

Ashath stood in the waters of Death alone.

He had gone. Unwillingly in the end it had seemed for he had fought so valiantly, so bravely he had tried to deny her will but that magic could not be denied. The secrets she had learnt in both Life and Death were more subtle than any petty magic of fire or shadow or necromancy that other sorcerers wielded. Yrael, Eight of Nine had spent untold ages hiding, and listening, and learning and she had listened as he extolled all his knowledge in his own strange attempt to befriend her, comfort her in those long lonely winter nights.

She had listened and learnt much in that time and in the end had even turned his arts on himself when Pala had appeared in the cave that fateful night.

But when she had seen him fall… she knew then in her heart and mind what she needed to do. Why fate had gifted her such knowledge and secrets. She could not bare to live in a world without her Pala, and in that instant of his death she saw no future for herself or her child if he died and she survived. She saw only grief and death for them both.

But if she did the unthinkable, the unknowable, then there was life. There was joy, and pain, and rage, and sorrow. But there was life. After all this death and destruction, after all that had happened, how could she deny Life itself?

And so she had cast her spell and with a trick of fate itself, traded places.

Now she was alone in the cold waters of death.

Something else was nearby. Something vaguely familiar.

“I am too late then…” The soft growl echoed across the rippling waters, parting the mists as a great black shadow came into view.

“Yes. It is done.”

The great wolf looked solemnly at her with what seemed like pity before nodding.

“Did you learn this magic from Yrael?” The wolf cocked her head in anticipation.

“Yes.” Ashath replied, “I learnt much in that cave.” She didn’t care much now, she was tired. She wanted to lie down in the water and let it carry her away from all this.

“Does he know?”

“Know what? The magic? No.” She smiled as she shook her head, a sad smile as she thought of him, how brazen he was with his magic, but he wouldn’t be able to work it. For all his strengths, this was beyond him.

The wolf nodded once more.

“Good. For I saw two futures as the two fought far below me. One in which he becomes a mindless, savage beast and butchers the world, filling the seas and rivers with blood, unable to rest until he had brought you back to him. And the other in which your children become great and noble leaders of a mighty tribe, larger than any that has come before, who live in a land of peace and plenty.”

“Children?”

The wolf nodded with a smile.

“Twins. A boy pup and a girl pup.”

Ashath smiled at that. Satisfied.

“Go now Ashath, Seeress of her Tribe, Sorceress of the Plains. Walk on.”

And with a gentle bark lingering over the water, Ashath went on.

Chapter Text

Palanor jerked up and took a ragged breath. Warmth. Light. For a moment he was stunned by it all.

He was back.

People were standing over him.

Where was she? Where was Ashath.

He got to his knees and saw her lying in Ix’s arms - skin as pale as lily petals - her eyes closed, and a look of stillness and peace upon her gentle face. She was cold to the touch.

He fought back tears and chocked on a sob, shaking with anger. Anger at himself, anger at Hallin, anger even at her for what she had done.

Ixsh-cli was crying too, and she rocked back and forth with a gentle sway as she crooned softly with sorrow. When she noticed Palanor moving she seemed to snap back into action. She hurriedly tried to explain between ragged breaths what needed to be done.

“We must… save the child… It is coming…. now but we must…we must bring it out.” Her red raw eyes were wide with the unspoken act they must perform to save the unborn.

Palanor held her gaze and he realised what she meant.

He shook his head. No. She wasn’t dead yet. Surely, they could do something. Bring her back. But her hands were cold and she was still.

He looked the woman in the eyes and croaked, “Bring her back.”

He knew she had some power like himself and Ashath. She had seen Kibeth at the Autumn festival and had checked over Ashath when she had first escaped. Ixsh-cli had knowledge and power, he didn’t have the talent, but she might…

“Bring her back, please.” His eyes were all blurry and his nose was running like a sick child’s. He held Ashath’s hands but Ixsh-cli shook her head, turning back to Belaea, asking her for a knife.

In a fit of rage Palanor’s hand shot out and gripped the woman by the throat, lifting her with him as he stood, throttling her as he leaned in, face snarling.

“Bring. Her. Back.” Spittle flecked from his savage jaws, teeth clenched in rage.

There was fear in her eyes, along with sadness and pity, but also determination, some grit within her that stopped her from quivering or crying. Her hands held his wrist as he squeezed but she was defiant.

He could hardly see through the tears but he felt a blade on his neck and Blackhair was in his ear.

“Let her go, Brother, or you will have to fight me before this day is done.”

Palanor loosened his grip and his arm fell limp by his side as his anger and fury abated and left him with naught but sorrow.

“P-please.” He begged. But there was nothing that could be done. None of them knew the magic, and even if they did, it was a cursed thing to do. Ashath would not have wanted that.

He watched through blurry eyes as Ixsh-cli and Belaea made ready to save the child, but he turned away before they made their first cut.

After everything he had done. After all the trials and tribulations. After Dinas Affaraon, and the barrow. After travelling across half the world and fighting Kindred of incredible power. After all that, he had been unable to save her, instead she had saved him.

The fury and rage within came blazing back into existence to burn his very soul as he screamed at the sky above. He fell to his knees and beat his fists bloody upon the ground. He became a wild animal, spittle flying from his mouth as he cursed the world and everything within it. He called for the ending of days and the splitting of the world. He spat filthy oaths on all his enemies, on his clan-brother Hallin, on himself, and Kibeth, and the Pale Man for taking her away from him, even on Ashath, such was his rage.

He was consumed by it.

His mind became blank almost, with the rushing of emotions within, unable to comprehend it all fully it shut down to all but his most basic instincts.

Blackhair stood by but dared not touch or disturb him. He positioned himself between his friend and his women, who toiled now to lift the child, no, children, out of their deceased mother’s womb.

Ixsh-cli was surprised at first when two heads had confronted her within the belly, fearing for a moment that some evil corruption had taken hold. But she realised they were twins. With slick and bloodied hands, she lifted the first one out, holding it proud of Ashath’s corpse for Belaea to cut the cord and swaddle the tiny thing. It moved in her hands and she realised that it was still alive. Thank the ancestors!

A tiny cough and a lung full or air and it was crying, bloody face wailing away. How could something so beautiful come from such tragedy she wondered. But the other needed her attention now.

Palanor had fallen into a silent daze. His eye’s stared out but he seemed not to register the outside world and had retreated within his own mind, as those who survived such encounters with Death were known to do.

He remained as he was, half hunched over, sat in the dirt, and staring blankly for some time whilst the women tended to the new-borns. He did not see nor hear them clean them up and swaddle them with fresh furs.

It was only as the sun began to sink and the sky bled once more, reflecting the scene of the village below that he stirred.

He got to his feet with an unsteady, slow, lumbering motion. His tears had dried onto his face and he was empty now. Void of all emotion. No more tears fell and no more wails or savage screams could pass his lips. His voice was hoarse and he was tired.

He went to Blackhair, and, unable to look his friend in the eyes simply stood by him.

He whispered an apology to him, wiping his face with the back of his hand as he did so, watching the sun set.

Blackhair merely nodded. He understood.

Then Palanor went to Ashath, who had been covered and wrapped in cloth, hiding her final, sacrificial wounds that had given her children a chance at life. In silence he lifted her into his arms and carried her down the spiral to the Step.

Leaving her body in the centre of the strewn chaos, Palanor began to gather up wood, pieces of the great gate or the ruins of huts, it mattered not. He dragged at long logs and gathered bundles of twiglets and began to interlock and weave all the wood into a great funeral pyre.

Blackhair came down, and in silence he worked with his sworn brother, bringing more timber, often scorched black with mage fire, to be added to the ever-growing pillar of stacked wood.

Palanor began to drag his clan-brothers and sisters and place their bodies into the framework of logs. He pointedly ignored the corpses of the Ca’tani and the half rotten bodies of the Crow people. This pyre was for his tribe and no other.

Soon both he and Blackhair were travelling back and forth from up the spiral, carrying the dead either singly or together, to be placed with what little reverence could be mustered onto the unlit bonfire.

It took all of Palanor and Blackhair’s strength to shift Tul and Dara. The giant twins had to be unceremoniously dragged -even dismembered as they were – to the pyre.

At last, the work was done. The moon had begun to rise as Palanor coaxed embers into flame about the large base of the funeral pyre. The flames took to the wood quickly and filled the sky with thick, black smoke which brought an unpleasant smell of burning meat.

Palanor stood, consumed by the blaze which flickered before his eyes, the sheer heat of it forcing him back many paces to behold the towering column of flame which reached into the night.

A burning beacon which signified the final mighty roar of the Plainsfolk. He now was the last of his tribe. 

Rivulets of tears made their way down Palanor’s cheeks, leaving pale stripes between the soot, dirt, blood, and sweat.

Blackhair stood beside his friend, nervous of the remaining corpses which may not stay dead for long, but held his tongue. Even still, he kept his sword loose in its scabbard and was wary of the shadows which danced about the ruined village.

After some time Ix came down and whispered to him that they had found a thicket of thistles within which to bed down for the night in relative safety. She beckoned for them to come.

“We must go and rest brother… and you should meet your children, and see to them.”

For a moment he thought Palanor had not heard, but then his friend blinked and turned with a knotted brow of confusion.

“Children…?”

Blackhair gave a sad smile, and nodded, “Aye, twins.”

Chapter Text

The War in the Heavens ended exactly a year and a day since it first began that fateful mid-winter night. Although no one below was aware of the final, dramatic climax of the cataclysmic battle that raged far above the land, the aftermath produced a spectacular skyscape for those who gazed up at the sky that night.

The colourful aurora – which had at first been mistaken for a sign of the end times, but had quickly become a commonplace occurrence – faded. Its great waves and bands of light vanishing to leave just the stars and black sky. The eight stars which had danced and spun of their own accord far above now began to fall, with the brightest splitting in two as it fell in a great streaming, white blaze across the sky, the pieces hemmed in by the other seven, crashed into the ground below, leaving such a crater that in years to come it would form a lake basin that would eventually feed a river that reached to the western sea.

Here the seven shiners, exhausted in their toil and strife, finally laid to rest their prodigal brother, imprisoning him deep beneath the earth, split in two to diminish his power and bound with seven wards, he would lie until the ending of their grand design, millennia from now. The land itself was altered by the impact, some more subtle than others.

In the immediate aftermath, they rested briefly, each now revelling in the anticipation that their plans would indeed bear fruit, and then they were away, scattered to the winds as beams of light as they prepared for the next stage of their mighty creation.

Mosrael flew to the icy mountains in which hid a clan of seeresses and witches, summoning a delegation of them to a high mountain peak.

Astarael visited a solitary witch who had long walked in her own realm as a guest, she too was to journey to the summit of the great mountain.

The great wolf Kibeth strode across the plains and sought out Palanor Uallus, who had now taken residence at Bield-i-Saere on the eastern sea, appearing before him in a dream.

Palanor opened his eyes at the sound which awoke him. He glanced first to the two swaddled babes lying soundly asleep for once in a cot by his own stone bed of straw and furs, before he looked to the door flap for what had disturbed his brief rest.

His sword was already in his hand as the wolf nosed through the woven rug which served as a door. He relaxed a little, but was still wary of the Kindred beast he had not seen for over a year. She only just fit in the cramped, semi-subterranean room he now occupied in the bield, which must have been one of her tricks, as the corridor was far smaller than the room itself. Obviously, she was trying to put on a display of power.

“Greetings Palanor Uallus.” The wolf nodded to him with a hushed whisper, but seemed hesitant to enter any further, as if she were waiting for permission. Most likely she detected his wariness.

“Kibeth.” Palanor returned the nod. Beside him Belaea stirred, half sitting up in sleepy confusion.

“Go back to sleep.” The words Palanor uttered had some tang of power to them, but there was no malicious intent. Belaea collapsed back onto the bed with deep, easy breathing.

“She’s here for the twins.” Palanor held the wolf’s enigmatic gaze, the pair studying each other in the dim light of the cramped stone room. The unspoken meaning of the statement passed between them.

Her eyes slid over to the cots which contained the swaddled babies, then back to his with what he now knew to be a questioning look.

Palanor nodded.

Kibeth padded further into the room, pretty much occupying most of the space. Palanor lowered his sword, but kept a hold of it as the great wolf being looked down at the two little forms which lay side by side together in the small cot.

She gave each a quick lick, before turning once more to Palanor, a satisfied look upon her wolfish face.

“The pups are in good health.”

He nodded, “Aye.”

“You are needed. At the summit of a tall mountain to the south west of here… it is your final task as part of our bargain.”

Palanor did not react, instead he held her gaze for a while, the settled silence hanging in the air between them.

“Our… bargain? Our bargain is done Kibeth. You got your sword, and I dealt with your wayward Pale Man, but tell me, hm? Where is Ashath? Where is my part of the deal?”

Kibeth merely held his gaze with an almost sad look in her large eyes before she replied with a low growl.

“Do not blame me for her death Palanor Uallus. You forget yourself. I am Kibeth, Third of Seven, and it is only through me that you even managed to find her. Do you really think you could have tracked her down without me? Even if you had, without the sword I told you to fetch, you would have been burnt to ash within a moment of entering that cave! Fate is cruel, but do not confuse yourself and try to blame me for what transpired, your own thoughts betray you even now and I see it was your own anger which led to such a tragedy!”

The great wolf snorted in disgust before continuing on as Palanor’s pale face gazed at her in silent, white fury.

“She gave herself up as a sacrifice for you, and now, when you are summoned to be a part of the greatest creation this land has ever seen! Summoned by the most powerful beings in this world no less! Now you try and blame me for your misfortunes? Ha! What would Ashath think of her proud warrior now if she could see your sunken eyes and defeated spirit?”

The silence hung in the air, and Kibeth’s hackles had raised in anticipation of his berserk fury. But instead he let the sword drop onto the furs, and let out a ragged, emotional breath, as tears came to his eyes.

“I am lost without her…” He sobbed.

“She already gave you a direction, a purpose to follow…” Kibeth nosed at the cot beside his bed.

He nodded as he wiped his eyes in the dark room as Kibeth’s growl gentled to a throaty whisper.

“They shall grow to become leaders of a new land, one which knows peace and prosperity, one which will have magic that does not harm or corrupt the user… you can be a part of that land. This era is ending, my sisters and I shall see to it ourselves, you have been chosen.”

Palanor nodded, and he knew it to be the only way forward.

For them.

For her.

“What must I do?”

Two weeks later and he found himself ascending a snowy ridge of rock, wrapped in furs with newly made climbing spikes on his feet and a stout staff which he used to probe the snow ahead for soft patches, as the wind howled past despite the bright blue sky above.

The summit peak had mocked him from far down in the valley. It’s thrusting white point and wide opening shoulders which had at first seemed to invite him in had tested his wits, strength, endurance, and skill. But now he was nearly there.

He had traversed most of the ridge, a knife edge of jagged rock to which clung drifts of hardened snow and ice, but now it rose sharply and he would have to climb with the aid of a bronze axe, cutting hand and foot holds in the ice and hooking it onto rocky ledges where he could.

He pulled off his fur mittens with his teeth, letting them dangle from their toggles on the sleeves of his thick coat, they kept his fingers from freezing off, but they provided little grip.

The climb was treacherous and slow, but at last he found the ground beneath him begin to flatten out as the ridge rounded to join four other such aretes to make a lopsided summit plateau easily thirty strides across. Here the wind which had threatened to pluck him from the rockface died down, and he gazed about at the land in all directions beneath him, with only the bright blue sky and the blazing sun above.

He was not alone on the summit plateau; for the briefest of moments, he thought Cer’i’dwen and her sisters were stood to one side, but he realised that these were different women who looked eerily similar. There were easily five or six score of them, all women as far as he could tell, all clustered together in furs and robes, although it seemed they were quite at ease on the icy mountain top.  

Across from him, at the head of another ridge, was a motely gathering of all different people who seemed to be from all different tribes. This group was comprised of men and women, of a variety of heights, builds, and even skin colours and face shapes. Some Palanor had never seen or encountered before in his life, nor even heard of such a people existing. The one thing that seemed to link them was that each seemed to have tools of various natures upon their person, many with newly made climbing spikes and axes or poles similar to his to aid in ascending the snowy mountains.

To his right stood a single, solitary figure. A pale woman with raven black hair stared back at him with a neutral, almost pensive look. Across her chest she wore a strange leather bag or satchel, with the handles of what looked like weapons or tools poking out. Palanor could sense a strong feeling of magic emanating from her, she was dangerous but at the same time he felt little threat from her.

He walked a little further from the ridge so that he was on the plateau proper and waited in silence as everyone else seemed to be doing.

Suddenly the Seven appeared. He had not blinked but he must have missed them revealing themselves for they stood before them all in the centre of the summit. As in the cave of the pale man, once again he could look at and see some of them, but others he could not comprehend or look directly at, their forms constantly shifting in his peripheral but vanishing when his eyes alighted on where they had just been.

The impossibly tall woman with the river of death running at her feet stood near to the solitary witch to his right. They even looked similar, he thought.

A strange form he could not truly look at was hovering near to the mass of blonde, tanned women gathered to his left.

The great Owl which Palanor had ridden upon that midwinter night after rescuing Ashath circled above, casting a great shadow over each group in turn, as it temporarily blocked out the sun.

The tall, muscular woman with her great silver chain stood, arms folded, scowling. Her chain was coiled and attached to her belt, and she seemed oblivious to the cold despite her short, sleeveless tunic.

Kibeth, the giant, black wolf padded in from behind Palanor, nodding to him as she did so.

The impossibly tall woman who walked on the river of death spoken and Palanor was transfixed with awe by her voice as it rang both throughout the mountain air and within his own mind.

“Our trusted stewards have gathered Sisters. Who will sing for the seers?”

The unseen form which hovered above the largest group of women seemed to respond with a raucous noise.

“Who will sing for the makers?”

Palanor did not see who called out for the ‘makers’, but he heard, and felt at least two of the Great Kindred reply. The tall, pale woman-kindred nodded and continued.

“I will sing for the binder... Who will sing for the leader?”

There was a palpable pause which Palanor felt was unexpected and he wondered who the leader was supposed to be when he realised all eyes were on him.

“Kibeth, do you sing for the leader?”

Kibeth shook her head slowly, holding Palanor’s gaze as she did so.

“Not I. My power is needed elsewhere I feel.”

“Then who shall sing for the leader? Saraneth?”

“Not I. His blood runs too hot for my liking, my power would be too easily abused in one such as him.”

Palanor didn’t know quite what to make of that statement but he felt slightly offended that neither Kibeth, nor Saraneth would ‘sing’ for him, which he supposed meant to vouch for him in some way.

“I shall sing for him.” The voice which echoed about was the most beautiful he had ever heard. It had a sing song quality to it which reminded him of Ashath’s beautiful pealing laughter.

Infront of Palanor appeared a beautiful, serene woman with long flowing hair down to her waist. About her head she wore a wreath of green leaves, intertwined with gold and silver branches to form a great crown upon her head that when she gazed upon him directly, framed her face in a halo of beauty. Her long white robe fell to her ankles and dragged behind her as she walked, yet it never dirtied or snagged as she moved with perfect balance and grace.

“A leader should command through his words, not his will. I shall sing for him.”

“So be it Dyrim… let us begin!”

And with that the Great Kindred became columns of near-blinding light, causing Palanor and the others to shield their faces as great, vibrant sounds began to emanate from the pillars of light.

Palanor fell to his knees as the sound threatened to crush him and the light threatened to blind him. He felt a strange sensation on his brow, almost a burning feeling and yet it felt so light and faint and it did not hurt at all.

Then he was falling, falling once more as he had done when he had thrown that silvery sword at the great orb in the night sky. All about him was the black of night and he wondered if he had dreamt the last nine moons since then and he were still falling.

He felt panic as he could not see the land below him.

Then there was a single spark. A star perhaps that flew past him and disappeared somewhere far above. Then another spark of light elsewhere, and another.

Suddenly he was falling into a see of stars which danced and whirled about him, and he saw now that those stars closest to him were marks or symbols that glowed with their own light. As he looked upon them, he almost felt that he knew their meanings and their purpose and the panic subsided within him. He felt a sense of peace and comfort.

Then he was back on the mountain top, a chill breeze snapping his eyes open. He was still kneeling, as were all the others, but the beams of light had gone, vanished.

The gathered people got to their feet slowly and made their way into the centre.

The seers, the large group of women, spoke of their duty to scry the future and warn of dangers in the land.

The makers, the motley assortment of people from all across the wide world, spoke of their duty to craft and make, not only magical items but also great standing stones which would channel this new magic they had all experienced.

Palanor discussed his own plans, to unite the tribes under his leadership, to give his children a kingdom to rule.

Many things were talked about and plans were agreed.

After a while the seers began to leave for their mountain and glacial home. The makers seemed to disperse into smaller groups, with some wanting to travel back with Palanor to his new home in Bield-i-Saere, to make wonderful things for him and his people.

The last to speak was the lone woman. She waited for the others to begin their descent before she approached Palanor.

She was pale, as one who had recently walked in death would be. Palanor saw now that the leather satchel across her chest contained not weapons, but bells of bronze, presumably musical instruments to assist her in her death-magic. He noted her beauty, and felt immediately guilty for it.

“And what do you do, binder?” He asked her.

“I keep the dead down amongst other things, leader.” She replied with confidence.

Palanor nodded, she was like him, a hunter of sorts.

“You shall keep the living safe in my Kingdom then?”

She nodded at this, and remained silent, she seemed the quiet type.

“Then you shall hold the highest honours in my lands! Do you have a place to stay?” He almost hoped she would come with him to Bield-i-Saere, although another pang of guilt wracked his heart at the thought.

“Not yet, but they will build me one,” she indicated a few of the makers who had hung back to wait for them, “I have a few ideas that they will be able to aid me with.”

A little wry smile seemed to tug at one corner of her mouth as she was lost in her own thoughts.

“Who should I send for if I have need of you?”

Palanor’s question broke her reverie.

“I am called Abhorsen.”

“Palanor Uallus.” He thrust out his hand, the ancient symbol of peace and comradeship.

She took it in hers briefly.

The two turned away from one another and ventured back to their respective homes, for there was much work to do, Palanor had stayed too long away from the twins and he longed to be with them and his friends once more.

Chapter Text

The spring had renewed the land once again. The air was light and breezy as the morning sun filtered down upon the green boughs of the trees which opened onto an emerald meadow of wild flowers and long grass, which waved gently back and forth.

Palanor paused in the cool shade of the woodland as he took in the glade ahead, having broken camp some hours earlier when the grey light of dawn had accompanied the rising bird song which awoke him.

His beard was more grey than red now, despite him still not yet being two score years old - the toll of free magic use in his youth had finally caught up with him. Neither him nor Blackhair were youngsters anymore, and both men seemed to have more aches and pains with each passing season, much to the chagrin of Palanor’s son and daughter, who rolled their eyes with each complaint.

Thoughts of the twins brought a little smile to his mouth. They were both adults now, and Blackhair would guide them whilst he was away.

He pulled his cloak and hood closer about him, it had kept the worst of the chill out of his tired, now ageing bones each night as he had travelled across his Kingdom. Everyone had insisted on his entourage, but he had slipped away early on in the journey and had wandered on foot alone for a number of days now.

It had been years since he had been able to travel in such a way. As a king he was always surrounded by warriors or advisors of one kind or another. There had always been some crisis which needed his attention. Here, in the woods, as he travelled back to his homeland alone, he felt peace and quiet for the first time in a long time.

Palanor was looking forward to visiting his homeland, for he had not been back there since Ashath’s death. Long had he wanted to visit and pay his respects. By the dead - he still missed her - after all these years, but the ache had dulled over time to become bearable, especially when he looked upon his children.

He was travelling light; simple pack, hooded cloak, belted tunic and trews tucked into tough boots. The only item in his possession which would give him away was the finely crafted steel sword. The broad, pattern welded blade was longer than his outstretched arm, fullered down three quarters of the length to lighten and strengthen the spine of the sword, the hilt and pommel were a simple, but well-made affair, forming an ‘I’ which just protected his knuckles and fingers. But what really gave him away was the multitude of charter marks which lazily danced and drifted seemingly beneath its oiled surface, marks of incredible strength that required the greatest of skill to use safely. Only one who belonged to one of the Great Charters would own and carry such a sword.

How much the world had changed in his life time, Palanor thought to himself as he stepped out of the shadows of the woods and began to cross the wide meadow.

He felt the warmth of the sun now on his face.

Across the glade, coming the other way toward Palanor was a young man atop a horse.

Palanor paused, this was the first person he had seen in a few days, and some gut instinct gave him reason to consider the man. Perhaps it was his hooded face, hidden from view, or the manner in which he sat at ease upon the horse, hands crossed lazily on the saddle horn. Perhaps it was the sword, shield, and spear which the man carried, on his hip, across his back, and on one shoulder respectively and the oiled mail hauberk which had seen recent use.

He was no soldier of the Kingdom, Palanor knew that much, for he lacked the surcoat and other less obvious signs of service to the King. No, this man was a warrior. Possibly from outside the Kingdom itself, for its borders were not far off from here. What a warrior from one of the tribes was doing heading toward Bieldisaere was cause for concern, though he seemed to be alone.

Despite his age, the ache in his joints, and the fact he’d left Blackhair and Helenae in charge at the Great Hall, he was still King of this realm, and he was not about to let this stranger pass without inspection.

Palanor pulled back his hood and leant casually on the walking staff, blocking the worn trail which both men were on. They were far from the royal roads – paved highways – which had only just been commissioned in the lands immediately surrounding Bieldisaere, here the tracks were mud at best.

The grass and loam deadened the horses’ hooves which Palanor noticed were unshod, a sure sign this fellow was from a tribe which dwelt outside the influence of the Kingdom, outside the influence of the Charter.

He could see a red beard beneath the hood of the stranger as the horse approached at a dull plod.

The stranger looked up slowly, he moved with a deliberate ease which exuded and aura of confidence and belied an ability to move incredibly quickly. Palanor had seen such movement in the cave lions which had once roamed the lands far and wide, the way they would pad about, confident in their position as top hunter, unthreatened by anything. This young man had the same air about him.

The young warrior reached up and pulled his own hood back, revealing a head of red hair, which hung to his shoulders. He did not urge the horse to slow or move around the obstacle of Palanor. He merely held the old man’s gaze with a look of almost boredom and nonchalance.

By the charter, this young pup was arrogant! Palanor thought, but he smiled inwardly as he realised the young man reminded him so much of himself a score of years ago.

At last, the horse came to a nervous stop, snorting as it considered Palanor, who stood solid and still, blocking the path.

The two men looked at each other, and Palanor felt a pang of familiarity about the young man, but he could not place where he had seen him before.

“Do I know you, Stranger?” Palanor asked, his gruff voice was firm but did not carry beyond the glade.

The young warrior considered the question, shifting slightly in the saddle as the horse fidgeted beneath him with a certain nervousness that Palanor distrusted, but refused to let show. He shrugged silently.

That irritated Palanor, he always did have a stubborn streak but twenty years as king meant he was used to being answered when he spoke.

“I asked you a question, boy.”

The young warrior gave a little, bored sigh. A signal of resignation to what was about to unfold.

Morcar had been deep in contemplation as he rode out this morning, musing on his destiny - his Dh’uume, as his mother called it in the old tongue, which she was forever using still. According to her, he was fated to be the greatest warrior who ever lived, and would one day rule his mythical father’s kingdom. His father who had disappeared before Morcar had been born. His father who his mother cursed and spat each and every time she spoke of him. And yet she spoke of him often.

When Morcar was growing up, he was constantly hearing of the feats of his father, a legendary warrior with the fury and rage of a great savage hound. A man who had slain dragons and wielded magics both ancient and new. A man who had begat a forgotten and abandoned son.

As he had grown older, news from far off lands told of a new tribe, a great and strong tribe which had begun to expand its territory using new and strange magic. Tale’s reach Morcar’s ears of a man which sounded very similar to those his mother would tell him as she tended to her cauldron’s brew on dark winter nights, her green eyes flashing with the flickering flames as she recanted the various deeds both she and his father had accomplished.

So, now of age, and already with a weighty reputation for his skill with a blade, he had left his home valleys to seek out this New Kingdom which had arisen in the east. To possibly seek out his long, lost father. If not, he would simply do as he had already done these last few years; challenge various chiefs or their champions and slay them, often in a gruesome and violent spectacle, as their subjects or peoples watched on in shock and horror.

But then this old man had crossed his path as he was passing through an open meadow in the forest.

Morcar had spotted him, of course, but he assumed the old man was just being slow. But as he got closer, he noticed that relaxed stance, deliberately blocking the trodden path through the long grass. He could have guided Storm-Mane around the solitary figure but it irked him to show any sort of leniency, especially when this stranger’s belligerence was unprovoked.

The old man looked proud, haughty, confident, and as he came to a stop, Morcar spied the hilt of a sword beneath the cloak the stranger wore, yet he also noted that he wore no armour.

“Do I know you Stranger?” The old man’s voice was a firm rumble that seemed to have power to it, almost compelling Morcar to answer. The young man resisted the question, his own will cutting through the command to respond.  Was this magic? Morcar could not detect any such signs of magic or power that were usual for such a spell. Perhaps this was some new magic, though Morcar had to admit that he was no sorcerer, much to his mother’s constant disappointment.

They stared at each other, the old man had greying hair and a pale complexion, not too dissimilar to Morcar’s. He gave a little stretch of his shoulders, sore from his many days in the saddle.

“I asked you a question, boy.”

That same involuntary need to answer the man tugged at Morcar’s guts as he held his tongue. There was definitely power in that voice, and now he was right in-front of the old vagrant, he could see a faint mark upon the old man’s slightly wrinkled brow. Had it not been said that the new magic marked out its wielders with a brand?

Morcar supressed the concern rising in his guts. He was the greatest warrior who had ever lived, and his mothers amulets and charms would more than make up for his own deficiency in sorcery and magic.

He let out a little sigh as the compulsion to speak left his body. He felt relaxed once more, and now that he was not being bid to speak, he would do so of his own volition.

“Move aside, old man, you block my way.” His own voice was not as deep, nor as commanding, but his manner made up for it.

The older man grimaced, his nose wrinkling and brow furrowing, taking an obvious distaste to being spoken to in such a way. Who was this man?

Palanor grimaced.

The young pup was really winding him up with his attitude.

Palanor stood firm.

The young man slipped his left leg out of its stirrup and swung it over the saddle and neck of his horse, so that he casually slid down onto the ground with a clomp, his mail hauberk jangling slightly with the impact.

The young warrior let the spear slide through his grip so that the butt rested on the ground, whilst the shaft still leant on his left shoulder casually. He hooked his right thumb through his belt. He gave a nasally sigh once more.

 “Move. Old man.”

This time the lad’s voice was low and dangerous, and the slight leer he had showed his ultimate intentions. But where had he heard that accent before?

Palanor let his walking staff fall to one side as he went for his sword. It rang clear and true as he drew it in one swift motion with his right hand a she unclasped his cloak with his left, stepping back in anticipation of the coming lunge.

For Morcar, time seemed to slow as the old man’s walking stick fell away to one side. He seemed to take an age to reach for the hilt of his fine blade, if this were a duel and Morcar had been ready, he’d have run him through three times by now.

The ringing of the steel as it was released from its scabbard hung in the air for what seemed like eternity as the light flashed off it with apparent sluggishness.

Then Morcar blinked and barely a second had passed.

He sniffed and rolled his neck, stretching his shoulders as he stepped back to make room. Storm-Mane shied to one side at the sudden movements, but he was of no concern to Morcar now that he felt that excitement in his belly once more.

He swung his shield off his back and round to his left side, not bothering to faff with removing the strap as he simultaneously tossed his spear from his left hand to his right. The long shaft clattered against the rim of the shield as he half crouched and braced both spear and shield together - deadly point reaching out toward the old man at neck height.

“So, you have no honour, eh? Spear and shield against sword?” The old man spat.

“I have plenty of honour, old man, honour enough not to have run you down when I first saw you, honour enough to give you a chance to step aside. A warrior fights with what he has, a fool limits himself out of fairness.”

The old man let out a short bark of laughter and a grin broke out across his face. He nodded, accepting the point Morcar had made. But where was that accent from? No matter.

Then he came at him.

The old man was faster than before and his high feint nearly surprised Morcar, who managed to step back just in time to avoid having his knee split by the tip of the sword. The old bastard had grabbed at the spear shaft as he stepped in  but Morcar was ready and drove his shoulder and shield forward as he pulled the spear back, bashing the aged fighter hard and sending him stumbling off to one side.

The old man was hunched right over, hands briefly touching the ground before he managed to stay on his feet and whirl back around.

A clump of grass and mud flew past Morcar’s face which made him twitch to one side, he hadn’t expected that.

The old man was back on him, hacking at the shield and spear shaft, forcing Morcar back a few, steady steps as he advanced out of the shade and back into the sunlight.

This was no elderly vagrant. This man still had speed and skill, despite his looks. Morcar cursed inwardly as he remembered that one should be wary of old men in professions where most die young. So be it. He had been going light for the fun of it but now this was serious.

Palanor hadn’t felt this much excitement for years. The young warrior was skilled, that was obvious. He would calmly step back just out of reach of each of Palanor’s strikes. Every movement was balanced and controlled. This was a true warrior.

The aches and pains were pushed to the back of his mind as he revelled in the exchange of blades. His own sword hammering down on the shield and the young man now darting forward with thrusts of his spear. Palanor managed to bat it aside at the last minute but was unable to move back fast enough as the lad bashed him once more with his shield, sending him whirling about, nearly falling face first into the grass. But as before, he managed to just about stay up on his feet, knees and back complaining as he straightened up and turned, laughing with delight as he brought his sword round for another attack.

The old man stumbled away once more but refused to fall over. Impressive. He was barking out laughter now, obviously enjoying the fight. But Morcar was already in motion, he was flipping his spear up and switching his grip as the old man turned with a smile, like an old friend, white teeth flashing.

He threw with all his might.

Palanor saw the young man move a few strides away, but he was still stepping forward and was too slow to dodge.

The spear punched into Palanor just below his ribcage and sent him hurling back, hunched over by the force of the blow.

He tumbled back and the wind was knocked out of him.

Palanor cursed inwardly as the realisation hit him of what had happened. By the fucking dead, I should have brought my armour. Oh well, too late now, he thought.

The initial shock of the blow was wearing off and the pain in his guts was growing as a dark stain blossomed across his tunic.

The young man was kneeling next to him.

Now Palanor saw it.

The red hair and beard.

The eyes.

Emerald green eyes looked back at him.

“I’m sorry old man, but your time is ended. But you fought well for one your age and so I shall reveal my name. I am Morcar, son of Uallus, the mightiest warrior who ever lived, and I shall claim that title and my father’s lands.”

Palanor drew in a heavy, ragged breath as he reached up at the lad.

“I…I am Palanor…U-Uallus,” He coughed and drew another ragged breath as the young lad frowned in confusion, “My…s-sword.”

His fingers twitched as the young lad passed him the hilt, placing it in his hands, his frown deepened as he shook his head.

“Impossible! I was born many leagues from here, in the ancient city of Di-“

“-nas Affaraon. Yes. Y-You have your mother’s eyes…”

Morcar flinched back. He did have his mother’s green eyes. And how did this old man know of Dinas Affaraon? The realisation was sinking in. As impossible as it was, he had unwittingly stumbled upon his own father in this woodland glade and killed him.

The old man was struggling to say something.

By the fucking dead it hurt. Had it hurt this much when Hallin had stabbed him all those years ago? He could hardly remember it now. He had to tell the lad - tell his son rather – to take his sword to Bieldisaere, that it was his brother’s sword, to return it and be re-untied with his half-brother and sister. Together they could see the New Kingdom grow and flourish. It was his children’s duty now.

“Take it…it’s your…” He was struggling to get the words out, each word required all his strength and will to utter. He could hear a stream nearby, sloshing and gurgling away, the noise seemed to drown everything else out.

Palanor looked about, he wasn’t in the glade, he was in the river once more. At last, he would be with her.  

“T-Take it… the kingdom…it’s your…”

The old man let out a final, shuddering rasp as the last breath left his lungs. Morcar was stunned.

He was half holding the sword in his hands, the fine, pattern-welded blade glistened and he was sure he caught flashes of movement beneath the surface out the corners of his eyes.

His father had told him to take the sword, that it was his.

His father had told him to take the kingdom, that it was his.

Morcar shuddered as he was wracked with emotion, he gripped the blade in his hands as he let out a cry of anger and frustration. Blood welled from between his fingers and ran down the edge of the blade, to drip onto the ground.

He had slain his own father.

But he had been given a Kingdom.

Chapter Text

Palanor and Ashath is my first full length, fully completed story as a writer. Although the main setting and characters came to me whist in the midst of writing another fan fiction set in the same fandom as this one (The Old Kingdom), I didn’t start properly writing it until March of 2023. The following notes will expand on certain themes, settings, characters, and events within the book and the wider lore which I either made passing references to and want to highlight and explain further, or I did not include in the text to avoid the writing being overly heavy or dense.

Overall the main story of Palanor and Ashath is an archetypal hero’s journey, following the three main stages of many classic tales from mythologies from all around the world: Departure, Initiation, and Return. The world and setting is one that is heavily inspired by pre-industrial and almost pre-civilisation history, with a variety of real world cultural references thrown in to flesh out the setting. I won’t list all of the references I have made throughout the story as I myself won’t be able to recall them all unless I re-read it fully and made notes, however, I will endeavour to highlight the key ones. The Plainsfolk as well as other tribes in Palanor and Ashath borrow many features from both real-world tribal cultures still in existence today as well as fictional tribal cultures from two sources; primarily Mutes or Plainsfolk in The Amtrak Wars by Patrick Tilley, and the tribe of Embruddock in the science fiction planetary romance epic, Heliconia, by Brian Aldiss. I would highly recommend both series for any fans of sci-fi or fantasy as both contain themes and commentary far beyond the escapism of fiction and in fact explore and deal with real world issues such as; the rise and fall of civilisations, racism, war and conquest, the lure of power, fate/destiny, and love.

Most prominent in both these writings and my own story is the attempt to avoid the common pitfalls of misrepresentation or over simplification of such cultures, even if they are fictional. I have strived to avoid the trope of the “noble savage” in which modern writers attempt to present an overly sympathetic view of pre-industrial peoples, often attributing progressive, or modern concepts to them where they didn’t exist or attempt to shrug off any supposedly negative attributes as being purely a result of the environment they live in. The reason I fell in love with the likes of The Amtrak Wars and other such fictional books which contain ‘tribal’ cultures, was primarily due to how realistic and honestly different they were to my own. Although the writing obviously attempts to provide a point of view as to why a culture or group behaves in a certain way, it doesn’t force you to make a judgement on it, it’s just part of the story.

I have even gone so far as to deliberately draw parallels between different tribes within the story with slight differences, which depending on your point of view may make certain characters hypocritical (notably Palanor, who throughout makes statements and has thoughts regarding others as somehow lesser than himself and his own people). This is an attempt to provide realism, and to avoid the trope of ‘mary sues’, i.e. perfect characters with no flaws. It also allows for character development, to enable true change in how a character’s behaviour changes.

In today’s political and social climate, some of the portrayals within this story may well come across in a negative or even prejudiced light. Firstly, it is a work of fiction with real-world inspirations and I don’t care what others think of my work so long as they are honest about it. Second, is the fact that I refuse to make moral judgements (as best I can) for the fictional setting as they are often reflected by real world inspirations, notably the Ca’tan of Dinas Affaraon, who are heavily inspired by the Aztecs, who did practice human sacrifice and slavery and were known to be a very harsh and brutal culture. So much so, that when foreign explorers decided to fight against the Aztecs, many local tribes allied with the foreign explorers due to their hatred for the dominant Aztec empire at the time. The world and the people within it can be brutal, and harsh, and cruel, and at the same time be loving, caring, and ingenious, all within the same moment. I wanted to try and reflect that in my own world building.

The titular character of Palanor is based primarily on the tragic hero of Setanta or Cu Chulainn (pronounce Ku-hullan or ku-hurlan, or there abouts) from Irish Celtic mythology. Cu Chulainn was also a berserker who physically transformed in his ‘battle-fury’ and is sometimes described as the ‘original Incredible Hulk’ for he becomes impervious to weapons when in this state. As a young teenager he defeats and kills a great guard hound (known as a ‘Cu’ in Gaelic) which mistakenly attacks him. He uses a ball and hurley stick (a game similar to shinty or hockey) to punt the ball into the guard dogs’ mouth and beats the poor beast to death. Upon witnessing the dog’s owner (Chulainn the smith) in bereavement he offers himself to replace the guard dog until such a time as Chulainn (or himself in some versions of the tale) can raise and train a new guard dog. As such his name becomes Cu Chulainn, or Chulainn’s Hound. He goes on to become a mighty warrior and has many love affairs before he eventually ends up killing his best friend and battle brother Ferdiad, and his own abandoned son. He eventually is tricked by the Morrigan (a goddess sort of figure heavily associated with magic and witchcraft) after he rebukes her advances and is killed by his enemies in battle. In his last moments he ties himself to a standing stone with his belt and his own entrails and guts so that he may die standing, on his feet.

For those wanting a very brief overview of the story, the modern bardic song “The Tale of Cu Chulainn” by Miracle of Sound is an excellent example of a traditional folk song that tells a mythological tale, it is roughly 8 minutes long and worth a listen, available on YouTube.

There are obviously many parallels between this story and Palanor’s with some changes to suit my own ideas. Palanor is also a berserker, he too fights a guard dog and kills it, replacing it in a fashion in the arena whilst also undergoing a name change. He too encounters his (unbeknownst to him) abandoned son and fights him, although in my story the son wins out and slays his own father before the truth is revealed to the pair of who they both are.

Ultimately, he is a tragic hero, especially with the death of Ashath, who formed the primary motivation for the entire story and his journey. Although I have tried to portray him as heroic in many of his actions and attitudes, he is still human, and as such is also; violent, arrogant, prejudiced (to a degree), egotistical, and often unempathetic to others outside of his tribe. Towards the end of the book, with the aftermath of the events which have taken place and his own experiences changing his perspectives on such topics, his attitudes and behaviours do change somewhat to show that development, especially after the death of his true love and the birth of his children (although that is only briefly explored in the story).

I feel as if I have somehow betrayed Ashath, the other titular character, for she is most certainly not as fully fleshed out or given anywhere near as much “page time” as her counterpart Palanor is. The main inspiration for her is my own partner, who exhibits many of her qualities both positive and negative, and also provides (in my mind) the basis for the physical description of the character. No doubt many of Palanor’s deficiencies as both a lover and a person are reflections of my own inadequacies compared to that of my own partner as Palanor’s are compared to Ashath. She is by far the wiser, more level headed of the two and is the main inspiration and motivation. I added in her interludes as a way of breaking up the book and because I felt that it was far too boring to not explore those snippets with her and it allowed me to introduce her own point of view before the rescue which occurs some three quarters of the way through the story. I have attempted to present Ashath in a similar way to how Galadriel is presented in the Lord of the Rings, she is not physically a threat so to speak but her power as a sorceress and seeress provides her with talents and skills that often outclass other characters. Her true power is really revealed in her sacrifice to save Palanor from Death, in which she not only uses incredibly powerful, secret magic, but also willingly exchanges her own spirit and soul for his, showing the strength of her love for him. This scene in particular is highly influenced by "'The Lay of Beren and Luthien" also by Tolkien, where Luthien pleads with Mandos to release Beren from his halls so that he may live once more.

I have already covered the inspiration for Blackhair's tale and its origins from the book 'Watership Down' so I will not say anymore on that.

The Sea Peoples of the eastern coast are inspired by the ancient neolithic, bronze age, and iron age peoples of Scotland and northern England. ‘Brochs’ and ‘Duns’ are prefixes used to describe fortified dwellings in Scotland and ‘Bield’ is a word still found in use on OS maps across Cumbria and northern England to show sheltered places, possibly lending a corrupted version of its name to the famous Lake District fell (mountain) ‘Cat Bells’ (believed to be a corruption of ‘Cat Bields’ – a place where wild cats lived). ‘Brochs’ really are double walled towers that people were thought to have lived in and some are still standing partially ruined today, whilst there are many hillforts and settlements known as ‘Duns’ scattered throughout Scotland, albeit they are not subterranean structures as described in this work. Dun Skudiburgh is a real place, but the inspiration for the description of the underground village is actually from a location in video game Far Cry Primal -the Tushwarha Outpost, which in reality is based on neolithic burial mounds.

The Old Kingdom series is heavily inspired by the northern England/Scottish terrain (including a wall which divides two countries such as Hadrian’s wall) as Nix has stated himself, so it only seemed fitting to include plenty of references from both northern England and Scotland.

Many of the more archaic or unfamiliar terms used in the story are slang or colloquialisms from Cumbria and parts of northern England where I live, or are archaic terms from Old English, Anglo-Saxon, or Norse languages.

Speaking of Norse influence, fans of ‘Conan the Barbarian’ or the film ‘The Northman’ will recognise the barrow chapter and could claim it to be a rip off, however all three are actually ripping off a section of the Icelandic ‘Grettis Saga’, which features the original version of the scene in which a wannabe hero enters a burial mound to steal the treasure guarded by a draugr or howe-dweller (sometimes referred to as a barrow wight, which is the term Tolkien used in his Lord of the Rings). I also believe that ‘The Northman’ is an excellent example of a modern version of a Norse saga. Its attitude towards portraying characters, events, morality, and motivations - as well as their outcomes - is true to the original sagas of both pre- and post-Christian Scandinavia.

 Dinas Affaraon has already been briefly mentioned in this afterword ramble, but deserves more of a mention. Dinas Affaraon is also a real place, being another iron age hillfort in northern Wales, it should be noted however, that the actual location responsible for inspiring me regarding the description of the fictional place is actually Glencoe in Scotland, with the city of Dinas Affaraon being located in the now famous ‘Coire Gabhail’ (Coire of the bounty) or Hidden Valley, where the McDonalds of Glencoe hid their rustled cattle prior to the Massacre of Glencoe. I imagine the city to be a mix of Aztec/Central American, and Roman architecture to complement the Ca’tan people who live there who are inspired by both historical cultures.

Cer’i’dwen is based on Ceridwen from Welsh mythology, a powerful enchantress who had a beautiful daughter and a monstrously ugly son. To compensate him for this, she attempted to grant her son great wisdom using a potion involving the Awen, a cauldron of divine inspiration, but Gwion Bach who attended the cauldron for a year and a day accidentally spilt some of it and thus gained the wisdom intended for Ceridwen’s son. In a fit of rage, she chases Gwion Bach and the two engage in a form of traditional druid battle involving the changing of forms (for example Gwion became a hare to run across the plains, Ceridwen became a greyhound to chase him down etc with the changes being many and varied). Gwion Bach eventually becomes a seed of grain to hide and Ceridwen becomes a great hen which swallows all the seeds in the world, only to find that she is now pregnant with Gwion Bach (or a form of him), when she gives birth she wants to kill the child but beholds his shining brow and beauty, so instead she abandons him in a coracle on the sea (similar to the story of Moses) and the child eventually becomes Taliesin (Shining Brow), the greatest bard of all time. I highly recommend “Cerdiwen and Taliesin” by Damh the Bard, for another musical retelling of the folk tale, 7 minutes long, also available on YouTube.

Here Morcar replaces Taliesin to a degree and blends the two mythological tales of Ceridwen and Cu Chulainn together quite nicely in my opinion.

Cer’i’dwen’s personality, along with that of her sisters, is based, again, on the Far Cry Primal Izila leader, Batari. Her physical description is supposed to hint at a possible pre-Clayr tribal origin, which will be explored a little in the sequel ‘The Dragon and the Tower’, also available on AO3. The rather explicit and violent scene in which Palanor slays her sisters and injures her was part of a hazy daydream I had on a train after little to no sleep the previous night as I thought of a fitting means for Palanor to escape his plight whilst keeping true to his violent nature as a warrior. The explicit nature of the scene, particularly the taboo aspects, could be related to the corruption of the characters involved as they are all free magic users, but it could also be a veiled reference to the general debauchery of those in power, especially in ancient times.

Finally, there is the pre-existing characters Kibeth and Yrael, both of whom are fan favourites in The Old Kingdom series, so much so that it wouldn’t really be an Old Kingdom story without them. This meant I was particularly wary of how easily I could mess up their portrayal within this story. I hope I have done them both justice, but feel free to let me know. Bear in mind that this story takes place before the creation of the charter, so I can get away with a few changes to characters or behaviours as neither has yet become involved in the Charter (Kibeth giving part of herself to its creation and Yrael being fully bound by it).

I hope you have enjoyed my story, if you liked it then perhaps try out my other works; Beneath the Barrow – an, as yet unfinished, post-Goldenhand long fic, and ‘The Dragon and the Tower’, another long fic sequel to ‘Palanor and Ashath’ which focuses on their children as the New Kingdom is being built.