The mother of the Dusk boy, Kick Yarth, demanded an eye for an eye. Or in this case, an ear for an ear. The old priest responded by kicking Kick out of the shrine.
“Go home with your children, Kick,” said Father Slipshod. “The boy’s no longer your concern.”
“You don’t tell me what to do!” Kick barked back. “All because you’re a priest ya think I’m afraid to kick your arse?”
“You think I’m afraid to kick yours?”
Kick laughed. “You wanna fight a Yarth, old man?”
“You’re no Yarth, Kick. You’re just their broodmare.”
The first punch was thrown.
The Yarths assigned to watch the clinic had to break up the fight between the priest and the young mother. Nanny Pond went to calm down Kick, cooing at her like one would for a fretful animal.
“I am a Yarth!” Kick cried.
“Of course you are, and we’re lucky to have you all!” Nanny Pond said gently. She handed Kick a cup of tea. “What will be of our home if you young ‘uns didn’t stay behind? Now drink up an’ have some cake. I’ve plenty for ya to take home with your little ones. Give the husband me regards, hmm?”
The street quietened. Kick left in a huff, her Dawn son and little daughter being yanked along behind her. Nanny Pond was also getting ready to leave.
“My sisters’ll be ‘bout done in the fields. Need t’get dinner ready!” she said. “I’ll be back later with some proper clothes for the girl.”
“Don’t push yourself, Pond,” Hacksaw said, eyeing the prosthetic.
“I’m no measly sack of bones yet!”
Nanny Pond left with much conviction, her prosthetic tapping purposely loud as she descended to the lower rows of houses. Hacksaw watched a long while before finally closing the door.
“She’s a proud woman,” said Hacksaw. “Even after she lost her leg, she still wanted to work the farms with her sisters. But she can’t afford the kind of prosthetic that’ll accommodate that kind of lifestyle.”
“Is that why you hired her as your assistant?” Mahala asked.
Hacksaw looked bashful. “I always needed an extra pair of hands.”
He honestly looked endearing to Mahala.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The Dusk boy didn’t come out of the shrine until evening cast dark blue curtains over the sky. He limped into the clinic with a black eye and cut lip.
“Doctor. I’m here for Father’s refill,” Dusk announced.
Hacksaw disappeared into the pharmacy, leaving Dusk and Mahala alone.
“I think you’re the one who needs medicine,” said Mahala.
Dusk laughed. “Nah, it was worth it. I can’t believe I did that. Bloody fantastic that was.”
Mahala took off her mask, gingerly meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
A stone formed in her throat.
“I’m not sorry,” said Dusk. “I think… I think this is what I was meant t’be.” He clenched his fist. “No wonder Dusk killed Dawn. Dawn’s such a twat.”
“You’re not going to kill your brother,” Mahala said, more sharply than she would’ve liked.
Dusk frowned. “Why not? Everyone thinks I’m gonna do it anyway.”
“And you’re going to prove them wrong by becoming a good man.”
Dusk’s frown deepened. “I thought y’were on my side. Isn’t that why ya helped me?”
“I—”
The floorboards creaked. She hastily put back on the mask before Hacksaw returned with a paper bag containing various medications.
Dusk snatched it and ran back to the shrine.
After a moment, Hacksaw closed the door behind him.
“You shouldn’t have tried to help him,” said Hacksaw. “You were meant to be acting compliant with the Yarths’ rules.”
Mahala didn’t respond.
“That’s the Lady of Pomolin for you, I suppose. Friend to orphans, the lame and the cursed,” Hacksaw sighed. “Come with me, we will discuss our escape.”
“Escape?” Mahala echoed.
“You expect me to just let the Yarths sell you to Shi?”
Mahala stared at him. “I… don’t know. Aren’t they your people?”
“You being used as a political hostage between two nations that hate each other will help no one. I am more interested in dealing with the wyrm plague before it gets out of hand. What do you want, milady?”
No one had asked Mahala that in a while. So she let Hacksaw guide her to his office at the black of the clinic.
It was built out of mismatched furniture, stacks of boxes and papers. Shiran characters were scrawled over them. The only thing Mahala could read was the collection of newspapers regarding the conflict with Shir and the wyrm plague. She also spotted a single framed photograph buried under a fallen pile of textbooks; a younger Hacksaw in a Pomolish graduation robe, with an old Pomolish man adorned in the lavish robes of a noble.
Mahala jumped at a loud clatter. Hacksaw had swept his desk clean to roll maps over.
“The Yarths do much more than just distil alcohol,” he said. He beckoned Mahala over to a map of the Bankalz Highlands, finger tracing the forests dotting the mountains. “There are underground tunnels hidden in these mountains. The Yarths discovered a cave system that scales for miles inside the Highlands. It allows them to smuggle prohibited goods and people from Mede right under border control. Excess somnleaf, moonshine, jadecup.”
“We have centuries long history of bloodshed with Mede,” her father’s voice echoed. “But unlike Shir, they are good sons of Nothos.”
Despite them sharing a border with the highlands and their poor opinion of each other, Mede and Pomolin had rarely ever gotten a chance to clash. The impassable terrain of the Bankalz Highlands assured that. An underground cave system that connected them together would change everything.
“Wait, you said people too?” she said.
“Some Medeans are desperate to escape their old selves. Others are just enslaved as part of the flesh trade. Whatever makes the Yarths money,” said Hacksaw, turning away.
The Protectorate had marvelled at how contraband managed to turn up in their cities, teleporting in like homunculi. If only they knew.
“The Yarths have detailed maps of this system. Their high ranking officers know them blind,” Hacksaw continued. “The problem is, the network is so big they can’t monitor all the tunnels at once. It’s how you were holed up in there for three whole days without anyone noticing you.”
“You want us to escape through there?” Mahala blanched.
She had never considered drowning in complete darkness again. The dark was misleading and filled with whispers—
Hacksaw pulled another map towards them. “No. It will be our diversion. The number of tunnels they would have to search would be endless. It’ll buy us some time. Instead, you will fly.”
Am I hallucinating again? “What?”
“It’s how you got into the caves, no? You flew and dropped into a tunnel in the mountains.”
“I-I don’t remember…”
Hacksaw dropped his tattered notebook over the maps. “It is my theory that the forktongues are evolving with every new victim the wyrm is able to claim, bringing them closer to the image of a dragon,” he said, rifling through pages filled with pencil diagrams of forktongues. “What people don’t consider is that the wyrms evolve with their host bodies. You may see just a bundle of veins, but they are far more intricate than the first wave of the plague.”
One diagram showed a forktongue with a thick tail and spindly appendages protruding from their shoulder blades. Next to it sprawled out a network of red scribbles forming the shape of a wyrm.
“I can’t control it. You’re mad if you think I can,” she stammered.
“You just need a little time to practise.” How was he so sure of her? Of her wyrm?
Mahala laughed. “Where? Didn’t you say the Yarths are watching everywhere?”
At that, Hacksaw kicked over several boxes next to them. Mahala hadn’t noticed they were blocking a door.
“Before this was my clinic, this was a small chwuueu… Is brewery the right word?” he said. “Not just alcohol, mind you. Cordials and other sweet drinks. I hear it was quite successful back then.”
Mahala stumbled back as the door opened to complete darkness. Her palms prickled with sweat and a ghostly growl purred in her ear.
“It’s a wine cellar — ah, but don’t worry, all the drinks have been taken a while ago,” Hacksaw said. “Big enough to house a thousand bottles and a small party of tasters. Stone walls and floors. Sturdy. It has its own tunnel that leads out of the village.”
“I-It does…? We can escape through there?”
“Yes, in a way. It leads to a shelf on the side of the mountain made of sheer cliffs. Yarths have forgotten them as it’s a dead end. You can fly down to the Bankalz base. Easier than flying up, yes?”
He swung on a giant switch, flooding the cellar with light.
“After you, milady,” he said.
Mahala’s mind went blank. She descended the stairs obediently, hoping that the light would chase away her stuttering heartbeat. The stale air stifled her – all the warning she received before the room shrank around her, the walls closing in, shadows reaching for her–
She ripped off her mask, but she still suffocated. The wyrm screeched, violently jerking under the nails.
“I-I need to get out of here,” she tried to say, a mishmash of syllables falling out of her mouth instead.
She spun around to find the stairs, running straight into someone. They both fell over in a thunderous crash.
At first, she had hoped she ran into Luck. He was built like a tree, with strong arms and quick hands that caught her every time. These past few days, she struggled to recall what it felt to be held properly. Kindly. She vaguely remembered he wore gloves like the other homunculi. It was like trying to wake up from a heavy dream.
She felt his face — but there were no chitin face plates; just a thin face with wet hair.
“Hacksaw?” she whispered.
Mahala’s eyes focused. She clung onto the doctor. As scrawny as he was, he felt warm, alive, and very real. Also very unconscious. She had crashed into him hard enough that his head broke through a wooden step. The wetness in his hair was blood.
“Oh gods, Hacksaw.”
Even with no meat on his bones, she wasn’t sure she could lift him — and she was right. The stairs were too steep and Hacksaw was all deadweight.
“Come on!” Her ragged breaths tore into sobs. The walls were chasing after her now. They were boxing her in, ready to drown her into the corners of darkness where Luck’s switchsword waited.
She heard the click of a mechanism. No, a pin drop.
No, a nail.
Fire bloomed in her chest. The wyrm twitched and her muscles burned.
In ten seconds, Mahala carried Hacksaw up the stairs, into the care unit, and laid gently on one of the cots. Her breathing stayed even, her heart steady, as if on a leisurely walk. She didn’t remember ever even carrying her own luggage up the stairs, let alone a fully grown man.
Her fingers brushed against the wyrm, and it responded to her touch, almost nuzzling against her. The long vein arms that had torn through her body nestled seamlessly into her tissue now, no longer piercing it like needles and thread.
She popped open a few buttons to look at the wyrm. She avoided staring too closely, afraid of what she would see there. Emblazoned over her heart sat a bundle of angry red veins that rippled outwards, deep under her skin, in the shape of a wyrm. It had a strange divot, where a thick scar cut into it. Right where Luck’s hand would be, if he caught her.
Right where he had instead stabbed her.
She shook her head, wondering why it hadn’t healed like her perfectly recovered face. Unless…
Her eyes followed the circle of nails. Whilst the wyrm could heal her injuries, any damage directly done to the wyrm could be permanent. Her eyes stopped at a gap in the circle. Just a bleeding dot persisted. One of the nails must have fallen out.
If she had enough strength to carry an unconscious Hacksaw in her own arms with one nail out, what could she do with all of them gone?
“Good gods.”
Mahala jumped. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Nanny Pond standing in the doorway to the care unit, eyes wide, old dresses spilling out of her arms.
“Nanny…” Mahala spluttered, bunching her shirt back together.
There were tears in Nanny Pond’s eyes. It was the same look Mahala always got when she met new people as the Lady.
“You’re the Lady Mahala Pesh…” Nanny Pond whispered with amazement. “Milady… what are ya doin’ here?”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Nanny Pond acted quickly. She stopped Hacksaw’s bleeding and cleaned the injury. Mahala couldn’t watch, but she was impressed with how calm and quick the old woman acted. Hacksaw chose his assistant well.
“T’think the Yarths would go so far as sellin’ our Lady to Shir…” Nanny Pond muttered.
“I can’t let Shir take me. I-I need to get out of here,” Mahala said.
Nanny Pond finished stitching up Hacksaw’s head and stroked his hair. “What happened to poor Hacksaw?” she asked.
“F-Fell down the stairs… in the cellar,” Mahala stammered. A pathetic lie but her admitting she shoved him through a wooden step seemed even less believable.
Nanny Pond’s eyes stayed focused on Hacksaw.
“He was helping ya, wasn’t he?” Nanny Pond said. “He was gonna help ya get outta here.”
Mahala squirmed. “I-I…he…”
A tired smile broke across the old woman’s face. “Hacksaw’s always been a brave little fool. Even after everything the village has done t’him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You may have noticed, most of the men here ain’t much older than thirty. Our poor town… we lost our husbands to the wars with Shir,” Nanny Pond said. “Our sons went to the cities. Our only doctor withered away and died. Hacksaw came in his place. No other scholarly man wanted ta take a job this far up the mountains.”
Mahala recalled only seeing old women tending the farms. “It must’ve been difficult for everyone.”
“We weren’t kind ta him, milady. Treated him like he killed our husbands,” said Nanny Pond. “But he stayed anyway. Even after he saw what the Yarths were doin’, he stitched ‘em back up. When I could work the fields no more, he made me a job, paid outta his own pocket.”
“He’s a good man,” Mahala said.
“Did he have a plan to get the Lady outta here?”
Mahala didn’t want to go back into the cellar. “I don’t know.”
“A brave little fool,” Nanny Pond sighed. “Tryin’ ta outsmuggle smugglers.”
“Are you going to tell anyone?” Mahala asked.
Nanny Pond fell silent. Her hand continued to absently stroke Hacksaw’s hair, a faraway look in her eyes. The silence fell heavily in the room.
“Worry not, milady,” she finally said. “You are the country’s daughter. How could ya expect me t’turn in me own to Shir? They’ve already taken my poor husband, brothers, and friends.”
A feather lightness skipped through her heart.
“Thank you, Nanny,” Mahala sighed.
She gave Nanny Pond the first smile she wore in a week. She almost forgot how to do it. Her cheeks tugged back painfully, showing too much gum, wrinkling too much of her mouth.
Nanny Pond’s eyes went wide again. She looked away quickly.
“Nanny?”
“It’s nothin’, duck. S’all just too surreal. Nothos forgive my home for what we’ve done t’the Lady.” Her eyes drifted to the shrine opposite the clinic. “Nothos, forgive me.”
Mahala shook her head. “Hacksaw didn’t want to get you or any of the locals involved. He knows you all just want to keep your home and aren’t playing into the Yarths’ business.”
Nanny Pond pulled a blanket over Hacksaw.
“All we wanted was our home…” she repeated quietly. She pulled away from him, refolding the dresses she brought onto the cot next to him. “These are for you. Not as fine as your usual outfits, but it’ll do better than Hacksaw’s tatters.”
At first glance, the dresses were outdated and faded, but they were well-made, hand-stitched together with embroidered trees and flowers, still vibrant in jewel tones. She was touched such beautiful dresses were being offered to her, a complete stranger.
“Thank you, Nanny.”
Nanny Pond stopped by the front door. She glanced back at Mahala one last time, a sad smile on her face.
“I’ll be back in the morning, Jewel.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Loud shouting jolted Mahala awake from her bed. The sky had not changed much, still stained black with night.
An argument brewed outside. From the window, she observed Kick Yarth had returned with a burly man manhandling the old priest. The priest stood no chance, quickly getting cast aside and the Dusk boy getting dragged out of the chapel.
Mahala saw the curtains in nearby buildings flickering. She couldn’t see the Yarths stationed outside her door, but felt certain they were still there. Yet no one moved to help Dusk.
“What’s going on?”
Hacksaw had crawled out of bed, holding his head.
“I think the Dusk boy’s parents are back,” replied Mahala. “I think they’re going to hurt him.”
Hacksaw’s eyes narrowed at Mahala. “You’re not planning to jump out the window again, are you?”
“Someone has to help him.”
“He brought this upon himself.”
“How could you say that?”
“Worry about yourself first! And for me! Did you do this?” Hacksaw said, pointing to his own scalp.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Nanny stitched you up…”
The colour drained from Hacksaw’s face. “Wh-What did you tell her?”
“She’s not going to tell anyone, Hacksaw–”
“Péwo nyohn! You fool. We need to move. Now.” He nearly stumbled getting out of the bed, but managed to reach for a vial of pills, tossing it at her. “Take two. Now.”
“But–”
“Everyone’s too busy watching little jinsaéwo get the shit beaten out of him. We’ll get no better distraction.” He dragged a canvas sailor-bag from the closet, looking worn but not dusty.
He dragged her, too, Mahala choking down the pills as he swung open the window. A flat roof of the building next door levelled underneath them.
“Wh-What about…?” Mahala stuttered. She didn’t really want to go down to the cellar.
“After how you reacted last time, I’ll take my chances sneaking the old fashioned way,” he grumbled.
He jumped down and beckoned Mahala to follow.
She did.
The narrow buildings offered long shadows, letting the pair sneak quickly through the village labyrinth. Hacksaw had a hand around her wrist, yanking her around sharp corners and up steep steps along the side of houses.
Then there was music.
They passed by the village square; the shops were lit up and open, people laughing and dancing in the streets. They were loud, very loud. Most of them exchanged thick glass tumblers of amber liquid. Some men were smoking from large pipes – certainly not tobacco pipes. The white of their eyes were red — almost like a forktongue, but there was no panic. Everyone chatted away, animated and happy in the vices they were indulging in.
“Chaéngéwoh. Come on,” Hacksaw hissed.
He dragged Mahala off the main road and onto a beaten path. They stopped in front of a cave, boarded up with wood and KEEP OUT signs. He tore down the sign and kicked down the barrier.
“What are you doing? I thought we weren’t going down the caves?” Mahala said.
He cleared the path into the dark cave, ducking inside with a torch to sweep it over.
“That depends. Do you think you can fly?” he asked.
Mahala felt the nails through her shirt. “...Yes.”
“Then yes, this is a diversion,” Hacksaw said, pulling out of the entrance. “This is the only closed off entrance that’s actually usable — some of their bigger lads got stuck a few times and caused Nevermind grief over it. Too small to actually move goods through. We should be able to fit. I hope Nevermind thinks so too.”
Mahala stared at him. We’re really doing this. He’s risking everything to get me out of here.
“What?” he asked.
“N-Nothing.”
When Hacksaw reached for her wrist, she instead gave him her hand.
They ran up the mountain path together to higher ground, deeper into the forest where the beautiful autumn trees provided them cover. They were no longer inviting and picturesque. Rather, the trees loomed over like dark giants, rustling and crackling every few seconds just to make her jump.
Her legs ached but he kept tugging her along. Her chest began to ache; were the nails bleeding again?
“H-Hacksaw, the nails…” she pleaded.
“I’ll take them off in a moment. I wanted to get them out cleanly and without anyone seeing,” he huffed back.
The black tree giants made way for a clearing of wild blue wolfsbane. Their reward for making it through. Moonbeams painted the flowers in soft silver, Nothos’s gaze upon them tonight.
The beautiful scenery was interrupted by Hacksaw coughing as he struggled to regain his breath.
“R-Right, the nails…” he wheezed. He wiped sweat from his brow and began rummaging through the sailor-bag. “Come here, milady.”
He produced a pair of unwieldy pliers. Mahala took an instinctive step back in horror.
“The tablets I gave you earlier were painkillers. Normally I would directly numb the injury area, but I don’t know what that’ll do to your wyrm,” he said quickly.
Mahala wanted to cry again. Every day she was getting hurt in new ways. Hacksaw briefly turned around to check if they were followed. The moon gleamed on the stitches Nanny Pond made at the back of his scalp.
“Nothos says an eye for an eye,” Mahala muttered to herself. “Fine. Get on with it.”
She sat on a protruding boulder. Hacksaw slowly approached. He handed her a clean handkerchief.
“To bite into,” he said to her bemused expression.
He then knelt down in front of her with a heavy sigh, the pliers resting on his lap. He reached for the buttons of her shirt, but ended up pushing his hair out of his face instead, giving her what must have been an attempt at a reassuring smile.
Mahala undid it herself. The Lady of Pomolin, undressing for a man. A Shiran man. Her fingers were steady, though, looking at the clearing.
Would it fit my wings? My tail?
The Lady of Pomolin had neither wings nor tail. And apparently, no shame in doing this. Any shame that she may have harboured was eclipsed by the starry sky, freedom awaiting above. And there was no reason for shame, now.
Hacksaw knew of her and her wyrm. He didn’t know of her other secrets, but after coming this far–
She knew she could trust him.
The pliers reached out, both their breaths vapour in the wind. “Relax, milady.”
She closed her eyes. And Hacksaw screamed.
Mahala shot to her feet, eyes wide in shock just in time for blood to splatter over them, Hacksaw collapsed onto the ground in front of her. His hand was missing, bloodied wolfsbane surrounding them just like the Yarths emerging from the trees.
“Rule three was don’t pick at your jewellery, milady.”
Nevermind Yarth stalked from the black maw of tree giants. Several men flanked him with rifles in hand.
“Ii koh pé! N-Nevermind… what the fuck…?” Hacksaw roared, gripping the bloody stump of his wrist.
“Don’t play coy, Hacksaw. Nanny’s spilled all about you stealin’ me precious jewel away,” Nevermind said calmly.
Mahala wanted to throw up. She wouldn’t… She said she wouldn’t…
Nevermind seemed to read her mind. “You nearly got away with it. She wasn’t gonna let anythin’ happen to poor Lady Pomolin, but no need t’feel guilty about sellin’ out someone already dead.”
Mahala didn’t understand. Not until she remembered Nanny Pond’s face — her eyes wide, couldn’t look at her anymore. Mahala’s wyrm squirmed. Were her teeth too sharp when she smiled? Her tongue too long? Her pupils too narrow?
“The hell are you talking about? Pond’s a demented old woman,” Hacksaw spat. “The infection in her leg’s gotten to her head. You knew that. Pé!”
“It’s over, Hacksaw, don’t make this embarrassin’,” Nevermind said. He approached Hacksaw in slow measured steps.
“You believe Pond over me?” Hacksaw rasped.
“I believe what I see an’ hear meself. Wish I could be proud of your little runaround, but frankly my twelve-year-old can muster a better scheme.”
Mahala needed to say something. Take the blame, say she threatened Hacksaw into complying, anything. Her fingers twitched. She needed the rest of her body to move.
Nevermind Yarth’s shadow draped over Hacksaw who struggled to stay sitting up.
“Please…” was all Mahala could manage.
Hacksaw breathed heavily, pale and drenched in sweat. His hand shook around his bloody stump. Nevermind Yarth stood tall and strong, his arms thick as tree trunks and a rifle casually dangling by his side. He didn’t even look angry, cool indifference painted over his face.
“Ya did honest work for us, Hacksaw. I am grateful for that, so I’ll take your last rites. Cremation or… how is it your vipers do it – sea-burial, aye? Do you want ta die a Pomolish or Shiran man?” Nevermind asked.
Hacksaw glanced up at Mahala. He gave her one last exhausted smile.
“I am neither,” answered Hacksaw.
Nevermind mulled over the response and adjusted his spectacles.
“Spoken like a true Yarth,” Nevermind said.
He shot Hacksaw between the eyes, splattering brain, blood and bone fragments against the wolfsbane. Mahala was promptly tackled next to him — a muzzle yanked over her mouth, her hands cuffed behind her back. She found herself staring at what little survived of Hacksaw’s face.
She was already forgetting what his smile looked like.
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