by Emily L K
Chapter Nine - The Temple of Umur
Two hundred and fifteen years post war | Ol’ Bodee
She entered the temple with purpose and Bodee knew she sought him out. Few did these days, more often stumbling upon the ancient ruin by accident as they traversed the old mountains.
She had golden eyes as well. A long-lived being and the first he had ever seen here. This would be interesting. She strode down the aisle, the rainbows of his stained glass windows painting her skin with colour. When she stopped though, it was deliberately outside a pooling of light that most other guests would stop in.
“Welcome to the temple of Umur,” Bodee greeted with a most gracious bow, his dark-skinned hands extending to each side of himself. “I am -”
“Ol’ Bodee,” she interrupted, pinning him in place with those eyes. Glorious eyes. “I know who you are.”
“Ah, you may know me, but I don’t know you.”
“Who I am is irrelevant.” Her eyes darted to each side of the temple where priestesses were gathering curiously. Bodee beckoned them forward. The woman let her eyes drift back to his. “I came to ask a favour.”
Bodee waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve travelled a long way. Let my priestesses refresh you, then we’ll talk.”
One priestess took hold of the leather thong holding the woman’s braid in place and tugged it from her golden hair. Another priestess bent and kissed her neck. The woman’s eyebrows shot up, though she didn’t step away.
“You want sex for a favour?” she asked Bodee.
He pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “I? Oh no. I am a celibate man. They, on the other hand, take payment for favours.”
The woman turned and surveyed the priestess who had kissed her moments before. Coming to some decision in her mind, she grasped the priestess’s chin in her hand and kissed her.
Bodee crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the other priestesses gather around, tugging away the worn and dust-stained garments that the woman wore, their fingers moving lightly over her skin. He watched them lead her away, towards the garden rooms at the side of the temple where they liked to lounge away their days in gentle contemplation of life. He smiled as he heard sweet laughter float back to him, but he didn’t follow them. He had no desires for such carnal indulgences, though he wouldn’t deny them to his priestesses. Instead, he moved to the other side of the temple were his own residence was.
He moved between the lavish furnishings to the side-board. The smile was still on his face as he poured himself a glass of wine and retreated to the balcony that overlooked the jagged peaks of the Southern Range. The temple of Umur sat so high up that the ground below was invisible beneath a constant layer of cloud that floated about the peaks. Bodee didn’t mind - the swirling white helped his contemplation.
Instead of thinking on life, as he often did, he thought about the woman who had just walked into his temple. It had been a long time between seeing one of his own kind. Almost ten thousand years he’d been secluded away, or, more aptly, hiding away. Bad times had been brewing, and he’d had an inkling that it would be wise to escape before the politics got out of control.
He’d heard stories, of course, of events that had transpired since his departure from society. The changes to the magic laws had saddened him, and he’d heard of Cadmus’ attempt to decimate the race. He shook his head at that thought. Cadmus had always been somewhat of an upstart and he’d lost his own war by not being patient like the others.
Footfalls sounded behind him and he turned to see the young woman approaching through his rooms. She was wearing a simple white gown - much the same as his priestesses wore - and her skin was flushed with a warm glow. He smiled and stood, gesturing that she should sit across from him.
“You said you wanted a favour of me?” He asked, moving into his room to pour her a glass of wine before returning to the table.
“No small talk?” She queried, accepting the glass he handed her.
“There will be time for small talk after. But I am beyond curious as to why you’ve come all this way to seek me out.”
“I want you to teach me how to weave a Deathsong.”
“Ah.”
“Ah? Is that all?”
Bodee kept the smile on his face as he watched her, but he wondered at her request. Clearly the youth of today weren’t taught even the basics anymore. That’s what comes of trying to regulate a magic that should be used without restraint.
“A Deathsong is a long and painful way to commit suicide.”
She was quiet for a long moment and Bodee reached out very carefully to touch her mind. He was surprised to find she was of the Old Magic. Well, that was interesting. Had one of the others started recruiting already?
He maneuvered through her mind - he was good at this; she wouldn’t even notice - and carefully called forth some thoughts and saw that she’d witnessed a Deathsong used to kill another rather than the self. That was an interesting development. Had someone worked out how to detach the song from the host? He withdrew carefully. He was curious, but knew the more he delved, the more likely she’d realise what he was up to.
“You’re planning a murder-suicide?” He prompted.
She shrugged. “Maybe without the suicide. I haven’t decided.”
He chortled. “That’s impossible, unless you bear the burden with a team. And usually someone still has to pay the sacrifice.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Bodee laughed. “You’re a determined Little One, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll teach you the song. But I must disclaim that once you give this song life, there is no backing out. But I think you know that. There is one thing I wish to know first.” He paused. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Cori,” she offered.
“But who are you, Cori?”
She hesitated at that, her fingers nervously twisting the stem of her wineglass. “I’m the Karaliene of Tauta.”
Bodee kept his expression carefully neutral, but her statement made his heart race more than it had in years. The Karaliene. An Old Magic Dijem held the throne. Had he missed something? He would have to send word to his friends about this development. Things would need to move quickly now. But at least by teaching her this song she would be dethroned relatively quickly.
“May I?” He asked and reached towards her mind with his, openly this time. She allowed him access. He didn’t think she would be strong enough to weave and maintain a Deathsong on her own, but that was her choice.
It starts with only three notes, he explained, weaving an example for her. She mimicked him, then gasped in surprise. He grinned. Yes, it begins to take your emotions immediately. Those three notes are to draw energy. You need to weave them over and over for at least a few years, after which point the song will weave itself. With each turn of the notes, more of your own self will be drawn in. Your emotions are your energy and they are what will fuel the song.
The song does not discriminate over what you’re feeling, it will take all. Its nature is death, however and it will try to take death wherever it can, be it through you and whoever is close by at its eventual release.
“How will I know it’s finished?” She asked.
“Usually when it kills you.”
“And how long do I need to weave it for it to be strong enough to kill a dragon?”
“Kill a dragon!” He rocked back in his chair, roaring with laughter. “My dear, a Deathsong will not kill a dragon. Nothing can kill a dragon!”
She said nothing. She simply stared at him and he could hear the notes of the Deathsong already rolling over and over in her mind. How had she gotten it in her head that she could kill a dragon? She continued to stare, and he felt his own eyes widen in realisation. Could it be possible?
“You know someone who’s killed a dragon with Deathsong?” He asked. She gave him a small smile and stood. He reached for her mind again, intending to take control and demand the information from her, but she’d put barriers down, blocking access.
>
“Thank you for teaching me. I wish I’d known it were so simple,” she said, smoothly avoiding his questions.
“Oh, it’s not so simple,” he murmured, rising with her. “Give it twenty-four hours and I guarantee you will have a mental episode so severe you may not survive it.”
“I’ve seen those too.”
“Seeing is very different to experiencing. Stay, at least for a day, and I will help you through this first hurdle.”
“Why are you being so kind?” She asked, suddenly suspicious. He let his grin widen.
“You seem like you could use a friend right now. Will you stay?”
Cori looked back towards the temple. Already, he could see the physical effects of the song taking hold. Her skin was paling, as if she might be sick. Well it was suicide, but it was her choice.
“I suppose a little more time with your priestesses couldn’t hurt.” She lifted her glass and held it out to him. “Have you got more wine?”
He stood and went to fetch another bottle. When he returned, she’d fled.
Chapter Ten - The Swordsmistress
Three hundred years post war | Shanti
Shanti was a creature of habit. A lifetime of training under the Grand Master of Dodici’s royal forces did that to a woman.
She was retired now - past her prime at a hundred and twenty years old - and she spent her days pottering about her cottage. However, none of that stopped her from keeping her sword arm swift.
Each morning she would rise before dawn. A walk to town for a fresh loaf of bread and a jug of milk was sufficient exercise. She often had toast with butter for breakfast, though sometimes when her plants were fruiting, she could harvest enough to make a sweet jam. She’d follow breakfast with a brisk clean of her cottage. She liked to have the floors swept and the bed linen aired. During the afternoon, she would tend to her small garden and feed her flock of chickens. Finally, on the cusp of dark, she would take her sword from her bedroom closet and begin her practice.
She relished the pull in her old muscles as she stepped through her paces. The blade shone under the touch of the evening light. She rejoiced in the whisper of the blade as it cut through the air and lamented the glory days.
THE UNIVERSE HAD A way of delivering the very things one needs, or so Shanti believed. That’s why, on the day she met Cori, she knew it was fate.
She made her daily trip to town for bread and milk, but had, unusually, lingered at one of cafes for a coffee. She liked her coffee black and bitter, not full of frothy milk like the trends had been dictating lately and Jery from Tallow’s Corner served coffee about as bitter as they came. Shanti stirred hers, enjoying the sun on her back while she watched the townspeople pass by on their daily business.
She heard the disturbance before she saw it. Cruel laughter and jests moving up the street. A group of men appeared, four of them, each with a sword. In their midst was a girl - no, a young woman - slight of build and with a wild mane of sun-coloured hair that tumbled down her back and over her shoulders. She also had a sword, Shanti noted, but she wasn’t very good with it... And there was something else wrong with her.
The young woman was squinting, Shanti noticed, as if the light was hurting her eyes. Her swings with the sword were shaky at best, and she looked as if she couldn’t see her opponents at all.
The men laughed each time the woman swung at them, jumping easily out of reach. Shanti looked about her. Other townspeople were averting their gazes from the incident, and many were turning away to find an alternate route. Shanti stood, then hesitated.
The woman had probably done wrong by the men. She shouldn’t get involved. Even as Shanti had the thought, she found her feet leading her towards the fight.
The men didn’t see her coming, intent as they were on their sport. She kicked the legs from beneath one of them, wrenching his sword from his hands as he fell. Two steps took her to the next man and her blade sank clean into his gut. She yanked the blade sideways, slicing through the man, spilling intestines onto the street, and into the hip of the third. He screamed, dropping his blade, and Shanti kicked it up into her other hand, shoving it into his chest. He fell dead to the ground, and she pulled the first sword from his hip, whirling to stab the first man she had disarmed as he was struggling to his feet.
The fourth man had run. Shanti slipped a small knife that she always kept on her person from her belt, lined the man up, and flicked it towards him. She pushed some of her magic behind it, forcing it a little further than it could normally go and into the man’s back. He cried out and fell.
Shanti stood in the silence of the aftermath, breathing heavily. She liked the silence. It meant she’d won. Ignoring the townspeople who lined the street to gawk, Shanti turned to the blonde woman still standing among the dead bodies of the men, swaying on her feet. She still held her sword, but her other hand had risen to press against her temple. Her eyes were closed. Shanti frowned at her.
“Where are you staying, Girly?”
The woman shook her head.
“Got no tongue, eh?”
“I - I don’t know,” the woman whispered hoarsely. She opened her eyes to look at Shanti and the old woman was surprised to see she was a Gold Eyes. Don’t get many of those round these parts, she thought. Shanti tsked. People were coming closer, and she knew she should probably leave. Before she could fully think through the situation, she grasped the young woman by the arm and was turning her towards the road that led to her cottage.
“Ain’t you going to clean up?” Someone yelled after them.
“Bah!” Shanti waved a hand over her shoulder. “I did the bloody fighting, you louts who stood about watching can do the cleaning up!” And with that, she marched the girl home.
It was slow going. The Gold Eyes didn’t seem to have her wits about her. She kept stumbling over her feet and closing her eyes for long periods of time. Still, she clutched her sword to her chest like a lifeline.
“What’s your name, Girly?” Shanti asked to make conversation.
“Cori,” the girl said simply.
They reached Shanti’s cottage and the old woman unlocked the door, pushing Cori in before her. She lifted the girl’s pack from her shoulders and pried the sword from her hands. Cori groaned, grasped her head with both hands, then fell to her knees.
“You all right, Girly?” Shanti asked. Cori didn’t respond. Instead she keeled over, falling unconscious at Shanti’s feet. Shanti sighed and went to her little table and sat down. She was too old to lift Cori to her bed. The woman would have to sleep on the floor.
Probably on drugs, Shanti thought as she set Cori’s pack on the table and opened the top. Inside was a mix of clothing, most of it worn and patched. A full bottle of rum came out next, and Shanti set it aside with an appreciative grunt. Next she pulled out a book. The Karaliene of Crushed Skulls embellished the cover and Shanti glanced at Cori, lying prone on the floor. Surely not...
She set the book aside for the moment and dug through the bottom of the pack. A bit of old bread, a handful of silver coins and some scraps of parchment with inconsequential notes written on them. She packed everything away bar the rum and the book. With a final glance at Cori, she pulled the cork on the bottle and poured herself a nip. She then settled back and flipped the book to a random page.
...Watching her destroy men as if they were an annoying fly that one might swat away was, and remains, a humbling experience. One only has to see her in action, ripping her enemy limb from limb, crushing their skulls with the mere clench of her fist, to know that his days might be numbered...
Shanti snorted and set the book aside. It definitely wasn’t the woman lying unconscious on the floor. Cori could barely swing a sword. Shanti had a hard time imagining her ripping men limb from limb. She snapped the book shut, downed the nip of rum and headed outside to begin her gardening.
Cori didn’t wake until the late afternoon while Shanti was going through her drills. She came to the door, watching the old woman with c
lear, bright eyes. Shanti watched her from the corner of her eye as she worked through a series of lunges. Cori definitely didn’t look like she was on drugs. And though she might not be able to use a sword, Shanti noted that Cori didn’t interrupt.
“Thank you, for earlier,” Cori said when Shanti finally stopped her practice. “I appreciate your help. I’ll leave what money I have for you and be on my way.”
“And where are you going to go, Girly?” Shanti asked, wiping her brow. Cori raised an eyebrow. For someone who had recently been unconscious on the floor, she had a lot of sass.
“Are you implying that I should stay?”
Was that what Shanti was implying? She didn’t know this woman at all, and yet she’d saved her from attack and brought her to her home. Before she could stop herself, she said “Aye, I am implying that. You stay a while, Girly, help me about the house and I’ll teach you to use a sword.”
“I can use a sword,” Cori said defensively. Shanti snorted.
“I beg to differ.”
And that was the last of the matter. Cori stayed and proved almost immediately useful. Shanti hadn’t realised that she’d stumbled across a cook. The young woman took over the kitchen, making fresh vegetable omelettes for breakfast, and succulent roasts for dinner. Sometimes, when supplies permitted, she would even do some baking and provide Shanti with delicious tarts and mini cakes.
In exchange, Shanti included Cori in her afternoon practices. The girl had potential. She knew, for example, that her height and weight made her better suited to a short sword. She was also quick on her feet and ruthless in her decisions. Where a novice swords apprentice might adhere to the instructions and steps advised by their master, Cori improvised in her responses. If Shanti attacked her with a sideways slice, Cori was willing to throw herself in the dirt to escape the blow, rather than turn awkwardly to meet it with her own sword.
Months passed, and then they turned into years. Shanti and Cori had an easy relationship, built around their mutual exchange of services. Cori dedicated all her attention to learning her swords skills, and Shanti was quietly proud of her achievements. The young Dijem never spoke of her past, or where she’d come from, though her accent was Tautan. She didn’t ask Shanti about her history either, save to wonder how Shanti had become such an adept swordsmistress.