by Liv Savell
Delyth looked up from the flames, her face dark and brooding. Her usual calm was fraying, but she kept a hand on the anger, trying to squash it back down, make it more manageable. It had become so much harder since the fight on the mountaintop.
“It takes a bold creature to walk into the lives of strangers and tell them what they ought to do,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice bland. “Thankfully, Enyo cannot control me until she reaches her full power, something she cannot do while in the body of a mortal. You are safe from me unless she finds a way to get her old body back, which we don’t even know is possible. As for Etienne…”
Delyth looked at the mage, trying to remember that Alphonse had forgiven him, that she should forgive him, after the reminder of just how much of this was his fault.
He summoned Enyo. Abandoned Alphonse.
But they were working together now.
Delyth took a deep breath. “You’re right. He does need to learn to fight. That's what I got him the staff for. Perhaps you would like to teach him? Between that and the old magic, he should be able to learn to defend himself.”
“Of course, though, I would think you would be the better teacher. You already know him, and you have taught before.” Meirin grabbed the roughly made wooden bowls and started to fill them, seemingly unaffected by Delyth’s sharp words. Passing out each full bowl, she stirred her spoon around, watching the steam. The nights were tapering off, and winter would be setting in soon enough.
“Certainly,” Delyth said, “If you don’t mind me borrowing your spear. It’s rather difficult to teach staff fighting with a sword.”
Etienne looked between the two women, his brow furrowed. “Don’t I get a say in this? I am the one having to learn.”
Delyth just cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do you know anything about weapons training?”
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
Despite their considerable height difference, Meirin had no trouble whatsoever fending off Etienne’s “attack” with his staff. He was taller, had longer arms, and more reach, and yet he was clumsy with his grip and uncertain with his movements. Awkward and easily disarmed.
She thrust the butt of her spear between his legs, making him trip and drop his staff. She leveled her spear tip at his belly.
“Dead again, Etienne.” She smiled and pulled her weapon away. It was early morning, and the breezes were still chilly enough that Meirin was glad for the exercise, as it warmed her up. “You die a lot when we practice. Do you die this much when you practice with Delyth?” It had been two days since they had started teaching Etienne to fight, and Meirin found she liked sparring him, though she seriously doubted her teaching methods were all that effective. He didn’t seem to be gaining any insight into the staff or moving his body.
“More, I think. When we fight, that is. Mostly Delyth just wants me to practice forms. The same moves over and over again while she mutters corrections.” He dusted himself off and hefted the staff again. Despite the coolness of the morning, he was already sweating, his arms limp as river weed. “What was your training like?” he asked, stalling. “In the Mynydd Gwyllt clan?”
“Well, our clan demands all able-bodied people to train as warriors and serve to protect the clan for four years before they either continue as a warrior or take up another vocation. Most families have trades, and so once your duty is done, you return to your family's original craft. We all start training with weapons very young. I don’t recall when I entered, but my father was War Chief Awsten’s most trusted spear until he died in a raid. My mother is a baker. She hopes once my duty is up, I will take after her.” Meirin raised her spear, swiping the butt towards Etienne again, hoping he would block at the middle and deflect her attack.
“The routine is wake up, train in whichever group the warrior masters say you need work in, then go about your other chores and obligations. When you turn seventeen summers, you join the patrol rotation. After your time, you decide if it’s the right life for you.” He did manage to deflect, and Meirin automatically flipped her grip on the spear shaft and knocked at his shins instead.
“I have one year left of my patrol rotation, and then I will choose. I enjoy fighting and using weapons. It’s straightforward, easy work. Making bread and grinding the grains to make flour is tedious, hard work.”
✶
Despite their exercising, Meirin wasn’t even breathing hard as she attacked, as if they were just strolling up some easy path, chatting for old time’s sake. Etienne just barely stepped out of the way of Meirin’s strike, avoiding yet another set of bruises for his shins. It seemed like the only way to get better at fighting was to take beating after beating until you got the hang of it.
It wasn’t exactly his favorite way to learn. He much preferred the drills, for all that they were remarkably tedious.
The mage launched a clumsy attack at Meirin’s shoulder, which she easily avoided, and then jumped back, wiping at the sweat on his brow. “My family is in the cheesemaking trade,” he said, trying to match her conversational tone, “Only I never had any patience for it. Which do you think you’ll choose? The life of a warrior?”
“I suppose the real question is whether I survive this rescue attempt. Unmaimed. A warrior can’t be crippled—but a baker can.” She shrugged and spun her spear to jab him in the hip, almost playfully. “I think you’d be a good cheesemaker. You look like those soft cheeses you make out of goat’s milk.”
Etienne snorted and jabbed at her as well. “Oh yeah? Well, you’ve got a lot to work on if you’re going to be a baker. They tend to be a bit softer around the edges.”
She smacked aside his staff. “Good bread has a crunchy outer crust that is dark brown.” She gestured to her own copper skin. “Besides—Bread has to be kneaded and molded until it can stand up on its own. I am much like bread.” She quickly bumped the end of her spear against his belly, though without the force he was used to. “Cheese is gooey and soft.” Another one of her half compliments, half insults delivered in a blunt way.
Etienne laughed despite himself, shoving the butt of her spear away with the flat of his hand. Gods, when was the last time he had laughed? It felt like years ago.
He stopped, though, when Delyth joined them, returning from whatever it was that the warrior flew off to do each morning. She looked haggard from lack of sleep, and already blood was drying on her arm once more. Guilt smote him powerfully. Their situation was just as dire as it had been, just as hopeless.
And here he was, playing. He glanced at Meirin, straightening. Lowered his staff.
“They’re still south of us,” the warrior said, her voice low and gravelly. “We should get moving again.”
Meirin lowered her spear and looked at Etienne with raised brows. “Eating breakfast and washing in the stream won’t slow us down that much and might make you better prepared for the day. You look as if you were dragged through the mud.” Meirin turned towards her pack, rifling through it to find the dry ration bread baked with nuts and berries. A bit tough so many days from it’s baking, but still filling.
She held it up invitingly.
༄
For a long moment, Delyth looked down at the proffered bread, struggling with herself. She could find Enyo with the blood spell. She had a sword. Enough food in her bag for weeks. It was so, so tempting to just fling herself skyward, throw everything she had into speed and battle, and trust in her own skill to get Alphonse back. No more wasting time. No more walking.
But it wouldn’t work. She could not fight this battle alone, and neither would pushing themselves to get there sooner do them any good. A tired warrior was slow. She knew this, and still, the reckless path called to her. She needed to fight, needed to burn the sorrow in her veins with sword-sparks and bloody tinder.
She took a deep breath.
“Alright, we’ll eat first.” Delyth reached down to take the bread, breaking it in half and handing one piece to Etienne. “How’s training coming?”
“He only died three times today. I find that to be an improvement.” Meirin shrugged and took another piece of bread out for herself. Deliberately, she looked at Etienne as she bit into the hard crust that had formed over the top of it, crackling as she chewed. “Though one time he did trip over his own feet and impale himself on his own staff so… Four times if you count suicide.”
Delyth caught Etienne smiling into his breakfast, though she had missed whatever joke had passed between them. She took another deep breath. “Why don’t we call it three and a half? I think that's still an improvement.” It wasn’t exactly playful, but Delyth could try to be a decent companion.
“A half death?” Meirin nodded, seeming to like the idea. “Which part of you would you like to have died, Etienne? Lower or upper? Your spleen? Your heart? Perhaps your left foot. It’s the one you keep tripping over, Etienne.” Her eyes were bright against the yellow paint drawn across her lids as she looked at the mage, inviting some sense of comradery.
✶
Etienne pretended to give this some consideration. “I suppose I wouldn't need a left foot to be a cheesemaker. Or a mage, for that matter.”
That was if he found a way around Enyo’s spell— No, when he found a way around it. He would not let the Goddess take that from him as well.
He glanced over at Delyth, but she was looking down at the loaf in her hands, chewing steadily. Probably already itching to be on the move.
“A fine choice. I’ll keep that in mind if it ever comes to that.” Meirin settled back on her rear and stared up at the canopy overhead. She watched a few leaves fall from their moorings and float down to join their brethren on the forest floor. “If we keep going south, we will be in the grasslands soon. It will be difficult to stay hidden from view, from what I hear. They are all flat and open. Will they run if they see us approaching? Do we need to set some sort of… trap?”
Etienne was silent for a moment, taking another bite of bread and chasing it with water. “There is a way to trap her. Possibly even to bind her. If she still has her basin.” Once, he could have done it. But now… He turned to Delyth, who had looked up at the change in topic. “Is there a way to bind her using your magic?”
Her brow pinched, and she shifted, pulling her wings tighter against her body. Really, nothing made the warrior look more bird-like. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps. I could certainly keep her out of a place I wanted to protect. Maybe it could also work in reverse?”
Etienne ran his hands through his hair. “What do we do if she doesn’t have the basin? Or if the trap doesn’t work now that she has more of her powers back? The binding spell should still work… I think it's more your magic than the kind taught at the academy. It's from the same book that unleashed Enyo in the first place.”
“We have to try,” Delyth said, and Etienne was nodding before she finished. Of course, they had to try.
“So we’ll see if we can design a rune-trap to hold her so that we can separate her from the basin and bind her.”
“What if she doesn’t have it anymore?” Delyth turned northward, towards Thlonandras.
“I don’t think she would have left it. You heard the explosion. There can’t be much of Thlonandras standing any longer, and Enyo would want a fitting place for her artifact.”
Delyth was nodding. “That makes sense.”
“What about her companions? Tristan and Maoz? I don’t know about Tristan, but I saw him fight. He is very swift. And Maoz, of course, is the Hunter. He won’t take an attack laying down…”
Etienne turned to Meirin thoughtfully. She was right. He and Delyth had just focused on Enyo out of habit. “Three rune-traps then? Maoz will have his artifact, so we should be able to bind him as well. And it will make things easier to have Tristan out of the way.”
Three rune-traps, though… That was a lot of blood.
“Can it be done?” Etienne asked Delyth frankly.
“With both of us, maybe.” And then, again: “We have to try.”
Meirin swallowed her last piece of bread and wiped her hands on the knees of her trousers. “What I don’t understand is why they are going into the grasslands. Enyo is of the mountains, as is Maoz.” Her face contorted in obvious dislike, and he was reminded suddenly of Enyo. It was odd to think of the Goddess willingly leaving her mountains.
“I’m… not sure,” Delyth said, looking at Etienne.
He shook his head. “Best that we catch them before they find what they’re looking for.”
Delyth stood up, wiping her hands on her pants. “Which means we ought to get going. And that we’ll have to redouble our efforts to get you battle ready and decently adept at the old ways.”
Meirin smirked at Etienne’s crestfallen expression, but she didn’t say anything, instead standing to haul her pack over her shoulders. They would have to teach him on their way if they were ever to get close enough to the Goddess to trap and bind her.
Chapter VIII
Tenth Moon, New Moon: The Tower
The view changed. The flashes of forest morphed into open planes and a rocky river. The sun, high overhead, made the dark golds and browns of autumn blinding at times, and Alphonse would feel herself turning away. The light was so powerful compared to the gentle darkness that she nestled in most of the time, yet, as Enyo walked, Alphonse couldn’t help but watch. She was interested in what a Goddess would choose to do with her new freedom. It was strange that she would just stroll through Thloegr, leaving her beloved mountains to enter the grasslands instead.
It took much watching, but finally, Alphonse could pick up something more than a view. Sounds. Echoing and distorted, but there. The thunderous rush of the river as they swam through it, the snarling of the new man, dark-haired and grey-eyed—the chiding tones of Va'al.
Alphonse couldn’t understand what they were saying, either because it was in a different language or because she was too far away for the words to hold meaning anymore. Either way, it was easy enough to understand their meaning: debates over which path to take, nostalgic murmurings with distant, starry looks, and harsh guttural fights.
Perhaps the most baffling of these exchanges were the whispered compliments and sweet sentiments between Va'al and Enyo. At times Alphonse would see Va'al smirking at Enyo, his smile crooked and genuine, his eyes bright and steady. He loved her. As much as a God could love anything more than himself. And from the gentle touches she witnessed between the two, Alphonse knew Enyo loved Va'al too. In all her limited capacity.
It was strange to think of Enyo as a being with feelings other than anger and lust. And it was uncomfortable to acknowledge that Va'al had clearly missed Enyo as much as Alphonse was certain Delyth missed her.
The view changed again, and Alphonse pulled her attention away from her feelings for Delyth. Rising before her now was a reddish, stone tower, out of place in the middle of the plains. It was massive. Stark and strange.
The voices murmured, and someone laughed, but Alphonse only felt the darkness calling to her. She had been away from her warm nest for too long. She glanced at the tower one more time before slipping back into the safety of that velvet embrace.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
It had taken close to three weeks to get there, with these human bodies that could not run for hours and hours, but finally, they had found Aryus’s tower, if you could call it that. It was a red stone box, a tomb.
For such a strange God, they lacked creativity and vision.
“Esha’s tits,” Enyo complained. “It’s uglier than I remembered.” She paused to peer at it across the road. The area was empty. No humans clustered around as they used to, desperate to make good with Death.
“I think the idea was for it to be solemn. You know, for all the little mortals coming to pray for the souls of their dead.” Va'al yawned. “Of course, you’ve got no room to talk,” he told Maoz. “Isn’t your “temple” just a cave in the hills somewhere?”
Va'al’s temple was on an island in the middle
of a saltwater lake, opulent and strange, as befitting a misfit God.
Maoz’s uninterested gaze flickered to Va'al, and he nodded confirmation. His “temple'' was indeed a collection of warrens in the hills east of the Enyo’s mountain ranges.
The Goddess rolled her eyes and scanned the front of the temple, what little she could make out from this great of a distance. Her mortal eyes, even enhanced through contact with her basin, were still so weak. They were two miles off, and she couldn’t see each stone in fine detail.
“Didn’t Aryus have some sort of… Hidden door or special code to enter? Don’t you remember them bragging about it?” she asked Va'al, not bothering to look at Moaz for reassurance. The beast didn’t care for Death. It wasn’t that they hadn’t gotten along, but Maoz had more to do with living life, and Aryus had more to do with after it.
What would the two of them even do together?
⚀
“Aryus bragging is sort of a stretch. More likely, they told everyone about it in the form of a joke or, I dunno, a rhyme.” Va'al peered at the temple as well, trying to remember, but—fuck it all— it’d been three hundred years. He was bound to forget a few details.
“Let’s just go check it out. See what we find.”
“We’ve been walking for hours. How can mortals stand this tedious boredom?”
“They don’t complain as much as you do. So it’s easier.” Maoz’s deep voice croaked, rusty from lack of use.
Enyo snarled and turned on the hunter, hands balling into fists. “What would you know of mortals?! Do you even talk to the females you fuck?”
“Not just females.” Grey eyes flickered to Va'al, and Enyo’s growl deepened.