Reaper's Gale

She now eyed the lean-to which, from this angle, hid the recumbent form of Sheltatha Lore, grimly amused by the sight. Hardly palatial, as far as residences were concerned, and especially given their royal blood-if the fiery draconean torrent in their veins could justify the appellation, and why wouldn’t it? Worthy ascendants were few and far between in this realm, after all. Barring a handful of dour Elder Gods-and these nameless spirits of stone and tree, spring and stream. No doubt Menandore has fashioned for herself a more stately abode-ripe for appropriation. Some mountain fastness, spired and impregnable, so high as to be for ever wreathed in clouds. I want to walk those airy halls and call them my own. Our own. Unless I have no choice but to lock Sheltatha in some crypt, where she can rave and shriek disturbing no-one-

‘I should tear your throat out.’

The croak, coming from beneath the boughed shelter, triggered a sigh from Sukul. She approached until she came round to the front and could look within. Her sister had sat up, although her head was bowed, that long, crimson hair obscuring her face. Her long nails at the end of her dangling hands glistened as if leaking oil. ‘Your fever has broken-that is well.’

Sheltatha Lore did not look up. ‘Is it? I called for you-when Ruin was clawing loose-when he turned upon me-that self-serving, heartless bastard! Turned on me! I called on you!’

‘I heard, sister. Alas, too far away to do much about it-that fight of yours. But I came at last, didn’t I? Came, and freed you.’

Silence for a long moment; then, her voice dark and brutal, ‘Where is she, then?’

‘Menandore?’

‘It was her, wasn’t it?’ Lore looked up suddenly, revealing amber eyes, the whites stained like rust. A ghastly gaze, yet wide and searching. ‘Striking me from behind-I suspected nothing-I thought you were there, I thought-you were there, weren’t you!’

‘As much a victim as you, Sheltatha. Menandore had prepared long for that betrayal, a score of rituals-to drive you down, to leave me helpless to intervene.’

‘She struck first, you mean.’ The statement was a half-snarl. ‘Were we not planning the same, Sukul?’

‘That detail is without much relevance now, isn’t it?’

‘And yet, dear sister, she didn’t bury you, did she?’

‘Not through any prowess on my part. Nor did I bargain for my freedom. No, it seemed Menandore was not interested in destroying me.’ Sukul could feel her own sneer of hatred twisting her features. ‘She never thought I was worth much. Sukul Ankhadu, Dapple, the Fickle. Well, she is about to learn otherwise, isn’t she?’

‘We must find an Azath,’ Sheltatha Lore said, baring brown teeth. ‘She must be made to suffer what I suffered.’

‘I agree, sister. Alas, there are no surviving Azath in this place-on this continent, I mean. Sheltatha Lore-will you trust me? I have something in mind-a means of trapping Menandore, of exacting our long-awaited revenge. Will you join me? As true allies-together, there are none here powerful enough to stop us-’

‘You fool, there is Silchas Ruin.’

‘I have an answer for him as well, sister. But I need your help. We must work together, and in so doing we will achieve the demise of both Menandore and Silchas Ruin. Do you trust me?’

Sheltatha Lore’s laugh was harsh. ‘Cast that word away, sister. It is meaningless. I demand vengeance. You have something to prove-to us all. Very well, we shall work together, and see what comes of it. Tell me your grand plan, then. Tell me how we shall crush Silchas Ruin who is without equal in this realm-’

‘You must conquer your fear of him,’ Sukul said, glancing away, studying the glade, noting how the shafts of sunlight had lengthened, and the ruined wall surrounding them now hunched like crumbling darkness. ‘He is not indomitable. Scabandari proved that well enough-’

‘Are you truly so stupid as to believe that?’ Sheltatha demanded, clambering free of the lean-to, straightening like some anthropomorphic tree. Her skin gleamed, polished and the colour of stained wood. ‘I shared the bastard’s barrow for a thousand eternities. I tasted his dreams, I sipped at the stream of his secretmost thoughts-he grew careless…’

Sukul scowled at her kin. ‘What are you saying?’

The terrible eyes fixed mockingly on her. ‘He stood on the field of battle. He stood, his back to Scabandari-whom he called Bloodeye and was that not hint enough? Stood, I tell you, and but waited for the knives.’

‘I do not believe you-that must be a lie, it must be!’

‘Why? Wounded, weaponless. Sensing the fast approach of this realm’s powers-powers that would not hesitate in destroying him and Bloodeye both. Destroying in the absolute sense-Silchas was in no condition to defend against them. Nor, he well knew, was Scabandari, for all that idiot’s pompous preening over the countless dead. So, join in Scabandari’s fate, or… escape7.’

‘Millennia within a barrow of an Azath-you call that an escape, Sheltatha?’