The Heart of the Thief: Josun of the Roslagen

Previous Chapter: An Unexpected Turn of Events

Josun of the Roslagen
Josun leaned against a tree trunk, carefully filling a pipe with dried cannabis, the night air heavy with the sounds of boisterous, drunk men. Tenderheart. That’s what Coriver had called him before the raid. The derogative stuck in his throat like an insect. Around the fire they danced in the distance, spilling beer over each other, reeking of urine and the blood of the vanquished. The prisoner, a witch, sat in chains before the flames, body bruised and battered, a victim of the religious fervor that had seized the Roslagen after the successful raid. We slaughtered men who had surrendered. They were weak and did not die in battle; that was the rationale, but it didn't sit well with the dark-haired warrior. There was no honor in killing the helpless, though the forest god demanded blood, and there were plenty who wished to spill it. He does not exist whispered Josun, though no one was around to hear his words. How many of those revelers believed in Prax? It was likely that they had given him little thought but simply used his name to justify their craving for violence. Tradition, tenderheart. That's what they would say. They slaughtered indiscriminately because they had always slaughtered indiscriminately. They raped because they had always raped. They burned ships and set fire to villages because that was the Roslagen way. Their strict adherence to tradition was a method of avoiding thought. Coriver never thinks concluded Josun, pressing the pipe to his lips. He wished to do something, perform an act of rebellion to shock the raiders, but instead he stood mute and solitary, lurking in the woods like a spirit, haunting the fringes of the celebration.
    He had felt this way for a long time now and had fought against his feelings, initially believing them to be a sign of weakness. Warriors who did not thoughtlessly murder were weak; any showing of empathy for a person outside the tribe was treated as an act of betrayal and considered disrespectful to Prax. Josun had went to his glade, had prayed beneath the ancient oak tree, had demanded strength, courage, and bloodlust, yet his prayers went unanswered while his doubts grew. Beneath that oak lies thousands of bones. It was true; they buried the skulls of the vanquished around its roots and hung femurs from its branches. A roost for vultures and a home for creatures of carrion. Who knew how old that foul tree was, and what had attracted the Roslagen to it. It was not a holy place, but a living monument to a century of needless killing—they might pray to Prax beneath its boughs, but no one approached the tree alone at night, for they thought it to be haunted by the vengeful spirits of the sacrificed dead. They were always fearing spirits, and so constantly performed gestures to ward them off—spilled wine for the dead during every meal, whispered words of protection when climbing atop a roof or passing under a ladder. It was true that the Roslagen had an excessive number of names for ghosts, and debate was often had on what particular specter had caused what particular domestic disturbance; for instance, poltergeists were blamed for breaking a chair leg, while gremlins stole milk, though not cheese, which was the favorite plunder of faeries, who could change size and crawl into your home through the tiniest of spaces. Josun had never seen a faerie, but he knew rats ate cheese, and chairs broke either because of their faulty craftsmanship or the excessive size of their sitter. He also knew that men killed because they were savage, cruel, and fearful.
    A month before, they had raided a village to the far north, located just on the outskirts of the Mawlden Forest. The people were called the Furmise, and the Roslagen traded with them, visited their taverns, shared mead around their fires and called them friend and neighbor. Such infiltration was a tradition; you gained the trust of the people, and then sneaked in during the night and knifed them in the back. There was a boy, fourteen or so, that Josun had befriended. The lad followed the Roslagen around when they entered the tavern, standing a respectable distance away, but eagerly approaching whenever an opportunity presented itself to ask questions and attempt to gain favor. He admired the tall, rugged people, spoke of their “savage honesty” and “noble bearing” while making it clear that he intended to join the tribe someday, seeing the Roslagen life as “a harmonious existence with nature.” Where he had received such ideas, Josun didn't know—perhaps Coriver, who was known to enjoy fabrication and whimsey, was responsible—but the boy proved steadfast in his beliefs and repeatedly asked Josun about how to initiate himself among the Roslagen. There was, of course, no way to join the tribe other than by being enslaved, and women were the preferred gender to take into slavery. So Josun told him that his wish was impossible, and that his idealization of the barbarians was greatly misplaced. “We're murders,” he said to the boy, looking him straight in the eyes, “rapists, thieves, and backstabbers. We glorify violence above all human virtues. When you look at me, you do not look at a human being. You look at a force of nature, a gnawing hunger that eats its brothers and sisters until its children grow old enough to devour it and take on its burden. I am not a noble savage. I am a killer of things. There is no honor in being a killer of things.”
    He had told Coriver those same words only to have him laugh and shake his head. “Nobles and dead men have honor. It is not a luxury we can afford,” he responded. “Who has told you that we are an honorable people? When has honor been a concern of the Roslagen? Certainly not when we lie corpses atop the roots of the ancient oak. When blood is spilled for Prax, we do not ask for forgiveness. Every life is available for the taking. The only right one has is the right to die.”
    “If we do not care for honor, then are we an evil people?” asked Josun.
    “All of mankind is evil, that cannot be argued. We hate each other, we long to better ourselves at the detriment of our brothers. I, as you know, cannot help myself when I see a woman that I want. This scar, here, on my left breast, is the price I paid for one such longing. The man who gave it to me died with an ax in his skull, and I took his wife only minutes afterward, tears of grief still wetting her eyes. Was that an evil deed? Yes, I suppose it was, though I am not half as bad as most, you know. If I am among the best, what does that say about men? What does it say that I hate you at this moment for bringing this argument to me? Why are you so worried with honor and evilness? You cannot change what we do, nor can you change what other evil men do. If you wish to have honor, go ahead, but I will only laugh at you for it, and no one will thank you, and eventually you will die to a less honorable man, who will have decided that he wishes to live and so seeks a dishonorable advantage that your honor prevents you from taking. Talk no more about honor and evil, Josun, for the words mean nothing to me, and they mean nothing to the world.”
    Coriver's response only deepened the loathing he felt for his tribe. He felt hatred for them as he looked at the witch, whose head sloped downward, long hair (so black it was almost blue!) obscuring her face. Still, he remembered that face, with its aquiline nose, jutting chin, and green, fiery eyes. She looks the ideal image of a Roslagen queen he thought before catching himself. Those times were long gone, the ancient days when the Barbaroi ruled for hundreds of miles beyond the Mawlden Forest and enjoyed tribute from forty peoples. King Wotan, last of his line, slayer of the dragon Gorgan, father to a thousand children… no, the old stories were fables, cobbled together by oral history and musty artifacts. Everyone in the tribe claimed to be of Wotan's blood, though the valor contained within his ichor must have been diluted years ago. What about you, Tenderheart? There before him by the fire was a maiden fair, like in the old stories. Already a deep calm was settling in, soothing his worries, narrowing his purpose. Damn what they say about witches. What a waste to kill a woman like that, an innocent woman who had harmed none of the Roslagen.
    Emptying the ashes from his pipe, Josun left the edge of the forest and moved towards the burning pyre. There were a few revelers remaining, though most had slunk off to their beds or collapsed on the ground. He stepped over one drunken warrior, a lazy-eyed sot whom he particularly loathed, and had to catch himself from kicking the unconscious fool in the ribs. Off to his right in the darkness someone vomited; close to the fire, three men sang a melancholy song to themselves. It was a familiar melody in a minor key, though the men sang it poorly, their words falling out of their mouths, syllables garbled almost beyond the point of recognition. The heat that radiated from the pyre was intense; the witch sat precariously close, so close that her visage wavered in the warmth like a hallucination. The wood crackled and popped—the sounds of spirits fleeing, according to tradition—and Josun paused to listen for their voices, straining his ears. There was a hissing beneath it all, as though a serpent writhed in the pyre's center. It is simply moisture escaping the wood he reasoned, yet part of him would never be content with that answer. What use does Pannotia have for a rational man? The tribe had no use for such men and neither did the peoples that they preyed upon, for Josun had been met with superstition time and time again. Human sacrifice, the burning of entrails, the mad interpretation of celestial events… and soon, the hanging of a witch.
    Her face was different, having changed as he approached. Her hair was lighter, auburn almost, and those sharp features that were so intriguing had been replaced with softer, rounder edges. Pretty, yes, but this was not the same woman who had fascinated him from a distance. Am I seeing things? he wondered. Perhaps she had cast a spell to manipulate her visage, though that was impossible, for she wore shackles of adamant. He didn’t know what to think. That other face, the one he’d seen upon approach, looked like a face that could understand him. This woman, wavering in the fire, looked coquettish to the point of deception, not unlike some tavern wench desirous of the coin in his pocket. Still, he walked around her, circling the bound woman like a wary animal, wondering how she had not burst into flame. They had torn her clothes, bruised her flesh, beat her about the face, yet the witch looked peaceful somehow, as though she were simply resting and not smoking before a pyre. The shackles bubbled on her wrists; she breathed a low sigh of exhaustion, sagging towards the heat like a burned blade of grass.

    “You can't burn a sorceress, you know,” she said sleepily, eyes closed, sweat evaporating on her face. “Not with heat this timid. She must be placed in the middle of a huge fire and doused with oil and be made to swallow charcoal and lard. Even then, some won't burn, especially those who have the gift of fire. You barbarians must have never burned a real witch if you think this will harm me.”
    “They don’t plan for you to burn,” replied Josun. “They wish you to hang upon the ancient oak and give your life to Prax. The flames are to make sure you are not a nattmara, huldra, or vampyre.”
    “What if I am a werewolf? Do you know the proper way of killing one?” asked the sorceress.
    “You must skin it and strangle the person inside,” said Josun.
    “That sounds right. I really don't know. I was asking you.” She straightened, pulling her head back, eyes still closed. Her right cheek was swollen and purple, and a large gash oozed above her right eyebrow. “Well, what are you here for? To gawk? I am beaten, noble warrior. My only hope is the mercy of the gods, and your god seems to have no mercy.” 
    “He does not exist. Something may dwell in that oak, but it is not Prax.”
    “Are you having a crisis of faith, barbarian? Do you doubt your purpose in this life? Were you not made to rape and pillage?” She laughed and shook the sweat from her face. “I myself have but one reason for being, and that is to have my revenge on Pliny the Black. Have you heard of him? He is an immortal sorcerer, or so they say, who exists solely to cause carnage and suffering. He killed a great wizard whom I loved and tossed me aside like a beaten cur, to gnaw and gnash in my rage, thinking I could do nothing to him. Well, if you need a purpose, I’ll give you one: break these chains and lead me from this land. My quest will be your own. Think of yourself as a mercenary or even a knight errant if it suits you. I am a maiden fair, am I not? Just find the key to these shackles.”
    Josun smiled and shook his head. He reached behind the sorceress and took the chain of metal between his hands and snapped it in one swift motion. Cassilda stared at her separated hands, still bound with adamant. Suddenly she thrust them into the flames, where they bubbled in the heat. Josun saw her flesh do the same; the sorceress wore a grimace on her face that told of terrible pain.
    “Tenderheart,” said a voice behind them. Coriver and his warriors stood behind them, watching Cassilda with fascination and horror. The burly red-haired chief stepped up to Josun and placed his great hand on his shoulder.
    “Have you tried to free this witch? We come to take her to the ancient oak. The stars have aligned; the time is ripe for a sacrifice which will bring us even greater luck on our raids. We have the favor of Prax, for how else would we have captured the steamship? Surely you do not wish to squander his favor by dallying with this creature? To lay with such a thing would bring you impotency and bad luck for several generations. By rights she is mine, anyways, so I ask you again, Tenderheart, what are you doing?” said Coriver.
    “She is making an offering of herself to the flames,” said Josun. “The impurities of the flesh have been removed by the fire and the pain of suffering. She has a crusade to which I have pledged myself, and like Wotan of old I shall follow her till the quest is completed. I do not care for raiding, for what is raiding but theft, and what are the Roslagen but thieves? I have spilt the blood of innocents, and I wish to atone for my sins, and I cannot do that here, with you and your warriors.”
    Josun took his knife and cut a circle around his right forearm and then squeezed blood into the fire.
    “I hereby sunder myself from the tribe and consider its laws to bind me no longer. Thou art not my lord, Coriver, and as an independent man I shall go my own way.”
    Coriver looked taken aback, but he soon recovered, his face set in a stony grimace.
    “It is your right to leave the tribe, but you shall not take that witch from us,” he said. His men murmured in affirmation, their eyes eager and wild. Josun saw that they wore the faces of hungry wolves and would not be satisfied until the witch swayed from the oak’s branches.
    “No one is taking the witch anywhere,” said Cassilda. She held up her hands for all to see; they were blistered and raw, yet the shackles had slid from her wrists. Coriver’s knife flew from his belt and stuck in the forehead of the man at his side. The barbarians let out a roar and rushed forward, intending to push the sorceress into the flames, but the fire grew into the shape of a giant winged beast, and then tendrils of flame licked out and ignited the clothes of the closest barbarians, including Coriver. They screamed in unison, wailing like animals, and some fled into the woods while others threw themselves upon the ground and flailed about, trying to put out the flames. The chief, however, maintained his composure and removed his jacket and put it aside. He took an ax from his belt and stalked towards Cassilda, who had fallen to her knees from the effort of her sorcery. Josun stepped between them, his own ax in hand, and with the flames towering behind him, he looked the image of Wotan, his face terrible with wrath, his shoulders glistening with sweat, tensed like the muscles of a jungle cat. Coriver paused and pointed at him, shaking his head with disbelief.
    “You are an enemy of the Roslagen, Josun Tenderheart, and your bones shall bleach one day beneath the ancient oak. I will not forget your betrayal, and you shall feel my ax between your shoulder blades. I denounce you, and curse your children, whose flesh shall feed the maw of Prax. Your fate…”
    He never finished his sentence, for Cassilda rose to her feet and cast the fire once more in his direction, lighting his beard and his clothing. Coriver dropped his ax and fled towards the woods with the rest of his people, screaming as loudly as any of them, his bravado lingering in the air with the stench of burning flesh. Josun watched as he ran, satisfied with the chief’s dismissal and in awe of the powers of the sorceress. He felt her lean hand grasp his shoulder, and as her eyes looked into his he saw someone different, a tired girl with a crooked nose and busted lips. In his arms she felt as light as a feather, and he asked her where they would go now, for he had no place anymore.
    “Carry me to the oak,” she said, and although he did not want to do so, he walked down the rough path, through the Mawlden Forest, the trees blocking out the moonlight, forming a darkness that was nearly absolute. Josun’s feet walked the path through memory rather than by sense, and soon they were in the clearing, the oak at the other end, standing like an ogre with arms outstretched.
    “For what purpose do you wish to go to the tree?” he asked, as she climbed out of his arms.
    Cassilda did not respond but continued to walk towards the tree, chanting in a strange tongue. He saw her wobble several times, though he did not follow, for he wished to never again trod upon the blood-stained earth. When she was next to the oak’s trunk, the sorceress ceased to speak and placed her hands upon the gnarled wood. A cry rose up out of the tree, a mournful sound that caused the hairs on Josun’s neck to rise. Soon the wailing was joined by more voices, and a chorus of shrieks filled the night’s air, echoing throughout the Mawlden Forest. The barbarians who had fled to the woods heard the unearthly song and ran back to their village, for they would have rather been burned by the sorceress than encounter the source of the wailing. Suddenly the song ceased, and the ancient oak shook as though it were being torn out of the ground, and its leaves died and fell to the earth. When Cassilda returned, she was still bruised and battered, but her spirit seemed lightened, and she walked easily under her own power.
    “They made a totem of the oak by their years of sacrifice,” she said quietly. “I have taken its power away and released the dead so that they may fade and not linger, souring this place. Now when the Roslagen kill, they will feel the guilt as you feel it, and perhaps that will prevent them from causing further bloodshed and ruin.”
    “I doubt it,” said Josun. “I know the Roslagen too well. Raiding is their life, and they know no other way to live.”
    Cassilda shrugged and began to walk towards the woods.
    “The Mawlden Forest is dark and fearsome, full of wild beasts and strange things,” said Josun, trotting after her. “You are heading into its heart, and what you will find there, I do not know.”
    “A thief, mostly likely. Who knows what condition he is in or how he survived. His image, however, is locked in here,” she tapped her head, “and I shall use it to find him.”
    Josun saw a green ball of light floating before her, a will-o’-wisp. She waved her hand and it sped off into the woods.

    “Let us go, barbarian. Or should I not call you that? It is a derogative, no? And you no longer belong to the Roslagen. Josun it is. A nice name. Nothing vicious about it. I am a Galvanian, Josun, and we are much more civilized than your former folk. Why, when we invaded Valice, we only left a smoldering abyss that descends into the very depths of the earth. The people, however, were not raped, and there was no wanton loss of life, other than the poor souls that happened to be living at the sight of the Calamity.”
    She tripped over a log, and he reached out to steady her. Her hand was cold, and when she looked at him, the bruises and cuts had all disappeared. Cassilda’s face was smooth again, nose straight, hair loose and reddish-brown in the faint moonlight. He wondered how she wore so many faces and whether it was sorcery or part of her being that enabled her appearance to change so, but he did not ask, feeling that it was rude and unwise to question a woman, especially a witch, about her looks. As they trudged on through the Mawlden Forest, Josun felt the bond between them grow, increased, perhaps, by magic, or just the realization that he had gambled everything on this woman and had no more coin with which to play.

Next Chapter: The Aiv and the Thief

Writer's Block: The Death of Time

No one watches

Hands ticking seconds

Or minutes passing

We look at screens

While crossing traffic

While sitting in an office

Or talking with a face.

No one notices the things

Caught by the eye

The fleeting moments

The fragment pieces

That fit together

To make a life.

You can immortalize minutes

You can put hours on display

But what context does it have

Thrown into the vast morass?

The last nine years have happened

So sayeth the clock

No one looks at the clock anymore

Time has died

And I mourn its death.

The Heart of the Thief: An Unexpected Turn of Events

Previous Chapter: The Pursuers

An Unexpected Turn of Events
The Thief awoke feeling groggy and poorly-rested. The constant rocking of the boat had kept him awake and soured his stomach, and every time he closed his eyes the volume of his heartbeat increased to the extent that he felt as though it would pound itself through his chest. He had never been on a boat before, and his sea legs would never find him; sometimes in the open air the nausea ceased, but mostly he wished to be left alone in his cabin to wait out the journey in restless solitude. He didn’t know how he felt about Cassilda, who spoke to him little but observed him constantly, staring often with glazed eyes at his chest. He was aware that she had manipulated the outcome of the heist with sorcery and sleight of hand, and he didn’t like being used like a piece on a chess board. She spent much of her time conferring with the Northron captain, Hyperion, and the Thief’s suspicions grew. The leap off Capanne Mons had not been part of the plan. The trek through the Dash-Margot to the portal had not been part of the plan. Appearing in the middle of the sea adjacent to a Northron steamship had not been part of the plan. At least, none of these digressions had been part of the plan that the sorceress had told him. Who was to say that he was not being led like a lamb to the slaughter? She had to get the Heart out of him somehow.
    He rose out of bed and paced about his quarters, trying to concoct a plan. He knew they were in the Gulf of Katan somewhere, probably past Massalia, hugging the coast of the vast wilderness that separated his home country from Rheine, Beaune, and Matera. If they drew within sight of land, he could dive overboard and risk a swim, though this was unwise, for the Thief didn’t think he could swim the open ocean, having only paddled in a little tributary of the Crimson Sea. Furthermore, he was not a woodsman, and though he knew he could travel along the coast and eventually reach Capetia, the journey would take long enough that he would be in danger of starvation or dying of thirst. Perhaps he could steal coin and bribe one of the Northrons to help him, for they were not fond of witches. This too was a bad plan, for he would be suspected in the theft, being an outsider, and Cassilda was powerful enough that she could possibly handle the entire crew through magic.
    He left his quarters for fresh air and navigated through the cavernous corridors of the steamship Revenant (a curious name, he thought), hands pressing the walls as the floor rocked beneath him. After ascending a flight of stairs, he was greeted by the night’s sky shining above, the light of a billion stars brighter than he had ever witnessed atop the roofs of Capetia. It was enough to take away the breath of a cynical man, and so captivated was he that he did not notice the wizened sailor leaning against a smoke stack a yard away. When the man coughed, the Thief jumped and nearly tripped over a coil of rope, which would have sent him overboard. Incensed, he turned towards the man who quickly lighted a pipe, took a hit, and offered it to him with such stern-faced seriousness that the Thief found he could do nothing but follow suit.
    “Herb from the southern fields of Lullingstone,” he said by way of explanation as the Thief erupted in a fit of coughing after inhaling from the pipe. “Strong stuff, especially for a Southerner such as yourself.”
    “My lungs are burning,” said the Thief. His eyes had started to water, and a heavy feeling settled over head.
    “You’ll appreciate the night’s sky more in a minute. These stars are not my own, and so I study them.” He indicated a chart lying on his lap. “I have made several additions.”
    The man was clad in a simple pair of britches and a sleeveless shirt that displayed his heavily-tattooed arms. In the manner of most Northrons, the tattoos were composed of intricate fractal patterns that held a secret meaning to their owner. It was considered very taboo to ask a Northron what his or her tattoos meant, and though the Thief had met only a handful of the people, he knew better than to ask.
    “I have never spoken to a Capetian at length. They call your city the Jewel of Ur. What is it like?” asked the sailor after taking the pipe from the Thief to smoke further.
    “It is full of dumb peasants working themselves like cattle, fat merchants who grow rich off their labor, and so-called nobles who live so far up their own asses that they’ve convinced themselves that they can shit nothing but gold.” The Thief gestured for the pipe.
    “So it is like most places in Ur. That’s a shame. Ur is beautiful and ripe with history, for people were there long before they migrated to Vaalbara. Our ancestors were Southerners, perhaps from Beaune when it was called Belgica. But while you in Ur have clung to superstition and the ancient ways, we have progressed. There are no Dukes or Barons in Vaalbara. There is no manipulation of the poor by the wealthy. Each man is evaluated by the State as a child and found their proper place. The land belongs to all, not to merchants or nobles. Our leaders are wise, yet their blood is as common as yours or mine. And so we have loyalty to the Vaalbarian Social Republic, for the State has given us everything we know, and it has not the weaknesses of men, who care only for themselves and kin. Perhaps one day you will come to my country and recognize its greatness. Perhaps one day we will come to you.”
    The Thief did not feel like responding to political arguments. He had deep grudges against Capetia, yet he was not sold on the supposed superiority of Vaalbara as told to him by a Northron.
    “Your captain, did he find us by chance?” asked the Thief.
    The Northron looked at him strangely.
    “The captain keeps his counsels to himself. Yet it is generally known that the woman paid him to arrive at that specific longitude and latitude, and so we found thee.”
    “Have you wondered how we appeared in the middle of the Gulf of Katan, with no ship in sight?” asked the Thief.
    “I assumed some type of sorcery,” said the Northron, to the Thief’s surprise.
    “I thought you Northrons didn’t abide magic.”
    “We are not in the North,” responded the sailor. “Were we in Vaalbara, the woman would be drawn and quartered, and the stone which she wears around her neck would be smashed into a million pieces so that it could bewitch none. You, my friend, though not a sorcerer (for it is plain) would be thrown into prison and then tried for associating with mages. The trial, however, would mostly be a show, and you also would end up drawn and quartered. Yet thankfully for you and her, we are not in the North.”
    The Thief laughed and looked up at the stars a moment before responding.
    “I do not think I wish to ever visit the Vaalbarian Social Republic. It seems your justice is too similar to the Capetian style.”
    The sailor shrugged, lighted a lamp, and went back to his charts. The Thief stood for a while on the deck, listening to the sounds of the ocean. The air was warm and reeked of salt—a familiar smell to a Capetian—but it was so much stronger on the open waves. Gripping the gunwale, he stared out at the waters, looking for mermaids or sea monsters with a sort of childlike wonder. The ocean was a vast distance to him, a foreign realm, and never had he examined it with anything other than mild disinterest. It is awesome and terrible, and I have been afraid to look he thought. He suddenly noticed something on the horizon, barely visible in the starlight. He kept staring at it, trying to unravel what it was, until finally he gave up and asked the sailor. The sailor looked at it for a moment, then went and retrieved a telescope and identified the object.
    “Karvi approaching. They have lowered the sails to disguise their longships. Barbaroi raiders mostly likely.” He lowered the telescope and picked up his charts.
    “Barbarians? Shouldn’t you tell the captain?” asked the Thief.
    “Once they have had a closer look at the Revenant they will turn away, or we will blow them out of the water. They are ferocious people, it is said, but they have enough sense not to attack a Vaalbarian steamship.”
    “Still, they could try. Your people should be warned so they are not caught off-guard.”
    “Warn them, then. I have my charts to complete.”
    The Thief shook his head and left the sailor, resolving to find Cassilda, at least, and tell her of the approaching barbarians. He found her in the hold lying in a hammock, eyes closed, swinging with the rhythm of the ship. He knew that she came to the bowels of the vessel to be alone, yet he wondered why she did not retire to their shared quarters. Perhaps you are a terrible snorer he thought. Or maybe she avoids you out of guilt, knowing you must die for her precious Heart. The thing in his breast skipped a beat, causing him to reel and clutch his chest. He took it to be an omen—the sorceress would try to kill him—and so he leaned over the sleeping woman with mixed intentions. Her beauty always amazed him, and at that moment she resembled a goddess in repose more than a mortal woman, to the extent that he was afraid to be so close to her. The green amulet rose and fell on her breast, sparkling like her eyes. His hands moved quickly and deftly, fingers gently grasping the stone and lifting it enough so that he could undo the clasp which bound it around her neck. Of course she’ll suspect me he thought as he pocketed the periapt, But the arrival of the barbarians might give me a chance. He had abandoned his plan of telling anyone about the approaching longships as soon as he had seen the sorceress (all great thieves are master improvisors). There was a lifeboat in the stern, and though the shore seemed far away, and the risk of paddling in open waters with raiders about was great, he felt he had to act.
    He had made it up to the deck when he heard shouting and the beating of drums. Someone had tossed a grapnel with a rope attached over the bulwark, and with dumb curiosity, he peered over the side. A steely-eyed man was climbing the side of the ship; he had long, unkempt hair and wore an ax across his back and clutched a long knife in between his teeth. The Thief waved at him playfully before kicking the grapnel loose and sending him into the water. A harpoon clattered against the deck next to him, and the Thief noticed several longships alongside the Revenant loaded with raiders. The distant karvi had been a distraction; the barbarians had sneaked behind them, somehow, and were now preparing to board. The sailor who had dismissed the Thief’s concerns appeared at his side with a rifle and managed to fire one shot before a harpoon took him in the chest. Staring at him lying there, glassy-eyed, blood oozing from his mouth, the Thief banished any thoughts of fighting back. Crouching down along the bulwark, he moved towards the stern, searching for the lifeboat. More Northrons were on the deck now, all armed, and someone fired a cannon at distant karvi, but most of the longships were right against the side of the Revenant, and so the fighting would be a melee. The Thief managed to throw himself behind a coil of rope as a large man came over the bulwark. The man was of a stout build, with red hair curling over his head as well as his chest, and one hand clutched a truncheon and the other a knife. A Northron fired his rifle point blank at the man, but it jammed, and the barbarian laid him down with one blow of his club and ended his life with a single jab of the knife. The deck was running red now with blood, and the screams of fighting and dying men tore through the air. The Thief had witnessed such carnage before as a youth in the Row, where gangs would sometimes cross paths and beat each other bloody, yet this was a far more mortal conflict, and the stakes were such that he could not decide when to sprint for the lifeboat, which would have to be lowered into the sea. More barbarians poured over the sides, and the Northrons’ numbers were shrinking, so the Thief finally took his chance. He leapt from behind the coil of rope and ran to where the boat was suspended and began to crank the pulley. He had lowered the boat to the level of the gunwale when a barbarian appeared on his right side and rammed his fist into the Thief’s skull, sending him sprawling into the bulwark. He was a big man with shoulders like a bull and long black hair that rippled about his face, which was stern rather than flush with rage like most of his comrades. The Thief tried to rise to make a last-ditch attempt to escape, but the big man kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs, making clear that he should stay where he was.
    The battle was winding down, and most of the Northrons who were not maimed and dismembered had surrendered their weapons and huddled together in the center of the deck. They numbered less than ten, and there were three times as many barbarians crawling the ship, with more still in the karvi. The red-headed man who had killed the cartographer wore an enormous smile as he surveyed the Revenant, putting his hands gingerly on the smokestacks and staring up at them with awe. “What a ship!” he said, repeating the phrase many times as he examined every inch of the deck.
    “Where is the captain?” he asked the remaining Northrons.
    “Slain,” said one of them, pointing at Hyperion, who lay skewered against the mast.
    The red-headed man frowned and shook his head.
    “A tragedy, to be sure. He should have identified himself. I am Coriver, chief of the Roslagen. Do any of you know how to man this vessel?”
    Nobody spoke. The Thief knew that Northrons were very secretive of their technology and did not willing share it with outsiders.
    “If no one can show us how to use this ship, then your lives have no merit,” said the red-head. He took one of the men by the neck and in one powerful motion threw him overboard.
    “That was our chief engineer!” shouted a young Northron with ruddy-cheeks and flaxen hair.
    “Can you do his job?” asked the redhead, smiling a bear-like grin.
    “I… I’m just the steward’s assistant,” stammered the youth.
    “That’s a shame. I have no use for you, either.”
    He had placed his hands on the youth’s throat when a loud crack rang out, and the middle mast fell like a giant oak, crushing several barbarians and displacing everyone on the deck. The Thief sprang up but froze when he saw Cassilda. She had a green ball of light between her hands, which were pushed almost together and shook with effort. Suddenly she let them apart, and the ball of light flew at the nearest barbarian and passed through his chest, burning a hole through his body in less than a second. The light traveled through the next barbarian, and the next, until panic spread over the remaining warriors, and they were tripping over themselves to leap overboard and so save themselves from the sorceress’s instrument of death. The Thief was thinking of following them when he noticed that the dark-haired barbarian that had captured him was sprinting towards Cassilda, coming at her in a curving trajectory so as not to attract attention. So distracted was she from guiding her light of death that she did not notice the barbarian’s approach until he was almost on top of her. He threw her down with a blow from his shoulder, and bound her hands with a chain, and though she screamed and hurled curses at him, they had no effect, for her amulet was missing and without it, much of her power was gone.
    “It’s now or never,” said the Thief to himself, seeing Cassilda subdued and the barbarians in disarray. He looked out at the sea, at the strong waves cresting against the iron hull, the waters black and as uninviting as a bottomless abyss. He had no magic potion left to save him from a free-fall; if he jumped, he would likely drown, and because of the darkness, he knew naught which way to swim. Had Coriver not seen him and pointed his warriors in his direction, the Thief may have never jumped, but he did, disappearing into the cold ocean like a stone dropped into a well. Somehow, he managed to latch on to a barrel that had been thrown overboard, and so he rode the sea, and time had no meaning to him as his hands were rubbed raw from clutching the rope, and his eyes burned from the salt. Gradually he slipped from consciousness to a dreamlike state, and in this fugue, he passed his journey, remembering little afterwards but the taste of the sea.

The sun beat down upon his face like a roaring fire. Something crawled on his leg, something with sharp legs ending in a point. As the Thief gained consciousness, he also felt an intense thirst, as well as parched lips and aching muscles. Where am I he wondered, fluttering his eyelids and immediately blinking in the harsh light. He heard waves crashing against the shore; smelled the mingling scents of salt and rotten fish; felt the abuse and blows of the sea. Groggily, he struggled to raise his body from the sand. There, on his leg, was the source of the stabbing pain—an enormous blue crab crawled over his limb, stabbing at something attached to his right boot. With all the strength he could muster, the Thief kicked the creature, which resulted in it moving little and prompted a retaliatory blow served by the monstrous crab's gigantic pincher. Pain shot through his calf muscle as chitinous claws sank into his flesh. His hand instinctively moved to his belt, where he found his knife—thank the Lady—and with one deft lunge, the Thief severed the offending pincher, leaving it still attached to his leg. “Run, you bastard,” he spat as the crab waddled away, greenish fluid leaking from its body. It took all his might to peel the still-twitching claw apart from his flesh. As he discarded the pincher, he noticed what the crab was after—a juvenile lion shark, its twin jaws fastened tightly around the heel of his boot. What luck I must possess. Lost at sea yet washed ashore and narrowly escaping dismemberment by shark and crab—he must possess the Lady’s favor.
He surveyed the beach. There were many giant crabs like the one he had killed moving sideways across the sand, using their pincers to shift through driftwood and the carrion of the sea. The ocean looked calm and placid, as though it were sated with the sacrifices of last night. He picked himself up so as not to become a meal for any ambitious crustaceans and started walking towards the woods, which looked rather dark and foreboding to an urbanite like the Thief. There were gloomy shadows beneath the trees; the trees themselves were old and wizened like sculptures, twisted by the years into strange shapes. Odd calls came from the wood, shrill, piercing, and bassetto. Were he a woodsman, he would have recognized the cry of the loon, the chitter of the raccoon, and the rumbled of the wylfen, only the latter of which he had cause to fear; because he knew none of the sounds, he feared them all and hesitated before the forest. This was the Mawlden Forest, whose ancient beeches and elms had grown here since the beginning of time, the eldest of which had borne witness to the Age of Gods and the passing of the Faerie folk; whose children would stretch their boughs towards the sun when man was a distant memory. Even in Capetia they told stories of this realm and how its hollows were haunted by creatures never witnessed by human eyes. Those who lived on its outskirts refused to venture within its depths; only the Barbaroi had possessed the courage to carve a path through it to provide passage for their raiders, and they did so atop the bones of an ancient road, perhaps built by Wotan himself, their legendary forefather, whose kingdom passed long ago into myth.
    The sight of an approaching longship, coming fast around the western shore, prompted the Thief to conquer his fears and flee into the woods. He moved quickly, tearing through briar and bramble, stomping on ferns and moss-covered logs, over-eager to put distance between himself and the Barbaroi, for he feared they may have spotted him. He ran like this for about twenty minutes, finally pausing to catch his breath at the rocky edge of a bubbling pool. The reflection in the water showed a worn and ragged face, and he disrupted the image with a splash as he cupped water in his hands and brought it to his mouth to drink. The water was cool and sweet, coming from an underground spring, and so he quenched his thirst and staved off dehydration. There was no crash of wood signaling the approach of raiders, so the Thief leaned against a stone and rested, attempting to gather his thoughts. He could go back towards the beach and follow it westward, though the trek would be hard, and barbarians likely patrolled the shore. Or he could continue into the Mawlden Forest and discover what lay within its glens and gullies. East too was an option, though he knew naught how close other lands might be. Had the Thief a map and the knowledge of his location, he would’ve realized that all those choices were equally poor, for he was equidistant from Capetia as he was Rheine, and northward through the forest was the Wotan Veldt, a wilderness populated by lions and hyenas. However, he never had the opportunity to make a choice, for so overcome by weariness was he that the Thief fell asleep and rested all day beside that pool, and upon waking, became disoriented and could not remember from what direction he came. The sun hid behind a cloudy sky, and so he ended up walking north, deeper into the forest, much to his chagrin, for the sun did uncover later in the day.
    He had traveled aimlessly for many hours when he came upon a glade. A well-worn path cut through the clearing, and he followed it until it ended before a massive oak tree. Its limbs twisted towards the heavens like the feelers of a deep-sea horror; moss hung from the thick boughs, many of which lay upon the earth. There was a hollow in the truck as large as a man, and from its depths a blackness emitted, as though it were a portal to the unknown. He stared at it for some time before he noticed that there were ropes tied to its branches. Bones lay littered before the oak—human skulls, femurs, tibiae, ragged strips of cloth. Something in the oak watched him and purred like a well-fed cat, and the Thief heard its rumble, both in his feet and in his soul. He was reminded suddenly of the painting of the faun that hung in Dazbog’s tower, for the same evilness lurked within the ancient tree, an evil that was unable to be understood by any mortal or creature of rational thought. There was a clamor behind him—shouts came from the woods, following the path—and the noise broke the spell, and the Thief ran once again, disappearing further into the woods. How long he ran, he did not know, but eventually he fell over a log, and for a while lay there panting until weariness overtook him, and he slept briefly in the wild, a frightened, trembling thing, before waking and wandering further into the forest.

Next Chapter: Josun of the Roslagen

Albums That Made Me: Dry

There is a dearth of female artists that have inspired me, mostly because I just haven't made the commitment to diversifying my listening. Among those that have, PJ Harvey stands out. Her voice, in particular, both the actual instrument and her artistic vision, grabbed a hold of me from the onset. I can't remember when I first heard her music, but I remember listening to Dry over and over again. The 1990's were the high point of alternative music (There were a lot of great albums released in 1992), but Dry seems to embody the best of those years without sounding like a Nirvana clone. This is definitely a punk record; the songs are simple three or four chord riffs, and the arrangements are minimal. Yet Harvey's amazing voice rings out loud and clear, along with the excellent rhythm section. This album is scattered with odd time signatures; Water proceeds in 5/4, the extra beat helping the groove, while Dress uses polyrhythm (two simultaneous time signatures) during the bridge section. You don't usually hear interesting rhythmic changes in pop music, especially today, although alternative rock was experimenting at the time (Soundgarden's Spoonman comes to mind).
Harvey got lumped together with Patty Smith and other solo female rock artists, because critics are stupid. Her lyrics were considered feminist at the time, and although that's not an inaccurate categorization, they feel more expressionist and personal to me. Dress tells the story of a woman making herself uncomfortable and embarrassed to please a man, which backfires; Sheela-Na-Gig criticizes the male gaze and its objectifying purpose. I listened to Dry in my twenties, during which I was gradually becoming more aware of how much women get screwed by society. Great art helps you realize things that you were blind to. Also, this album fucking rocks.

The Heart of the Thief: The Pursuers

Previous Chapter: The Temple

Dry death is a waste
A crumbling of flesh and water
A mist of sand upon the desert floor.
Our ancestors gave their lives
So that you could walk and breath
And taste the dust in the breeze.
You must die a blood death,
Your life must lie in puddles
Coloring the knife of your enemy.
You and he must trade blood,
For without a sacrifice
You shall never walk the Halls of your Fathers.
Suffer not the witch, purveyor of evil,
Kill the urbanite, softened by comfort,
Ignore the Northron if he bring no weapon of war.

Song of Dry Death (A Haliurunnae Prayer) 


The Pursuers
Silas Amaro stood before the High Priest of the Cult of Rankar and knelt. He was a big man, heavy-set, with shoulders like a bull and hands nearly as large as dinner plates, and he often gave the impression of being slow and ponderous, although those who had seen him in action knew this to be a deception. With head bowed and eyes diverted to the floor, he waited patiently for the priest to speak. A skinny-legged chicken shit he thought, the barest trace of a smile twitching on his lips. I wonder what his lordship needs at four o’clock in the morning. Someone probably stole his bed slippers, and he wants the thief drawn and quartered. The gentry never surprised him with their ridiculous demands. He had once been summoned at a similar hour by the Duchess to ascertain which lady in waiting had defecated in her chamber pot, a crisis of the state, to be certain. Yet he was very good at his job and being the head of the Secret Service of Massalia had its benefits. So what if he had to find a lost terrier or identify a man by a few misplaced hairs? What the gentry wanted you to be aware of was that they had you at their beck and call. You were their man and not your own, although how many persons could say that they were truly their own master? The Duke could claim such, though even he was constrained by his nobles and the burgeoning merchant class, the latter of which grew more powerful by the day. Indeed, fear was increasing in ranks of the old aristocracy, who felt that the shippers, traders, and spice dealers were coming for their titles. The priests decried the merchants as godless men vying for positions above their station and therefore guilty of heresy. If this old coot only knew what I was guilty of thought Silas as the priest snorted and told him to rise.
    “What is thy bidding, my lord?” asked Silas. The High Priest was an old man, with a neck like a chicken and a beak-like nose, and his head bobbed back and forth as he paced before Amaro.
    “You’re a direct man, are you not?” asked the priest. “You may speak with the proper courtesy, but you are always straight to the point. I am going to be equally straight with you, Amaro. This is a true matter of national security. A great heresy has been committed. The Heart of Rankar has been stolen.”
    Silas felt his stomach tighten. Holy religious artifact, the symbol of the Duke’s dynasty, gift from the Pallas Emperor himself. He rattled off all he knew about the Heart in his mind. It was a priceless relic, no doubt about it, worth more than any crown jewels… and yet he didn’t see the danger to the state that its theft represented, unless it preempted a war with Galvania, who had long desired the Heart as well as the city of Capetia. The thing had no practical value. It was not on display in the center of the Square. Its magical properties were dubious. If they were unable to recover it, a duplicate could be made, and would the Duke know any better? He, of course, could not suggest such a thing to the High Priest, at least not yet. He hadn’t even heard the circumstances of the theft.
    “Tell me what happened,” said Silas.
    The priest looked at Silas as though he was embarrassed.
    “It was my fool of a brother, Lord Dempsey,” he said finally, spitting out the words as though they ailed him. “He took a courtesan by the name of Cassilda and a troubadour to the entrance of the pyramid and demanded to see the Heart of Rankar of the Medjay guards. While they scuffled, the musician somehow sneaked into the temple and reemerged later with the Heart. He and the courtesan then leaped off the mountain. Dempsey claims no knowledge of this plot. I have him locked up, under guard. The Medjay searched the foot of the mountain but have found no bodies. A pair of tracks leads across the Dash-Margot to a ruin where the footprints of the Haliurunnae are found. My emissaries are trailing the tribes as we speak, but the desert people are wary of Capetians and are very good at not being found. They are very close to the Northrons. God help us if it crosses the border into Vaalbara.”
    “I’m not sure the Northrons would want the Heart of Rankar,” replied Silas. “They are of a different philosophy than us, and they do not use sorcery, openly despising it. They do not worship Rankar, and if they chose to invade Massalia, they would come in great warships, bearing guns and rockets. Now it is possible that they would steal the Heart to demoralize our people, but I do not believe they think this way. They are direct, Northrons are, and of a machine mind, being constrained by rigorous processes and rigid, mechanical thinking.”
    “What other conclusion must we reach? The tribesmen care only for their wastes,” said the priest, irritated. He went over to his nightstand and took a bottle and poured himself a glass of wine, which he raised to his lips with a trembling hand.
    “The thieves meant to deceive us,” said Silas. “Surely one of them was a sorcerer, for how else could they have survived the fall from the mountain?”
    “Yes, the Medjay say they drank from a flask. According to my mages, it must’ve been a levitation potion that took some time to process, which was clever, for the time delay allowed them to escape the enchantment radius of the pyramid,” replied the priest, draining his glass in one long drink.
    “How were they able to steal the Heart in the first place?”
    “Damned if I know. Who do I look like to you, Amaro? I am no master investigator. The man, the dark-skinned musician, he apparently committed the theft. He must’ve been agile, quiet, and cunning. And damned lucky. I don’t know how he managed the first guard. That thing doesn’t really sleep. The last chamber is impervious. Soros the Magnificent, the archmage of the Pallas Emperor, designed it himself. We couldn’t even enter. We could only look at it and watch the Heart beating upon its altar, pulsing with the lifeblood of our species. You don’t understand what’s at stake, I can see it in your eyes. Every age comes to an end, and we are not the first sentient beings to inhabit Pannotia. In the Pyramid of Arat, the Heart was safe, and so were we. The other races were killed by the Corruption. Once a piece of God is corrupted, then so are we, Amaro, and we become Lilu, soulless husks doomed to wander until the madness takes us, and we beat our heads upon stone, tearing ourselves limb from limb. You think this to be theological theory, but it is truth! The Heart is more than a religious relic or a symbol of the Duke’s sovereignty. It is the living soul of mankind.”
    “This Corruption, how does it start?” asked Silas. He thought it best to not dispute the importance of the Heart. It was not his role in life to argue with priests.
    The High Priest waved his hand dismissively and sat down on his bed.
    “No one knows. It is thought that the Theodoti invented it as a means of war, for they were like demigods, having discovered many pieces of Rankar. The relic disappears, and the diminishing of the race follows as a plague. Set is our historian; he knows more than I do, but we will not call him. I need you to find it, Amaro. Perhaps even personally. If it is not the Northrons or Galvania who are the thieves, it is some powerful magic cabal with dark designs. I do not presume to order you about. I know the Duke is your sole master, yet I hope I have impressed upon you the danger we are in.”
    You have certainly impressed upon me the danger you are in thought Silas. The High Priest was in hot water; it was his brother who had aided in the heist, and Capetians held familial honor above personal independence. The crimes of the man are the crimes of the family went the old saying. He had already formed a plan in his large, battered head. He would search for the Heart, and if it was recovered, then he’d use it to depose the High Priest and raise his own star among the nobles. Silas was a well-to-do man, but he had no title or manor, both of which would be suitable recompense for the return of a piece of God. If the Heart was not recovered, then he would have a replacement crafted, and the High Priest would suffer an unfortunate fall off Capanne Mons. Those steps were awfully steep and slick, after all.
    “I will help you, my lord,” replied Silas. “I’ll put my best man on the job.”

    Jekkar Firenze was his best man, though few would have guessed his talents based on his appearance. He was slightly built, unkempt, with a scraggly mustache and goatee, and a habit of slouching in corners while wearing a sneer on his face that showed his contempt for the world, as well as his distaste for social mores. He was prone to making sarcastic quips, and therefore also prone to fighting, and were it not for Silas’s influence, he would certainly have hanged long ago. In the taverns he frequented, women kept their distance, as did all but the most ruffianly of folk, among whom Firenze solely associated. Firenze was fond of darts, cheap beer, and not paying his debts. He was a misanthrope, to be sure, someone who took pleasure in causing pain, whose joy in life came mainly from inflicting suffering. Because of this, he was an uncommonly good assassin, and he’d been trained at the Academia in Bilbao before he’d been kicked out for sexually harassing the daughter of a nobleman. Free of the watchful eyes of superiors, he’d experimented with all sorts of nasty spells, though his skills were barely better than the average conjurer. Rather, his raw magical talents amplified his dangerousness.
    Silas had him working almost as soon as he’d left the High Priest’s chamber. Firenze first interrogated Lord Dempsey, and after several unnecessarily painful spells, discovered that he’d been bewitched. He then journeyed across the Dash-Margot with a band of thugs and trackers to examine the ruins where the trail had run cold. Nearly a week later he entered Silas’s office ragged, dirty, and weary, yet wearing a jagged smile across his gaunt face. Dropping a blood-stained sack down on Amaro’s desk, he sat down and began to roll a cigarette.
    “Boss, we have a problem,” he said, fingers moving rodent-like across the paper.
    “Yes, we do. What the hell is that on my desk?” said Silas, jabbing the sack with a quill.
    “It’s one of the tribesmen. He saw the whore and the singer go through a portal to devil-knows-where. Trouble is, I had to kill him in a scuffle before I got to examine his head thoroughly. But we can remedy that. There’s a necromancer living in a tower on the west side that’ll do the job. If I can see what the thieves look like, I can cast a tracking spell, and we’ll find them.”
    “Dempsey saw them,” pointed out Silas. “And get that thing off my desk. The blood’s leaking through it, as you can plainly see.”
    “Ah, but Dempsey was enchanted. Any good mage knows how to hide their handiwork. He can’t even give us the vaguest details about our thieves. And Medjay are immune to magic—you can’t go peering inside their mutant skulls. No, the necromancer is our best bet. He’s a strange chap, but they all are.”
    “So what are you waiting for? Go see the blasted necromancer.”
    Firenze shifted in his seat and took a long drag on his cigarette. He started to speak, but then grew quiet and stared at the floor.
    “What, are you afraid of him?” asked Silas, astonished. He had thought the assassin to be utterly fearless.
    “I’ve got enough sense to be, yes,” muttered Firenze. “It is very taboo in the world of magic to practice necromancy. Now I haven’t given a flying fuck about what’s taboo according to the Conventum in a very long time. I don’t have a license, and as far as they’re concerned, I’m a rouge, a sorcerer. Now if I was to go around performing Black Arts, they’d get their hands on me, send some powerful warlock or archmage to bind my tongue and carry me off for judgment. The fact that this necromancer operates right in the middle of Capetia is mighty curious. I figure that means he’s beyond their authority, and anybody beyond the authority of the Conventum is not someone you’d want to meet, generally. But you, you’re the head of the Secret Service. If you were to come with me and someone was to hear about it, then I’d have the excuse that I was conducting official business for the state. Also, the odds of something funny happening while I’m dealing with this necromancer go down drastically if the head of the Secret Service is with me. He doesn’t need enemies on all sides, you understand.”
    Silas sighed and pushed himself back from his desk. Time was running out, and the trail of the thieves was growing colder. If he had any hope of returning the Heart, he was going to have to get his hands soiled.
    “Alright, let’s go see the wizard.”

    They came to the tower that leaned west and climbed its long, winding steps, and at the top rapped the iron ring twice against the door. On the other side, something screeched against the floor, a sharp, piercing sound followed by a loud crash and then silence. Silas furrowed his brow and looked at the assassin, who was sweating profusely. Shaking his head and muttering a curse, he knocked again before Firenze stopped him.
    “If he don’t want to see us, then let us go,” he said.
    “This is Silas Amaro, head of the Secret Service of Massalia. I come in the name of the Duke and bid you open your door, unless you wish to be found in contempt of his law.”
    Another sound from the other side, a curious ruckus as though a heavy ball rolled across the floor. Something snickered like a jackal and then uttered a low growl. Silas thought he heard a voice chanting very softly, the words harsh and ugly, spat from the mouth like poison. The more he listened to the voice, the more intelligible the words became, until he began to understand.
    “Rankar save us,” he said, stepping back.
    The door opened, pushed by a skeletal hand. A ragged face peered through the crack, the eyes wild, pupils dilated. A smell hit them, a strange, earthy reek, fungal and ripe with decay.
    “What do you want?” he said.
    Silas shook his head, trying to recover himself. It was a man that stared at them, not a monster, and the horror which had seized him left as suddenly as it had manifested.
    “We need, um, your assistance in a, um, small matter, if you be, uh, a necromancer,” said Silas, stammering, feeling as unsure of himself as he had when he made his first arrest.
    “If you need a necromancer, then it is no small matter,” said the man. “Do not refer to me by that name of ill-repute. I am a wizard, one who does not hide behind so-called scruples or codes of conduct written by drooling peasants. I do what I will, and I do as I must, and I will not apologize for any of it.” He leaned out of the doorway and looked past Silas at Firenze. “There is one who knows what I am talking about. He is a dabbler in small evil, as far as magic goes, and quite up to his knees in blood when it comes to speaking with his knife. Where were you trained, killer? Dortmund? Bilbao? Avignon before the burning? I was driven from the Academia as well, though for greater sins. Well, don’t stand at my doorway like beggars. Come inside and bring that conspicuous sack that you carry.”
    They walked inside, hesitantly crossing the threshold as though afraid it was the point of no return. There were no signs of the commotion they had heard in the wizard’s chambers. The room was filled with books, instruments, and miscellaneous clutter as one would expect of a magician’s laboratory. Silas’s eyes caught on a portrait of a faun with a macabre smile. Seeking to restore a degree of normalcy to the situation, he remarked on its vividness.
    “Yes, I had a thief steal that for me. Came from the vaults of Thelonious, the famous merchant, importer, exporter. Don’t stare too long at it, for it is enchanted and supposedly a gateway to Prax, the bloody god of the pagans. That is, if you believe in that sort of thing. Are you a godly man, Amaro?” The wizard’s gaze bore into Silas’s eyes, and he had to turn away and look at the floor.
    “No,” said Silas, honestly. “The scriptures of the Cult do not interest me.”
    “This is heresy, and that is heresy, and we are all marooned on the great wheel of life, deserving our stations and our suffering. Tell me, do you think God cares about the banal minutiae of our lives? Do you think He weighs each one of our souls and decides who will be made king for a span, to revel in hedonism as most of us struggle for our daily bread? What a boring god they have made, more akin to a patent clerk than a self-sacrificing creator. I believe the heretics are more likely correct, that Rankar annihilated himself in the moment of awakening, for he could not stand the weight of consciousness, and that we are all pieces of him, trapped in this mortal plane by his immortality, which we pass from parent to child, the misery of existence having no end until our species dies.”
     “A gloomy thesis,” said Silas. The old man was clad in stained burlap, and his hair was knotted together in a messy spider’s weave. What do I have to fear from someone like that he thought, mustering his composure.
    “Master wizard,” he began, “my companion has in his sack the head of a Haliurunnae tribesman. A week ago he encountered a courtesan and a musician in the desert. We wish to conjure those images so that we may look upon their faces and know them. Can you perform such a feat?”
    The wizard went to Firenze and seized the sack, opened it up and peered into it for a moment before dumping the disembodied head on his workbench. A great stench rose up from it, and Silas cringed, for its flesh had become bloated and discolored, and the expression on its face was one of terror and anguish.
    “It is not too fresh and yet, not too stale! Something can be done with it. Did you slay this man, assassin? If so, that is good for us. He will wish to bargain, as the dead always do. We can summon his shade, but you cannot read the mind of a dead thing. He will wish for blood, perhaps, or even a chance to walk in the flesh once more. Do not cringe, killer. Those who have no life are easy to deceive. Do those eyes look as though they can see clearly? Before we begin, however, you must agree to pay the price. Say you will do whatever he asks. I have dealt with the Haliurunnae, and he will know this and trust me. Do I have your word?”
    Firenze said nothing but stared at the head as though contemplating the consequences of his violence for the very first time. His face began to mirror the hideous death grimace of the tribesman. Silas smacked him hard on the back and gestured expectantly towards the wizard, who glared at the assassin with impatience.
    “Don’t you desire gold?” said Firenze finally. “Why must I do as the dead ask? He… it will crave revenge.”
    The wizard laughed, a jarring sound akin to the squeaking of a rusty hinge.
    “What use is gold to a wizard? Do you kill for gold? I think not. You enjoy the violent act, for through it you assume the role of arbiter and wield the heavy hand of fate. Gods and elemental forces such as disease dole out death; you think to ward off the inevitable by wearing their clothes. The clothes, however, are wearing you. Do not worry, you will not pay tonight for your crimes. I was having a bit of fun at your expense.”
    The wizard took a knife from his shelf and lurched towards Firenze, who made no attempt to escape but cringed at the approaching necromancer like a cowed animal. The wizard seized his forearm and held it above a silver bowl engraved with the hideous visages of leering demons. With an agonizingly slow movement, he slit the flesh, making a one-inch incision that he squeezed, forcing blood to drip into the bowl. Silas watched in fascination, but Firenze could not bear the sight of his own blood and turned away. Having procured a sizable amount of fluid, the wizard released the assassin and took a few flasks from his cupboard and poured them into the silver bowl. Raising his scalpel to the head, he removed a thin section of flesh from its cheek and diced it quickly on the table before adding it to the potion. He then began to stir the mixture with a bone, and as he did so he chanted in a harsh voice the words of a spell. The dim candlelight flickered as though a wind had passed through the room; the shadows grew, becoming palpable, emitting rancor. Silas thought he saw a hand come out of a corner, long and dripping with darkness, and stretch its talons towards him. He jumped backward and tumbled into Firenze, who clung to him like a frightened boy. Suddenly the words stopped, and it was as though the growing malevolence froze, waiting. The wizard looked long at each of them and then drank from the bowl. He passed it to Firenze and bid him drink, and though the assassin was petrified, he did as he was told, his hands compelled by a phantom force. Silas also found himself drinking from the bowl. The elixir was cold and tasted exactly as one would imagine, but it burned as it was swallowed, and Silas became light-headed. The shadows which had grown in the corners of the room lightened, and he could see terrible things in them, formless things of tentacle and tooth that gnawed at the edges of their gloom, as though they were trying to eat their way into reality. He did not want to look at these things; he knew if he continued to stare at them, then he would either attract their attentions or go mad, but he could not tear his gaze way. It was the voice that saved him from madness. It was weak and high-pitched, whispering of the grave and the fungal decay of the earth. The wizard had poured the elixir into the mouth of the head, and now it spoke, and all the living would listen.

    “What is this?” it said, the words slow and thick.
    “You are in the hallowed halls of your fathers,” said Dazbog. “We are your judges, and we will ask you of your life so that we may deem if you are worthy.”
    “Why can I see nothing?” said the shade. “My tongue is heavy in my mouth. I smell nothing, not the winds of the desert, nor do I feel the heat of the sun. My limbs move as though they are in a faraway place, separate from my soul. If this is death, then it is not how it was told in our stories by our wiseman.”
    “Wisemen are only as wise as their tales,” said the wizard. “How did you die?”
    “I was murdered by a Capetian, a thin man with an evil smile. He questioned and tortured me and then took my life when my tribesmen fell upon him. I tried to curse him with the ancient curse, but my throat was slit, and I breathed no more.”
    “The Haliurunnae killed him, and his soul sits next to yours. Speak, killer. Let this man know your voice.”
    “I am sorry,” said Firenze, stiff and uncomfortable.
    “Liar! The Capetian has no remorse! He took my life because he enjoys killing, because I would not tell him about the witches.”
    “His soul will be judged and if found wanting, his heart will be devoured,” said the wizard, relishing the words. “I bid you to tell us of these witches and to think hard of them as you speak, for we wish to see why they were so important to your murderer.”
    “I only glimpsed them. A woman came out of the night, and a man snuck behind me and put a knife to my throat. While I watched helpless, the woman performed sorcery at the Sacellum of Aset, opening a void through which they fled. Though I fired my rifle at them, I fear that they escaped unharmed. Pity me judges! I could not stop their vile magic.”
    As the head spoke, an image of Cassilda and the Thief appeared as a green and tremulous flame. The wizard took this fire and shaped it in his hands until it was as small as a pebble yet bright as a miniature sun. He then pressed the light into a stone lying on his table, turning it to jade.
    “What is that?” said the head suddenly, panic in its voice. “There is a sound in the darkness like the click of talons on a floor. I am filled with a sudden dread as though my very soul is in danger. Louder and louder does the sound grow, and now I hear a rumbling akin to growl of the panther. Judges, I have not been false with thee!”
    The wizard looked solemn. He took the jade and placed it in a pocket of his burlap robe.
    “That is not the sound of the eater of the dead, friend. We are wringing the last bit of life from your dying flesh so that you can speak to us, yet this unnatural action attracts the wrong sort of attention from things that exist on other planes. A demon has come, and it wishes to inhabit your body to wreak havoc in the world of the living. We have what we need from you and must now surrender you to your fate.”
    An unnatural smile stretched from ear to ear across the head’s face. The eyes, which had first appeared cloudy, grew clear for a moment before the pupils turned black. These black eyes rotated slowly around the room, until they fixed on Silas and stopped.
    “You will die by a barbarian’s hand in a foreign land,” it said in a voice that had changed to a guttural whisper. “Your father sired you with his own sister, a whore. What man can come of such a union? What happens to such things? They vanish in the night and no one remembers that they were there.”
    “Wizard, banish this spirit,” said Firenze, drawing his truncheon.
    “I am nothing, you are nothing, there is nothing,” spat the head. “When you die, there is nothing but the abyss awaiting you. We hide until your flesh is ripe, and then we come, and we walk in your world, raping, killing, sending you back to the nothingness from which you came. Everything will wither and die, and it will be as it was, as it should have been. You should take that knife and plunge it into your heart, murderer of men, and save your killers the trouble. Do you want to know your future? In one month, you shall be strangled, and your body tossed upon a heap of bones. As for you, wizard…”
    Before the demon could finish, a club shattered its skull. Over and over Firenze kept swinging the truncheon, until Silas seized his hands and pulled him away. The wizard sat a distance away, brooding and fingering the jade he had created as the men shouted at one another and threatened to come to blows. Suddenly he stood up and raised his hands, and the gloom which had come over the room during the necromancy crawled out of the corners and blotted out all light except a faint ghostly paleness that shone on the wizard’s face. The men ceased quarreling and cowered in the dark, pleading in faint voices for the wizard to lift the evil mood that enveloped them. He waited until they were silent before he spoke.
    “We will follow these thieves to the ends of Pannotia if we must. You need someone to combat the sorcery of the courtesan, and I shall accompany you for that purpose. We will go now to the dock and charter the swiftest vessel of the Duke, and you will send men to this tower so that my laboratory may be brought on board. If it is within your authority to summon a platoon to accompany us, then make it so. Come, we have no more time to waste,” said the wizard, lifting the gloom with a wave of his hands.
    Light reentered the room, and the sounds of the city were heard through the open window. Silas and Firenze rose from their knees, shivering, trying to control their trembling limbs. The experience had left a fog in their minds, and the words of the wizard seemed wise counsel rather than orders given from a stranger. Later they remembered the whole experience very differently—they had come to the wizard with the plan of taking to the seas and sought his company—though they never could shake the feeling that there was something missing from their memories.

Next Chapter: An Unexpected Turn of Events

Weightlifting: Goals for the Rest of 2019

I googled "goals are stupid" and this pic came up, so I had to use it.

We have exactly two and a half months before 2019 goes the way of the dinosaurs, so I thought I'd kick myself in the ass a bit and set a few goals to hit in the weightlifting arena. I've had a decent year pumping iron (360 lbs squat for five reps) despite suffering another SI joint injury. Recently I've been hammering away on my bench while trying to build back my lower body strength, and this upper body focus has had a great effect on my physique (You're just going to have to take my word for it, internet; my wife has forbidden any posting of naked pics). So my first two goals are pressing numbers I want to hit, while my last is a bulking goal.

Numero uno: Bench Press 315 lbs. My best bench is 300 lbs, which I hit about two years ago. Recently, I've pressed 255 for five reps and 275 for three. Last Sunday, I did a close grip bench with 275, which went up like nothing. So I know I'm hovering around 300 right now. My strategy is to press four times a week, rotating the following lifts: Incline bench press (low angle), military press, close grip bench press, and wide grip bench press. Reps and sets don't really matter--we're going to keep the reps low and the intensity high in order to get that extra fifteen pounds. I think if I hit 275 for five, then I'll be able to press 315.

Numero dos: Military Press 200 lbs. My best strict press is 195 lbs. So what's a measly five pounds, right? Man, the press goes up so damn slowly. I hit 195 last year, and the year before I hit 190, so I'm progressing at a rate of five pounds per year. Adding another strict press day is about the only thing I think will help, so I'll probably do that after benching on Saturday, my last press day.

Numero tres: Gain ten pounds. I weighed in this morning at 195 lbs. I've weighed 205 before, but I was much fatter than I am now, and I'd like to add quality weight, not blubber, so I need to eat more good food. I'll do this by making breakfast a bigger meal and making sure to eat at least five meals a day. The extra food needs to be protein not carbs, so I'll double down on Greek yogurt and eggs rather than junk like cereal.

 

Lee Priest had a reputation for dirty bulking in the offseason, but he honestly doesn't look that fat in the first picture.

The Heart of the Thief: The Temple

 Previous Chapter: The Palace

In the beginning, there was nothing. When God, known as Rankar to our race, awoke, time and space were born, and God realized his own existence. A great loneliness filled His being, and this loneliness manifested a desire for creation. In a sacrificial act, God sundered his form. Out of the hollow of His body, the three tiers of the world were made. The Heavens were made from His skull, the Earth from His rib cage, and the Underworld from His bowels, the rest of His organs being distributed amongst the Earth. Whoever found a piece of God was granted the Gift of Rankar—awareness of their own being. How many pieces of God existed is not known, though since Man is thought to have been made in His image, some scholars believe that for every organ of Man, Rankar left a corresponding part. What we do know is that our sentience is tied to the Heart, which lies in the buried Pyramid of Arat, housed in the Temple of God. Were it to suffer the Corruption, the devolution of our race would ensue. Soul-less husks we would become: Lilu, creatures doomed to madness and slow decay. For this reason, the Heart shall never leave the Temple. For any but a Priest to speak of It is forbidden. Any man who does not heed this edict is sentenced to death, and dishonor follows his house for ten generations. So shall this Age continue, and the evolution of Man be protected.

Sisyphus Herodotus
On the Creation of the Maat, and the sacrifice of Rankar, Vulgate of Herodotus

 
The Temple
It was cool and quiet in the antechamber save for the omnipresent sound of dripping water. Flickering torches danced with the shadows, painting violent shapes on the cavernous walls. The Thief traced his fingertips against the stones and withdrew them wet. A humid wind gusted through the tunnel, bringing with it the smell of mold. Setting down his lute, the Thief removed a crimson robe from the instrument and pulled it over his clothing. It was a disguise meant to fool at a distance, for there was only a handful of priests permitted to enter the inner temple and all were known to each other. He pushed the lute into a corner out of sight and continued down the passageway, head bowed, hands clasped together in the manner of a holy man. Could never stand them, he thought. Gloomy bastards preserving the social order with false promises and divine justifications. At least they don’t ask us to cut off our balls. A heretical sect seemingly populated solely by madmen and former drunks, the Anti-Natalists prowled the slums of Capetia, preaching of the futility of life while wearing their own severed genitalia around their necks. Religion was for the rich or the loonies; the working people prayed to minor gods of the hearth and home, if they prayed at all. This was the Thief’s observation, and he himself had no use for gods. Of course, every thief had to pay dues to Lady Luck, whether that meant leaving a sovereign in her fountain on the Square or taking just a little less on a job than one could have. But the Thief considered the Lady an elemental force of the universe akin to gravity rather than a sentient being receiving prayers and dispensing fortune. He saw no contradiction in tossing coins before a statue and viewing the Cultists with derision.
    He came upon a four-way junction. To his left, he could see nothing but darkness, and the air was foul. The passage on his right was also gloomy, but he thought he could see figures in the dark, spider-like shapes whose limbs stretched to the ceiling, searching the emptiness with feigned blindness. Straight ahead, the stone walls gave way to tile arranged in an alternating pattern of red and blue, and this was the way the Thief chose, though he stopped and took off his boots before walking across the tile, which was wise, for at the end of the passage, tucked into an alcove that he didn’t notice till he was too close, was a guard sitting in a chair. It had a jackal’s head; great paws with worn claws rested upon its knees. The head was bent down with weariness, and its eyes were shut, though the long ears stood erect, while the nose twitched, tasting the air. A cudgel leaned against the chair, an evil-looking weapon adorned with heavy metal studs. The Thief didn’t know what to make of the thing—Cassilda had warned of enchantments and traps, not jackal-headed sentries—so he stood and watched it for a moment. The jackal breathed slowly, its chest expanding and collapsing in a rhythmic sequence. He looked down at the marble floor and saw it was shiny and unmarked. With agonizing slowness, he stepped into the light. The jackal did not stir, but his nose ceased twitching for an almost imperceptible second to take a sharp sniff. The Thief took another step. The long, stiff ears rotated towards his position, and the thin lips parted to reveal long, sharp teeth. The Thief moved quickly now, lunging forward. The jackal jumped out of his chair just as the Thief leapt past him, and his claws scraped the tiled floor. He snarled and snapped his jaws on nothingness before turning and looking in the Thief’s direction with gleaming eyes. The passage was dim, but the Thief stood only a few paces away, and it was possible that the creature could see in the dark. He did not move, didn’t dare to breathe; his body was stagnant, a part of the nothingness that surrounded it. The jackal stood staring for a minute, then with a sniff returned to its chair.
    The Thief walked out of the tiled passage into a large circular chamber. Three huge statues loomed in the center of the room, a pedestal before each. The statue on the left depicted a satyr, with pipes in one hand and an apple in the other. Its face smiled a malevolent grin as though it were witnessing a lynching or some other evil deed. The Thief thought of the painting of the faun in Dazbog’s tower, and he was sure that the statue was a rendition of Prax, one of the Heretical Seven, the god of the pagan forests.
    The second statue portrayed a slender creature with long, elegant limbs leaning against a tree stump. It possessed a delicate neck and a small head that held large, circular eyes that reminded the Thief of a lemur’s orbs. There were two rabbit-like ears atop the creature’s head. It looked to be a thing at home in a forest glen or gully, taking shelter beneath the trees, appearing like a shadow out of the early mists of the morn, seen at the riverside at a distance only to vanish with a second glance. He felt no loathing towards it as he had the statue of Prax; rather, it calmed him to look upon a form so interesting.
    The third statue was of a man. He held a scepter in his left hand and a sword in the right, and upon his brow was a crown of rings. His visage was noble, but there was danger in it, as though he were capable of great wrath. At his feet were a scroll and an olive branch. The Thief knew little of history, but he guessed that the man must be the Pallas Emperor, the great conqueror who came from an unknown land four hundred years ago to unite the divided countries of Ur.
    Before the statues and the pedestals was a pile of stones. The Thief stared at them for a while before he realized they were shaped in the likeness of the body’s organs. There was a brain, liver, lung, kidney, and heart. It was a test, he surmised—a door stood behind the statues, solid and smooth. He would have to place the organs on the correct pedestals to open the door.
    The Thief picked up the heart stone and placed it in the pedestal before the Emperor. Though he had nearly no formal education, he was Capetian and every Capetian, from urchin boys to wealthy merchants, knew that the Pallas Emperor himself had given the Heart of Rankar to the Dukedom of Massalia. Now he had four organs and two statues left. After several minutes of racking his brain for the slightest hint, he came away empty of mind and bitter of spirit. He was a thief, after all, not a scholar or loremaster, and he might have stood there forever had he not noticed a single imprint on the pedestal before the second statue. Checking the first pedestal, the Thief discerned three slight round spots where stones had sat. He had a one in four chance of guessing the correct order.
    “I will give you a sovereign, Lady, if you kiss my hand,” he whispered, blindly reaching towards the stones. His hand seized upon the lung, and so he brought it to the second pedestal. The rest he lay on the altar of Prax. As soon as his hand had left the last stone, the door groaned and opened.
    There was emptiness beyond the door, a black expanse dotted with far-away lights, stars perhaps, or maybe fireflies lost in the gloom. There were slabs of stone floating in the nothingness large enough for a man to stand on. The Thief balanced himself on the doorway and leapt. He was tall but light and agile, and he landed squarely on the first stone. For a moment the instinct to look down seized him, and he did as those who climb great heights know to do not. Infinity yawned below, an endless gulf that would kill with madness before one reached the bottom. The Thief steadied himself, banishing the fear, and reached into his pockets to feel the sovereign he had promised the Lady. If he died, who would toss the coin into Luck’s pool? This reasoning gave him faith, and he was able to make the jumps. At the last stone, there was a door, its outline wreathed in veins and arteries. He had no choice but to pass through.
    He was in a small, candle-filled chamber. Murals covered the walls, depicting the bequeathal of body parts to strange peoples. In the center of the room, there was a table with two chairs, one of which was occupied by a hooded figure who sat with his hands before him, presumably staring at a small red object that pulsated on the table. He turned towards the Thief and beckoned, gesturing to the chair. The Thief turned around and discovered that there was no door behind him. Seeing no other option, he stepped forward and took the other chair.
    “You are a thief,” said the man in a voice that was almost a whisper. His words reeked of dust and disuse.
    “I am the Thief,” said the Thief. The heart on the table was red and glistening, as though it had just been removed.
    “You want the Heart? Go ahead and take it.”
    The Thief didn’t move. He looked around the chamber for any hint of an exit and saw a sarcophagus in a corner. The lid was ajar.
    “This is a tomb,” he said, wondering if it would be his own.
    The man’s face was visible for a split second, and the Thief saw gaunt, fleshless skin pulled taut like sun-dried leather. He almost pushed his chair backwards, but he knew that there was nowhere to escape.
    “They think that their spells and illusions keep it here, arrogant as they are. I have been with it for a very long time. It speaks to me, and though I do not know the words, I understand. The Emperor gave me the draught that ate my flesh and prolonged the years. Four-hundred seasons have passed since I saw the sun, and the moon is the eye of my memory. With your arrival, my long vigil has ended. Though I know naught of your purpose, the Heart of the Elder God is yours. It is not something you can steal.”
    Then the man took the Heart from the table and pressed it into the chest of the Thief. As soon as this was done, the man’s cloak dissolved into dust, leaving behind a pile of bones that were dry and splintering. The Thief staggered out of his chair, clutching his chest. With every beat of his heart, he felt the walls shake; the room shuddered in his vision, as though unsure of what it would become. He saw a light shining out of the sarcophagus, a green glow, and he made his way towards it, stumbling from side to side, heart racing like a beaten drum. Time was of the essence, some trap had been triggered, and so with a final lurch, the Thief fell into the light.
    He hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact to rest on his side. A guttural voice shouted and told him to remain where he was. There was Cassilda running towards him with panic in her eyes and a flask in her hand. She pulled him to his feet and told him to run, and the Thief obeyed, for he saw the Medjay warrior coming at him from the side, spear poised, bright helmet-plume billowing madly in the mountain breeze. He ran with the sorceress to the edge of the steps and peered down into the abyss below, feeling his stomach curl as he beheld the fathomless gulf.
    “Trust me,” said the witch in his ear. She thrust the flask into his hand.
    “Drink from it and jump.”
    The Thief was about to protest, but then Cassilda leapt off the mountain, and his words hung in the air like the memory of her falling form. The rational part of his mind refused to work, so he pressed the bottle to his lips, swallowed the briny-tasting liquid, threw the flask in the direction of the charging Medjay, and stepped off the ledge into thin air. Several seconds passed before he opened his eyes and saw that he was plummeting through a cloud, the surface of the earth far away, but growing closer every second. The wind swept through his ears, roaring, and the Thief opened his mouth to scream a silent scream. He had thought the potion in the flask to be magic of some kind and had half-expected to grow wings or float through the air like a zeppelin. Had the witch given him salt-water? Did she think to pillage his battered corpse for the Heart? He looked around madly to see if Cassilda flew about him to bear witness to his death and pick his bones. When he looked down again, the earth was rushing towards him, and he shut his eyes, unable to watch the end.

    He felt a massive tug on his body, as though someone had caught him and held fast. The next second he was planted face-first into hot sand. After a few moments the hammering in his chest subsided, so the Thief rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. The mountain loomed above, gigantic, the buried pyramid at its apex obscured by clouds. He picked himself up and examined his surroundings. He was in the desert on the far side of the mountain, the great Dash-Margot, where sand storms could tear the flesh from your bones and the wild tribes of the Haliurunnae roamed. It was a world apart from Capetia, for the sun burned hotter on the wastes, and a drop of water was more precious than gold. He had begun to shed his priest’s robe when a voice rang out, causing him to sputter in the sand.
    “I wouldn’t take that off if I were you,” said Cassilda. “It will provide shelter from the sun, and we have a decent walk ahead of us. It’s nice to see that you were able to make the jump. I probably should have discussed our escape more thoroughly with you, but I guessed you would have balked at jumping off a mountain. Had things gone differently, we would have walked back down through the palace. I assume that you obtained the Heart?”
    The Thief looked down at his chest. Cassilda marched up to him and tore the neck of his robe, revealing a battered breast with one prominent scar etched across his left pectoral, purple and fresh. She whistled as she saw it.
    “Did it hurt?” she asked.
    “It still hurts,” complained the Thief. “How are we to get it out of me?”
    “Leave that to me. It shan’t be terribly difficult, though you may have to carry it for a while.”
    “Awhile, huh? And just how are we getting out of this desert? We can’t walk around the mountain. That’s the way they’ll be coming for us.”
    “Really, master thief, you shouldn’t be incensed. Everything went rather splendidly. Frankly, I didn’t expect you to succeed. We had no way of knowing what was in the pyramid, but you seem to have been up to its challenges. This will be another story to add to your legend. But first, as you said, we must escape this wasteland. We will go into the desert, which is not what they will expect. Several miles from here is a ruin, and within the ruin is a portal that we must activate. That’s how we will get back to Capetia, and from there access a ship to take us elsewhere. Doesn’t sound too difficult, no? Let us get started.”
    Cassilda marched across the desert heading west, and the Thief followed. The sand was thick, and the sun beat down upon them with blistering heat, yet Cassilda showed no sign of discomfort or burning, despite the meager protection her courtesan dress provided. The amulet around her neck sparkled emerald as they crossed dune after dune, the landscape unchanging except for the random presence of a stunted cactus or sage bush. Once the Thief thought he saw something slithering in the distance, a row of spikes jutting from the sand, but then the horizon shimmered, and it disappeared. His throat soon grew parched, and though he wished to ask Cassilda for water, he was quiet, for he did not want her to think him weak. After several hours of walking, the sun began to sink in the sky, and the heat subsided somewhat. When they saw a cave in a rocky outcropping, they decided to rest for a while.
    “Have you ever been in the desert before, Thief?” asked Cassilda, taking off her slippers. Her feet were red and blistered. The Thief found his to be in little better condition.
    “I’ve had no cause to wither under the merciless sun. I prefer a roof above my head and drink to be within arms reach.”
    “Thirsty?”
    She took a small stone from her dress and gave it to him.
    “Wring water from a stone?” asked the Thief.
    “Some wizard’s idea of a joke. Squeeze it, and it will become moist and slippery.”
    “Now is not the time or place, woman. I feel as though my chest is about to burst. Any excitement is liable to kill me…”
    “You are being quite absurd. Do as I say, and you will drink.”
    He found that she was right. The stone trickled several drips of water onto his parched tongue, and despite the meager amount of moisture produced, he found that his thirst had been quenched.
    “Really, Thief, there is far more to life than sex. Not that I am a maiden or a prude, but it is advisable to occupy your thoughts with more than breasts and arses from time to time.”
    “You’ve been in here,” he said, tapping his skull, “so you know that I am a very complicated person.”
    “Complicated compared to what? A doorknob is complicated to an ape. Your psyche was not layered like an onion. You are a simple man, in fact. Which is fine, Thief. There are no good reasons to yearn for complication.”
    “Simple people are easy to please. They do not operate outside of the normal channels of society because they do not know better. I am an outsider. A rule-breaker. A man of many talents…”
    “Yes, yes. You are the greatest thief that ever lived, and there is no way that such a legend as yourself could ever be considered a simple man. Let me ask you something, master thief: can you sum up your occupation in three words?”
    “I steal things,” said the Thief.
    “That’s your raison d'être. The summation of your being. I rest my case.”
    “You make magics. There. I did as you did.”
    “Surreptitiously burglarizing a joint is not comparable to manifesting extra-dimensional energies.”
    “Comparing what I do to common theft is like comparing you to a fire juggler.”
    “Alright, let’s not get carried away, or you’re liable to be turned into a toad or something far worse…”
    “I am not a child, I know magicians cannot transform people into animals…”
    “I am astounded by your knowledge. I think we have rested enough. Get out. Back into the desert, oh vessel of the Heart.”
    They walked for about thirty minute before Cassilda stopped. They stood atop a dune, and a valley lay below them.
    “What do you see?” asked the Thief.
    “I see the same waste as you. I feel something, however. The Haliurunnae may lie in wait below. At dusk their robes appear no different from the desert sands.”
    “We have nothing to steal. Would they kill us for sport?”
    “They’d probably take you to sell as a slave to the Northrons. As for myself, they would remove my head and scatter my limbs in different directions. The Haliurunnae detest mages and consider magic an abomination.”
    “You are no longer bound by the enchantments of the pyramid,” pointed out the Thief. “What do you have to fear from witch-hunters?”
    Cassilda sighed and touched her amulet. The Thief heard a faint buzzing noise and noticed that the valley wavered as though he were viewing it through a cloudy lens.
    “A dagger to the heart is just as lethal to a witch as a thief. If they are out there, then they should not be able to see us. They could still hear us, though, so keep quiet.”
    The Thief mumbled something rather foul, but Cassilda pretended not to hear. They slid down into the valley, taking care not to tumble down the steep slopes, watching as they descended for any sign of the Haliurunnae. The Thief had a faint conception of the tribesmen based on tales told around the hearth during his adolescence, most of which involved cannibalism, ritualized blood-drinking, and giant sandworm steeds. He was about to ask Cassilda about the veracity of such stories, particularly the giant sandworms, when she stopped walking, took his shoulder, and pointed. A white ruin shimmered in the distance like a ghost materializing in the near dark. It was little more than a set of stairs and an archway, but figures sat before it, smoking pipes and talking in soft, quiet voices. Three camels huddled nearby with their long legs folded beneath them, weighted down with heavy packs, their prongs twinkling in the eve. The Thief had seen a camel before, but that beast was unimpressive compared to these creatures, who were larger and double-humped. He wondered why their prongs glowed and surmised that it must be some form of communication evolved to cross the vast distances of the desert.

    “It’s rotten luck that they’re here. That archway the tribesmen are sitting under is the portal. I must perform an incantation to open it, and such an action will require a great deal of energy, almost more than I can muster. I won’t be able to waste any effort on these people, and anyways, it is likely that they’ll be wearing wards to protect them from spells. The Northrons trade with them, selling outdated weaponry that surpasses anything the Duke’s men wield. It looks to me like that one on the right has a gun resting across his lap. I know a spell to stop projectiles, but I don’t think I could cast it quickly enough at close range.”
    The Thief looked at the witch sullenly. Saying nothing, he walked out of the invisible bubble and moved towards the tribesmen, walking swiftly but stopping every now and then to stand for several seconds like a statue, fading into the night as he did so. There must be a magic art to his movements thought Cassilda, for she lost sight of him immediately, his outline disappearing before her eyes. When she saw him again, he was on the other side of the ruin, crouched down beside the camels with a knife in hand. She wondered for a second if he meant to kill the men, but then the knife pricked a camel’s backside, and the surprised beast let loose a terrified roar and bolted, its companions bellowing at its heels. Two of the tribesmen leapt up and chased after the animals, but the man with the gun stood his ground, weapon raised. She started walking quickly to the ruin, having seen the Thief vanish, and the man must have heard her, for he pointed his gun in her direction and said something in his language that could have been a curse or a prayer. Cassilda was just about to cast a spell to prevent the sound of gunfire from reverberating across the desert when the Thief sprang from behind the man and clasped a hand over his mouth. The tribesman dropped the gun, for a knife was at his throat, and sank to his knees, babbling incoherently. Suddenly his muttering ceased, though his lips kept moving, and the man’s eyes widened in terror as Cassilda materialized out of the darkness before him. She went to the archway and placed her hands on its sides and spoke loudly in a commanding voice, the magic language of Elmeric ushering coarse and guttural from her lips as though the words came from the raw inner workings of the earth itself. The doorway shook; the space between the archway split open, and the smell of salt and brine filled the night air. The Thief heard Cassilda shouting—something had gone wrong, it wasn’t the right place—so he threw the tribesman forward on his face and ran towards her.
    “Into the portal!” she screamed, her face contorted in a grimace of pain, the amulet on her neck radiating pure green fire. “It’s about to fall apart, we have no other choice!”
    A gunshot rang out, and a bullet whizzed past the Thief’s face. Without a backwards glance, he leapt into the portal.
    Water, warm and salty, filled his lungs. He thrashed about, paddling through the darkness, unsure which way was up or down. Something swam past him, brushing his leg, and the Thief began to panic. He felt a tug on his foot and imagined jaws clamped on his boot, preparing to drag him into the deep. Fighting his instincts, he looked down and saw a blurry, human-sized image and the faint outline of a boat past it and realized that he was upside down in the water. With a few hard kicks he surfaced and breathed precious air, Cassilda appearing beside him, gasping for breath. They were near a massive vessel, a ship of iron sides, smoke rising from a tall center stack, and voices shouted and threw down a ladder for them to climb. The sorceress went first, followed by the Thief, and when they reached the deck, they found themselves surrounded by tall, stony-eyed Northrons, clad in blue and grey. The captain, a bearded man with a humorless face, directed them to a cabin, speaking to Cassilda in the Trade Dialect, of which the Thief knew little. The room was small, with one bunk atop the other, and a porthole in the wall to let in the light of the sea. After the captain left, the Thief collapsed upon the bottom bunk, and let loose a long, wheezing sigh. His legs hurt, his chest ached, and his brain wished to process the extensive events of the day, but the witch stood staring, hands on hips, the faintest of smiles on her face. He could tell that she wanted to talk to him, to ask about the precious Heart that resided within his chest. He didn’t feel up to an examination.

    “Don’t you need sleep?” he asked, turning away.
    “I find it strange that you are not the least bit curious about our present circumstances,” said Cassilda.
    “I assumed it was all part of the plan. The one you didn’t tell me of.”
    “This ship was not part of the plan, actually. I miscalculated where the portal would drop us. There must’ve been something here before it was swallowed by the sea. These Northrons, however, are heading for San-Elza, and from there I can book a ship to the Shimmering Isles. Terribly polite, these Northrons. I told him I could pay him handsomely, but he refused the offer. Said he wouldn’t dream of charging half-drowned survivors.”
    “What are we survivors of?” asked the Thief.
    “I’m not quite sure. I didn’t specify, and the captain didn’t press, being a Northron. It would probably help to get our story straight.”
    “We can do that tomorrow. Let me be,” said the Thief.
    “Very well. But I’m not sleeping on the top bunk, Thief.”
    He moved before she made him, grumbling the whole time.

Next Chapter: The Pursuers