Samidar wiped Demonfang clean on the soldier’s tunic and returned the small blade to its sheath. “For Jannica,” she murmured as she stood up. “And for Shaloneh.” Still, it felt like only a small vengeance, and she was not satisfied.
Reclaiming her sword, she turned her attention to the soldier’s horse. The poor beast lay in the grass breathing heavily, its front legs bloody ruins. She knelt down beside it, stroked its chestnut forelock, smoothed its mane, and apologized with soft words in its twitching ear. The creature calmed under her touch as if it knew and accepted what was coming, and when the time was right, Samidar covered its large brown eyes with a hand and made the mercy cut across its throat. The beast barely made a whimper, and she continued stroking and gently speaking to it until it was dead.
“Not a bad day’s work for such a legendary warrior.” The voice, feminine and mocking, spoke from behind Samidar. “Four peasant soldiers and a horse.”
Samidar slowly rose without turning. She knew better than to meet a witch’s gaze too quickly. “If you are Persea,” she said evenly, “you have far more blood on your hands.”
“You are too sure of yourself.” Persea muttered a few words, her voice betraying her anger. In response, the grass around Samidar’s feet shot upward. It entangled her ankles, crawled up her legs, encircled her waist. Then it began to tighten and constrict.
Demonfang shivered like a living thing in its sheath, but Samidar remained calm. She made a simple gesture, and the verdant blades of grass turned brown and crumbled away.
Now Samidar turned. For the barest instant, she hesitated, startled by Persea’s appearance. She looked exactly like Jannica. Yet, Samidar knew it was not her beloved she faced, and the brown grass at her feet spread outward in a withering circle, a dead zone in which nothing could live.
The dead zone expanded swiftly, encompassing Persea. The witch screamed. Her blond hair turned gray, her brow wrinkled, and she began to age. “What have you done?” she cried as her heart-shaped face began to melt. She made a sharp gesture with both hands. The air crackled around Persea, and the dead zone lost its power.
Yet the spell had done its work. Samidar stared at the hag before her and gave in to a moment of doubt. Through all the wrinkles and liver spots, she still saw something familiar. “You can’t be Jannica!”
Persea gave a bitter laugh. “You fool!” she hissed. “Did you think you were the only woman who was ever loved by the God of Death? Like you, I have lain beneath his black body and returned to the living world. Like you, I have his power.” Her gaze burned with hatred. “I am Jannica’s sister, and she was my twin.”
“Liar,” Samidar shouted. Raising her sword, she advanced across the dead ground. “If you had Hel’s power, you wouldn’t need the Bow of Shaloneh!”
Persea’s aged face darkened as she gazed skyward. “You can’t begin to guess my plans, Esgarian,” she answered. “I lured you to Shaloneh to put an end to you. Jannica dreamed about you every night of her life, and because we were twins and close enough to share each other’s thoughts, every night she forced those visions on me. Every night! She loved you, Frost called Samidar, and with just as much passion I grew to hate you.”
Demonfang trembled violently as a rain of fire fell suddenly from the sky. Caught off guard, Samidar screamed and cursed as the flaming droplets struck her face and hands. Her hair began to smolder, and her armor smoked. Nearby, her black stallion whinnied and bolted. The dead grass caught fire, and Samidar stood trapped at the burning center of it.
“Join the rest of your dead Esgarian breed,” Persea said, untouched by the fire. “I didn’t mean for Jannica to die, but the result is the same if I’m finally free of you.”
The flames took on an arcane life, transforming into wild man-shapes that reached for Samidar and attacked her. She fought uselessly as clawed hands carved burning scratches on her flesh, as flaming mouths bit her arms and legs. In desperation, she flung her sword at Persea, but the heavy blade missed, and the witch laughed at her.
Burned and bleeding, Samidar ran through the burning rain over smoking ground back down the hill the way she had come. She cursed herself and cried, her mind in turmoil, and through her pain all she saw was Jannica, who had called her Beloved.
As she reached the next summit, the burning rain ceased. Stumbling, she fell headlong to the ground and sobbed. Night fell, and a waxing moon with a peppering of stars lit the landscape. When she finally sat up, she nursed burned hands and wounds. Yet worse, she felt the bitter sting of loss and failure.
The stallion whinnied nearby, too nervous and distrustful to approach. Finding strength to rise, she talked to the horse with soft words. The skittish beast trembled when she reached out for the loose reins, but it did not bolt. Painfully, she put one foot into the saddle stirrup and swung into the saddle.
Her bow and quiver were gone. So was her sword. Except for the dagger, Demonfang, she was weaponless. Despondent, she turned her mount toward Shaloneh.
* * *
For two days and nights, Samidar lay semiconscious in the dark recesses of the Temple of Death. Four priestesses had survived the attack on the village, and they treated her burns with poultices and healing herbs. They cut her singed locks away, leaving her hair mannishly short.
On the third day, she awoke to find herself in the same room and the same bed she had shared with Jannica. The realization hit her with a terrible force and she buried her face in bandaged hands.
Raxul, the oldest priestess, appeared in the doorway with a basin of water. She placed it on the room’s only table. Then, without speaking, she also sat down on the bed and put a consoling hand on Samidar’s shoulder.
“I failed,” Samidar whispered as she stared at the floor. She could not remember when she last had said those words or felt such bleak defeat. “I ran away.”
“You did what you had to do,” Raxul answered. “Persea tricked you.”
Samidar hung her head again. “She looked like Jannica, and when I struck at her, I suddenly felt like I’d stabbed myself in the heart.” She looked up bitterly, but in the priestess’s face she saw sympathy and calm. She sank down between Raxul’s knees and wept. “Tell me it wasn’t Jannica.”
Raxul explained in gentle tones. “We exiled Persea years ago from Shaloneh. She shared Jannica’s gift of sight, but she also possessed an aptitude for the Dark Arts. We thought her long gone from these lands.”
“I had the advantage,” Samidar whispered. “Something held me back.”
Raxul gave a low laugh. “Love held you back, Samidar.” She stroked Samidar’s shorn hair with a gentle hand. “Jannica loved you with all her heart. Although you only spent days together, she knew you every night. I know you don’t understand it, but you loved her, too. You were fated to love her.”
“It made me weak,” Samidar answered. “Persea used it against me.”
Raxul lifted Samidar’s chin. “It makes you strong,” she corrected.
In the quiet lamplight, Samidar thought for a long time. She had lived without love for so long that she had forgotten the feeling. Now it crashed upon her like a wave. She ran one hand over the blanket and the bed she had shared with Jannica, and she struggled not to cry again.
She turned her thoughts, instead, to Persea and experienced a surprising moment of sympathy. What must it have been like for the sister, every night to share a vision of love that was never meant for her?
The thought sobered Samidar. She recovered herself a little and pressed Raxul’s hand. “Tell me about Hel’s bow, how it came to be in your temple and why Persea wants it.”
A weak smile turned up the corners of Raxul’s lips. “The bow represents a pact made by our forbearers with the Death-God. It’s a very long story—almost a myth—but so long as we care for it and keep it safe in this temple, no child will be born stillborn in Shaloneh, and no mother will die in childbirth.”
Raxul sighed, rose to her feet, and began to tremble. “But it also serves another purpose,
” she continued. “When someone dies, a priestess fires an arrow from Hel’s bow, and where the shaft lands marks the burial spot. Without the bow, the ghosts of Shaloneh can never know rest.”
Samidar thought for a long moment, taking in all that Raxul said. “It must have other powers,” she murmured. “One of Persea’s soldiers told me that she intends to use it to resurrect a sorcerer called Christomerces.”
In the lamplight and shadow, it was hard to read Raxul’s expression, but her old voice turned harsh. “Then Persea is a fool,” she said. “Christomerces was the greatest sorcerer of his age. This world has never known another like him. He should not be disturbed or trifled with!”
“Then that crumbling fortress was his,” Samidar guessed, “and his dead carcass lies there. I thought I felt something when I first glimpsed it. Persea hopes to learn from him or take his power.”
“Christomerces is not dead,” Raxul said. “His magicks made him immortal, but time is a subtle enemy. The stories say that eventually he wearied of the daily burdens of life. Unable to die, he cast a spell and surrendered himself to eternal slumber.”
A draft seemed to blow through the small room, and the flame in the lamp fluttered. Samidar reached for Demonfang’s hilt, but the dagger was not at her side. She wore only nightclothes. With a glance at Raxul, she got up and opened a trunk at the foot of the bed. Her armor rested within it, cleaned of scorch marks and highly polished. The dagger lay on top of it, along with the Esgarian diadem.
“I will need new weapons,” Samidar said.
Raxul pursed her lips. “You will have whatever you need from our storerooms and treasury. Over the years, people have made many offerings to the temple, and Persea’s soldiers did not get everything. They didn’t find our secret rooms.” She held out a hand to Samidar. “But you should rest another day, at least.”
Samidar moved to the basin of water on the table and, unwrapping the bandages from her hands, laved her face in the cool liquid. “I’m rested enough,” she said, “and I won’t be taken by doubt again.”
“You’re an Esgarian witch,” Raxul said as she walked around the bed and placed a hand on the lid of the trunk. Before Samidar could react, Raxul wagged a finger. “We know you and know your legend. You carry the power of an ancient empire in your blood.” She gazed directly into Samidar’s eyes, as if daring her to deny it. “Still,” she continued, “when the time comes to fight this battle, you will need help. Then, my sisters and I will be at your side.”
Samidar’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Raxul looked down at the floor. “We failed our sister Jannica,” she said. “We hid in the secret rooms when the soldiers attacked. Only Jannica, inspired by you, stood her ground and fought for the Death-God’s bow. We failed her, and we failed our oaths as priestesses.” She looked up again with a hard expression. “Now we will do our part to regain the bow and bring peace to the spirits of Shaloneh’s dead.” She stared down into the trunk and touched the moonstone circlet with the tip of one finger. “We lost more than just Jannica.”
“But how can you help, Raxul?” Samidar asked. “You are priestesses, not warriors.”
Raxul left the trunk and went to the door, yet she paused on the threshold without turning around. “Don’t ask,” she warned. “For us, there is only one road to redemption—and to vengeance.”
* * *
At midmorning of the next day, Samidar rode out again from Shaloneh on her fine black stallion. Its eyes seemed to burn as she mounted, and it tossed its mane. A new sword of exquisite manufacture hung at her side, and on her right arm she wore a small buckler. Across her back, she wore a full quiver of arrows, and a new ash bow rested unstrung in a special holster beneath her left knee. She touched Demonfang on her belt. The dagger was as much a part of her as the air she breathed.
Raxul, Serafia, and all the villagers turned out in silence to watch as she departed. She studied the grim and worried faces, observed the children clinging to their mothers’ skirts, noted the older men too weak or tired or injured to fight. The rest were farmers or woodsmen with no combat skills.
It was as if Persea’s soldiers had deliberately targeted the able-bodied men of Shaloneh for slaughter. As she remembered Raxul’s words and thought of the bodies laid out in the temple awaiting burial, the weight of her task seemed suddenly heavier.
At the edge of the village, she touched her stallion with her heels, and it lunged forward into the forest. Samidar leaned close to its neck, ducking low branches, feeling its thick mane in her face. The beast sensed the direction she wanted to go as if its mind and hers were linked, and she let it set its own pace as it weaved among trees and leaped muddy ravines.
Serafia’s advice echoed in her head. Follow the sun.
The wild ride lifted her spirit, and the lingering pain of her burns faded away. The wind tingled in her short hair, and she felt somehow renewed, strengthened, and filled with purpose.
Tireless, her steed devoured ground with its smooth stride. By noon, she reached the edge of the forest and the beginning of the grasslands.
Then, without warning, Demonfang shivered as Persea spoke in Samidar’s mind. So, you’ve come back to play with me again.
Samidar brought her mount to a halt and sat up straight in the saddle. Her gaze swept the countryside. “Did you doubt that I would?” she answered aloud.
Persea chuckled. I like your new look.
“I liked your gray hair and wrinkles,” Samidar shot back.
However, Persea was gone from her mind, and the dagger became quiet again. Samidar stroked its jeweled hilt. She could almost feel the blade purring.
At a nudge, her horse started forward through the tall grass toward the rolling hills in the distance. By mid-afternoon, she came across patches of burned grass and, after that, a perfect circle of blasted, withered ground. Her dead zone.
In the distance at the summit of the next hill, silhouetted by a bloated setting sun, the ruined fortress of Christomerces loomed, its towers crumbled, its walls cracked by age. Yet, now that she knew its story, an air of awesome majesty clung to it. She wondered how long the sorcerer had been sleeping.
Demonfang gave a faint tingle. Samidar inclined her head slightly as she removed her bow from the saddle and strung it. Her stallion remained steady beneath her, almost as if it had been trained for war. “Persea is watching us, boy,” she said to the horse. “I wonder what she thinks of you.”
The fortress gates opened. Five soldiers charged out, quickly scattering as they rode toward her position. This time, though, Samidar did not wait for them. She bent close to the stallion’s twitching ears. “Go!” she said.
As she raced down the slope, she gripped the saddle with her knees and drew an arrow. Without aiming, firing purely on instinct, she shot the nearest man. Before he hit the ground, she fired a second arrow, and another soldier fell.
The fortress gates slammed shut as a third soldier rode toward her with a drawn sword. Samidar charged straight at him. His blade whistled over her head as her great black mount slammed shoulders with the attacker’s horse. Upset, the soldier lost his seat and fell hard to the ground. Drawing an arrow, Samidar twisted and planted a feathered shaft in his back as he tried to stand up.
Two soldiers remained, but they kept their distance, pacing their mounts before the fortress walls. Her stallion snorted a challenge and tore divots of earth as he stamped the ground, but Samidar held him back, suspicious, as she glanced upward.
High atop the ancient walls, she spied movement—archers! The air hummed with a sudden flurry of arrows. Samidar turned the stallion and raced back out of range. As she paused and wiped sweat from her face, the fortress gates opened again.
* * *
In Shaloneh, in the Temple of Death, four rope nooses dangled from a makeshift gallows hastily built on the spot where Jannica had died right before the idol of the Death-God. The bodies of the village’s dead—Jannica among them—lay neatly placed around the cons
truct.
In the near darkness, the four black-robed priestesses walked, each bearing a candle. One by one, they mounted the low platform, Serafia first and Raxul last. One by one, they stepped upon a single long bench, placed the nooses around their necks, and tightened them, and one by one, they each blew out their candle.
When the last flame went out, they kicked the bench away together. A terrible gasping and choking echoed in the temple. Then followed an even more terrible silence.
* * *
Samidar could not count the number of soldiers who poured from the fortress gates. She fired three shafts in rapid succession, but there were not enough arrows in her quiver. Quickly, she cast a dead zone. The grass turned brown and died beneath her feet, and the effect spread outward in a widening circle. It would not be enough to combat an army, she knew, but it might buy her time.
The stallion, however, panicked as the ground decayed. He reared in sudden fear, nearly throwing her from the saddle. She cooed and stroked his withers, calming him.
The nearest soldier came on, the momentum of his charge carrying him across the dead zone before he could feel its effect. Samidar swung her bow like a staff, sweeping him from the saddle. As he hit the ground, he began to age, shriveling up like a grape in a hot sun. A pair of soldiers followed him. She blocked a sword stroke on her right with her buckler and with her left hand swung the bow again. The string caught the attacker’s hand as he reached for her, and she flung him out of his saddle. He screamed as, like his comrade, he began to rapidly age.
But there were too many soldiers. It was only a matter of moments before they surrounded her. She drew her sword. At least, she would not run this time. “You are a coward, Persea!” she shouted in defiant anger.
Demonfang shivered against her side. Samidar assumed it was Persea answering her challenge. Yet, a mist rose up suddenly from the grass, a gray and chilly vapor that lent a sparkling rime to everything it touched. The horses went crazy. Even her stallion tried to bolt, but Samidar kept a tight grip on the reins as she shot a glance at the darkening sky.
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