Young Writers Society

Despite Gunarra’s assurances, it still took more than a day to reach the former capital of Batavii. Our approach was suspiciously peaceful, with not even an undead animal to pester us. Gunarra took it as a good sign, but Hasda looked as uneasy as I felt.

Although we could have pushed through the night to make our destination, Hasda called a halt. He wanted to arrive fresh, shortly after dawn, to put his best foot forward. His enemies were Sleepless, but he was not.

We spent a cold, fireless night waiting out the morn.

The sunrise brought no warmth, the chill chasing us onwards as we approached the edge of the forest. Hasda had finished the last of the lumpy berries before we set off, streaking residue on his leathers where he absently wiped his hands. The djinn fire had flared briefly when we started, drawing Gunarra’s eyes, but quickly faded.

As we neared our destination, the jackal pressed ahead, and I with her. Hasda fell behind, but not enough for us to lose him. Gunarra seemed to strain against any delay, barely scenting as she charged ahead. I stayed on her heels, wary of any potential tricks.

It wasn’t long before the trees thinned as we neared the place where Balphar’s Hall lay. Piles of rotten corpses filled the clearing ahead, dozens of flies buzzing around the cadavers. It seemed the insects had no fear of the necromancer, their flocks forming a false haze above the scattered huts. More corpses, these more complete, patrolled in pairs or squads around the perimeter.

Gunarra crept on her stomach to the forest’s edge. “The Stitcher will be in the main hall, if that other conflict hasn’t drawn him out yet.”

“Let’s hope he’s home.” I stared at the distant hall, but saw no sign of the Stitcher. “Can your jackals get in without being seen?”

Gunarra shook her head. “Not without—”

The ground collapsed behind us, swallowing Hasda.

“No!” I rushed over, but I was far too slow. And the pit looked deep. I’d probably need my astral form just to reach him, if he survived the fall.

Undead moans chased the putrid stench that hit me as I reached the edge of the sinkhole. I coughed, swiping at the rancid air that assaulted my nose. “Hasda!”

Purple fire flickered faintly from the bottom. Bones crunched, metal rang, and Hasda’s shouts mingled with the enraged howls that chased his frantic movements. The walls of the pit bent in a way that blocked my view of the bottom.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

Sounds of conflict were good. It meant Hasda wasn’t dead yet. And Saran was providing both illumination and support. But I could barely breath from the stench rising from this shithole, which meant Hasda would be suffocating in it. And, from the sounds of it, the whole pit was filled with the Sleepless. Not good odds for Hasda holding his own, let alone surviving.

If I pulled him out, the Trial was forfeit.

But if I didn’t, there might not be a Hasda to pull out.

And there was no way Kydon would be able to assess the situation, if I couldn’t even sense how many undead were down there.

Loud purring erupted behind me. I whirled, Sword in hand before I’d thought to summon it. “You.”

Paws crossed, Gunarra gave me the most pleased grin. “What wonderful fortune has befallen us.”

My hands flexed on the hilt. “You have one breath to explain why I shouldn’t run you through right now.”

“On what grounds?” Head tilted, she gave me a quizzical look. “I have kept my word. I promised to get him as far as the forest’s edge, in exchange for my questions answered. And the most pressing of all is the quality of this unleashed tuzshu.” She yawned. “If he can’t handle himself in this, with an aura greater than mine, what point is there throwing him at some lesser god, just to watch him die? Better to test his mettle now.”

She yelped as I pounced, lifting her by the throat and slamming her to earth.

“You stupid conniving bitch.” I pressed my Sword against her neck. “You work for the Stitcher, don’t you?”

She bared her fangs, writhing beneath my grip. “So strong, and yet you never noticed the lead tied to my collar.”

I frowned. “So you’re, what, betraying him by helping us?”

Her ears went flat as she growled. “I attend to the interests of none but my mistress. He has twisted her collar and leashed what he should not. I cannot bite the hand that binds me with as tight a rope as he holds.” She sighed. “Weak as he may be, compared to a great god such as you, he is still greater than I. And he would not free a possible rival, like my mistress, while he could not assure himself of his position of power. The land is too unstable, and his grip is far too tenuous for his liking.”

My head spun. “Then why lead Hasda into an ambush?”

“This is the best test of his character.” Her eyes burned with fervor. “Troublesome enough was convincing the Stitcher to spare so many from his fight against the other force. When the tuzshu has prevailed, the necromancer will know his toys are broken, and he will be scared. He depends on your hero succumbing to this trap, such has he committed to this gambit.”

“That ‘other force’ is my wife.” Shaking my head, I flung her away. So the Stitcher had tethered her, and made her dance on his leash. And the captivity had driven her mad.

The howls of the zombies had lessened, and Hasda still bellowed war cries. That the sounds of his opposition were diminishing was a good sign, but there were still a lot of them.

Gathering her legs under her, the jackal limped towards me. “The final question has yet to be answered.”

I tracked her approach with the tip of my Sword. “And what is that?”

A hungry grin split her lips. Eyes glowing, she lurched as she missed a step, then settled herself near the edge of the pit.

And then the air shimmered around her.

It wasn’t quite the rending of a Veil, but a sharp relief that edged the Sukalla and galvanized her fur. Heat—from neither the morning chill nor the subtle warmth of the djinn fire in the pit—radiated from some hidden furnace in her chest. Curled in delight, her trio of tails magnified what sunlight there was to an almost blinding degree.

Worst of all were her legs.

Although she showed no sign of the Stitcher’s binding, she wore a history of chains through her flesh. Not on, for whoever had set those hooks in her forelegs had pierced the gaps between her bones and forged them shut. Dozens of broken chains dangled from these fleshhooks, three, four, six bloodstained links long at most. Their metallic clanking was almost as unsettling as the way her muscles shifted from the shifting hooks as much as her own movement.

She snarled, snapping at a thin, wispy, white thread that snaked from the edge of the pitfall and traced a lazy arc to my chest. Her eyes blazed as she limped a hop towards me. “You!”

I gave her a hard smile. “Surprised it took you so long.”

Disgust drenched her face. “Besides the stupidity of binding an agent of mortality to a being divine? I have seen strays running the streets who were better cared for than this tuzshu.”

I frowned, edging closer. From the sounds in the pit, the Sleepless were slowly succumbing to whom they’d meant to be their prey, but enough remained to keep Hasda under. I lifted my Sword as Gunarra bared her teeth. “I do what is best for my son, not some long-dead order of god killers.”

“Your son? But he is thoroughly mortal.” Lips curled, she shook her head. “Not even the basest nirarin would abuse their tuzshu so, untried and malnourished as this one has been. And for a long time now, as well. It is a wonder that the bond has not burned out and consumed them both.”

“Letting the djinn do as he pleases would consume my boy,” I growled. “I will rip that spirit off him with my bare hands before I let it erode even a sliver of what makes him who he is.”

She yipped a derisive laugh. “Dissolve the bond? Set the noose yourself and string him by your own hands if you want his death a surer thing.”

I must’ve let my aura slip a little, because she paled almost as fast as she hid her three tails between her legs.

“Mayhaps you can do as you say,” she whimpered, backing away. “But I have said my peace. His blood be upon your hands.”

And then she turned and fled.

Vanishing my Sword, I forced myself to breathe slowly through my nose. It took a moment for me to realize the sounds from the pit had stopped. With Gunarra gone, the tether between my boy and me had faded. The forest was eerily quiet. Not even the sound of labored breathing, muffled though it would have been, clawed its way from the dark maw.

I waited, but Hasda didn’t climb out.