A new dress, a cloche hat, and a pair of shades later, Mahala stepped out of the hotel lobby.
A normal day in a normal railway town greeted her. Several couples brushed past to check in, not sparing her a second glance. A shopkeeper restocked the front display with wood-carved clocks, not having even noticed her.
Sweat prickled Mahala’s palms.
It would be so easy to flatten this cardboard street and reduce the onlookers to ash. None seemed to have noticed her or the wyrm. Not yet.
A large gloved hand touched the crook of her arm.
“My lady, this way,” Luck said, pulling his hood up.
Mahala nodded, not trusting her own mouth to not have smoke spill out.
Together, they slipped into the foot traffic of day workers on their lunch break. Mahala had never really walked with a large crowd of strangers, where everyone marched on with their lives oblivious to who she was, or that they were living on the edge of a wyrm plague. There was no conductor, yet they all roughly followed designated streams on the walkway. It would be easy to get lost in the sea of faces that did not look back at her.
Someone’s shoulder rammed into her and she stumbled back. Luck caught her by the hip.
A suited man whipped round at her. “Watch it, girl!” he sneered.
Bastard.
Mahala squared her shoulders, ready to tear open his ugly little face. Luck stepped forward and the suited man instantly retreated.
Her shoulders fell, the weight instantly dropping a knot into her belly. Was I really going to—
Luck pulled her close. “Please be careful,” he said.
She wanted to smack him off to show she was far from forgiving him. His hand slid to her shoulder as he guided her forward. It all came back; the serene emptying of her worries, that nothing bad was going to happen, that he could whisk her away from any trouble she had.
Did I ever appreciate how relieving that is?
“Are you doing alright?” Luck asked.
“Y-Yes.”
“Let me know when you want to return to the hotel.”
Mahala squared her shoulders again. The suited man wasn’t the fight, it was her wyrm. “I’m fine. I need this.”
They stopped by the nearest florist for a bouquet of papertears. The florist gave a sympathetic smile as Luck paid for them, the local shrine not much further away.
It had been a while since Mahala stepped into a small town shrine. Sister Zvie greeted guests at the door with their offerings, and Mahala briskly walked past her, avoiding eye contact. She plucked one of the papertears and laid it on the altar.
Next to her a mother held up a little girl, who mimicked Mahala.
“They smell nice,” said the little girl, holding one of the papertear petals.
“They’re honeysuckle, like the ones in granny’s garden,” said the mother. “These ones are special though. God-Nothos wears them because the scent drives away mermaids. We can ask him to give some to your uncle so his soul’s protected.”
“When do we see Uncle again? He promised to take me to the carnival. We were going to get milk pudding.”
“Your uncle did his best in the quarantine zone, but he couldn’t hold out long enough for the soldiers to rescue him… We’ll see him again in Nothos’ promised utopia.”
Mahala’s hand lingered on the first flower offering. She had no coins to give with them. Her eyes closed and she tried to recall Hacksaw’s smile. His half-jaw adorned with wolfsbane waited outside the shrine for the next performance.
The second papertear was for the Dusk boy, whose blood was on her hands. The third for Nanny Pond. There weren’t enough papertears in the whole town to make up for the damages she caused, but she laid down the rest of the bouquet for them.
“Please, Nothos…” Mahala whispered in prayer. “Forgive me for what I did to Pelebris. Watch over their people and help them recover all that I destroyed. I know I don’t deserve to be Pomolin’s Lady anymore after all that… Please help me leave my people in peace…”
Her hands trembled so she gripped them tighter.
“D-Did you send the apprentice Magus of Prayer to my aid, Nothos…? Is this your mercy?” she pleaded. “Will you still receive my soul when I die?”
She caught the little girl staring and quickly ducked out of the shrine. Luck saved her from tripping on a loose cobble.
“When was the last time you ate?” Luck asked.
Mahala stammered a protest, but only a few sounds came out of her mouth before Luck steered her by the elbow. He directed her further away from the hotel.
“There’s a market nearby. Let’s be discreet about it,” he said.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. She didn’t deserve to eat.
“Perhaps I am,” Luck suggested in a lighter tone. “It’s not far.”
Around the corner; sizzling, fatty meat wafted under her nose. She instantly salivated.
Food stalls welcomed her, with hawkers yelling on top of each other on both sides. With all the delicious scents in the air, Luck didn’t need to direct her. She tugged him along as second nature. Such foods were normally unfit for the Lady of Pomolin, but she’d been starving in Pelebris.
“Afternoon, sir! Can I get anything for you and your girl?” called a cheerful vendor. He had a large hot pan sizzled with thick cuts of pork, sweet paprikas, rice and mushrooms. “Have you ever tried Medean cuisine?”
“Can we?” Mahala asked eagerly.
Luck was rigid. “She’s not my… of course.”
He handed a few crisp bills and the vendor poured out some eggy batter on the pan. Once cooked into a pancake, he rolled the pork and vegetables into it with various spices and seared the parcel shut with heat.
“Enjoy!” the vendor said. Into cardboard pockets they went, and then promptly into Mahala’s mouth. He looked alarmed. “Careful, miss, that’s hot!”
She did not slow down, forgetting to even thank him.
“We’ll be alright, thank you,” said Luck as he lightly encouraged Mahala away from the stall.
In less than a minute, the wrap vanished and she tossed the greasy cardboard pocket aside. Luck offered her his own. Even as she ate the second one, she pulled him to another stall decorated with rows of glazed doughnuts.
“Luck, can I have one of those too? Or three?”
She tried to put all three in her mouth at once. Luck took her hand and plucked the first two off her.
“It’s not going anywhere. So please chew. Slowly.”
She had always cut her food into small bite-sized pieces, eating delicately, every second picture perfect. Right now she didn’t seem to notice the smears of sugar all around her mouth as she gorged on doughnuts. She had never been so candid in front of him. His hand went to her face and ran a thumb across her cheek.
Mahala stopped to stare at him. “Did I get sugar on me?”
He jerked his hand and looked away. “Apologies. I’ll get you a napkin.”
They eventually settled in a cafe for tea. Luck wanted to get out of the streets to somewhere quieter. Mahala wiped her face and admired the quaint interior; high ceilings, soft rose lighting, polished wood panelled walls, all familiar to her. Even more so was the piano on a small stage.
“Excuse me,” Mahala said, stopping a waitress. “Are guests allowed to play it?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Before Luck could stop her, Mahala dashed for the piano and bounced on the velvet seat. Her fingers lightly traced the ivory keys and she found the first chord.
Luck sighed.
A stream of memorised notes came together before Mahala.
Many patrons stopped to listen. As an audience began to form, Mahala’s heart fluttered and she picked a familiar ragtime to show off with. Her fingers slipped on a few notes but no one winced. She didn’t either. She sped up even though her teacher insisted the piece should always stay steady. She broke all the rules, but no one noticed.
Even if they did notice, only applause followed once she ended with a flourish. It was nowhere near as grand as her old performances; no standing ovations, no cameras, flowers, or gifts.
Or perhaps there was. One woman in a silk scarf left a few coins on the piano lid and smiled at Mahala.
Another young man leaned against the opposite side with a wry smile. “Aren’t you just a star?” he said sweetly. “What’s your name, darling?”
Mahala smiled back. “Oh, I’m—”
“Not available,” Luck cut in. In a few short strides he was behind Mahala, towering over the man. “Scram.”
He did not need much persuading after meeting Luck’s black eyes.
“I’m hardly going to be attacked for being a civilian,” Mahala giggled as she adjusted her shades.
“We should leave either way. The last thing you need is to draw a crowd,” he said, eyes shifting about the cafe.
Mahala’s face fell and her cheeks flushed hot.
I’m such an idiot.
“Sorry, I… I just couldn’t help myself,” she mumbled.
Luck turned away from her, but his hand remained on her arm. “Don’t be. It was worth it to see you smile today.” His words were a touch tender.
It was enough to return the smile to her face.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The caves were the Yarth’s kingdom. Every decent Yarth knew the main routes blind, and were accustomed to spending long days in claustrophobic darkness.
Kick’s husband, a pure-blooded Yarth, was no different. He led his family deep through winding passages that dizzied her.
Reinforced wooden bridges were suspended over deep pits that sunk deeper than the third god’s lair. Hand-cranked elevators were built to access different levels. Flickering lights were attached along the walls, like will o'wisps in the night.
“Are ya sure they won’t find us?” Kick whispered. She squinted in the dim lighting.
“They’ll wind up lost an’ dead in a hundred other routes before catchin’ up with us,” her husband said confidently. “The Highlands are a maze even scholars can’t puzzle out. D’ya know how long it took grandpa ta map even the first route?”
He carried their little girl on his back during the entire trip without losing a breath.
Kick stumbled and her shin hit hard rock. She bit her lip to muffle her cry. Their daughter had fallen asleep after all the excitement scrambling out of the village. She probably didn’t understand that her home was gone forever.
“Ma, here.” Dawn ducked under her arm and helped her back to her feet.
She had to stop herself from crying again. Her son was so perfect.
Even her husband had stopped to admire their boy.
“Good lad,” he said with the first genuine smile in hours.
He turned to face the tunnel once again only to find a blade pressed to his throat.
Before he could react, the blade slid through his windpipe and he collapsed. Kick screamed as her bear-like husband fell, revealing the homunculus standing before him. They were even taller than Nevermind Yarth.
She took a step back, holding her son’s hand tightly.
“Papa?” her little girl awoke and shook her father’s shoulders. She didn’t even notice the homunculus. She didn’t even make a sound when the homunculus dashed the switchsword through her throat.
The homunculus walked leisurely towards Kick. She yanked her Dawn behind her.
“Run!” she shouted.
“But Ma–”
“Run!” she snarled and charged the homunculus.
She didn’t even make it two steps before she fell, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come. Warm blood ran a river from her neck. Black boots stepped past her and she could hear the muffled cries of her son. She prayed Nothos would protect him.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Pelebris reduced to an ashen husk of its former self. Its people were dragged into the streets by homunculi, shepherded into the village hall. A short, suited man watched from the elevated podium while he leafed through the village’s birth registry.
“One thing you have to admire the Shirans for is their tidy mathematics. This ‘Hacksaw’ certainly has made our jobs easier tonight,” the short man said.
A homunculus teleported to his side and whipped into a salute. “Director Vetiver, we have currently located a dozen Yarths in various cave routes. But it’s slow progress, sir. Even with our spatial mapping spells, it will take us a while to uncover every last inch.”
Vetiver brought his hands together as he considered his options. “Hmm. It would be faster to smoke them out. But I do believe these caves could prove useful to the Protectorate, so best we don’t damage them. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the villagers shot to his feet. “This ain’t right! What you’re doing to us ain’t right! We’re Pomolish citizens jus’ like ya and you’re roundin’ us up like rabbits.”
Vetiver stared at the old man with wide, unblinking dark eyes and said nothing.
Another homunculus appeared on the podium with a marked off clipboard. “Sir, we’ve finished our sweep. This is everyone that’s still in the village and the mountain roads.”
“Anything of note?” asked Vetiver.
“None, sir.”
“Very good. There is nothing further for us here then. Tell your remaining men to find the rest of these ‘Yarths’ in the caves.”
The homunculi in the village hall began disappearing one by one. The final homunculus touched Vetiver’s arm and the two of them were gone, leaving just the villagers in the hall.
Nervous murmurs spread among them.
“Those were homunculi…”
“What happens to us now?”
“We did nothing wrong! It was all the Yarths!”
“Who was the short one?”
“Mama, I’m tired…”
“A ‘Theatre’ agent, I think.”
“They called him Director.”
“Nothos help us...”
The air was heavy and suffocating. Homunculi were a bad sign and if the Theater was involved, it was even worse.
The air was suffocating.
“Do you smell that?”
Selklo ash grenades flew through all the windows, filling the hall with volcanic tear gas. Panic ensued as people started screaming and running for the exits. They banged on the doors, only to find they were locked from the outside. Thick opaque smoke chased after them, filling their lungs.
Several adults tried to throw their children out the windows but an invisible barrier bounced them right back.
“HEEEELP!” they screamed. Some wailed, clutching their children and loved ones tight to their chest instead to give them one final semblance of safety before what they knew was a mass execution.
Outside, Vetiver watched with his hands neatly folded behind his back. The homunculi continued to toss Selklo ash grenades, while others maintained the magical barrier around the hall.
“Rejoice, Pomolish citizens,” said Vetiver. “The Lord Protector has granted you the last dignity of cremation. May your sins wash away with fire and leave your souls pure for our God of Justice and Mercy.”
One of the homunculi picked up the next grenade and paused. They were still screaming.
“Sir, is this really necessary? It is quite obvious that it is this Yarth family that has been smuggling contraband. The rest of these people are farmers,” he said.
Vetiver eyed him sharply. “These farmers allowed the Yarths to operate in their village. If they were true law-abiding citizens they would have reported them. Instead, they allowed their home to turn into a giant speakeasy, openly practising on the streets, in front of their children. So yes, Lieutenant, this is necessary. This entire village is tainted and our country is better without it.”
He took a moment to check his pocket watch.
“What of the unit searching for Lady Mahala?” asked Vetiver.
“Tracks lead to a dead end. I… told the men to search again.”
“And where is TK36-13?”
“Unluck– TK36-13 has not reported back yet.”
Glowing embers traced the faint frown on Vetiver. “At this rate, I’m going to need TK36-13’s head on a pike next to this Nevermind Yarth’s. Is he still missing too?”
The villagers burned, the Yarths were hunted through the caves, and Pelebris starting from tomorrow, would no longer exist.
Hi, not sure if it's a stylistic choice or a spelling mistake but, the rank is lieutenant, not leftenant. The English *say* leftenant as, during prior centuries when officers all wore various types of swords, the 2nd in command would traditionally walk on the left-hand side of the officer in question to cover his left side, given that the majority of people are right-handed. Hence, they called their lieutenants as left-tenant.
Good story, but I wanted to point this out just in case, as the level of detail for everything else seemed quite high.