of the curse she had laid upon me. That is until I spoke to one very old mage, who told me that the words of the curse died with her. Every witch and mage has their own language for conjuring with, which they tell to no other. Such a language is a part of their soul. Without her words, no counter-spell could be woven. I finally understood what she had done, and I heard her laughter in my ears that night. I am damned to Life, not Death. There is no greater punishment a man can endure. I cut the mage’s heart out when he told me this. He did not deserve to die, but then I do not deserve to live—so what did it matter if I roasted his insides and made them into a meal, eh?”
Milanda’s eyes asked the question she did not dare to speak.
“What would you rather have others think of you, girl? That you defeated one of Man’s deepest fears in mortal combat and were given immortality as a reward for your prowess? Or, that you were cursed for taking someone who was not yours to take? For being the Father-Creator of such an act? No, you’re safe from me, girl. Never fear me in that regard. But beware the men of this world above all things. They have a darkness born to them that not even the Gods can fathom. I know this because I am its root and seed.
“I have lived, and I have seen the giants of humanity brought to their knees. I was there the day they nailed the wrong man to the cross, and I saw how he wept at his fate. How forsaken was he. Yes, they conquered much, they achieved so much, but always it was born from death, darkness, and pain. The one thing they could not master was themselves. They spent centuries in fear of creation, only for themselves to be the ones who laid waste to the world. Humanity undone by humanity; ever has it been so, girl, ever shall it be. And it all began with me. Would you like to hear more?”
Milanda quietly said, “No ...”
Chapter Seventeen
Leste’s horse spent the morning tramping over the land and there was barely a sign of life around them. How many days travel now, was it? Six? Seven? Eight?
Had she missed Subote ?
Are the Gods angry with me, she wondered in black humour, is that why things have gone so ill?
She was losing count of the days and growing sick of subsisting on roots and bitter berries plucked from thornbushes. Pale tufts of brittle grass thrust through the cracked ground at irregular intervals, and when her footsteps disturbed them, they collapsed into dust. She was coming close to the mountains. They were no longer a roughness on the horizon, they towered over it, though she was not yet in their shadows. Clouds continued to creep across the sky, creating an unbroken monotony that mirrored her journey thus far. Leste was glad of the robe she had packed, as it fended off the worst of the elements, but she would have killed for a moment of shelter and sanctuary by the time noon came around, when the wind began to pick up, driving blinding sand and stinging grit into her face.
As the day wore on, the wind eased, and she stopped to let her horse rest. She was chewing on a mouthful of bland, dried meat when she saw a small black form moving towards her across the horizon. It was coming over the hillocks at speed, bobbing, ducking, and weaving.
A man —a young man in rags. It looked like he was running for his life. Leste took a step forward, her fingers stroking the hilt at her waist when she saw his pursuers appear. A group of men, no better dressed than the one being pursued, but mounted and armed. Leste recognised scythes, short swords, and clubs swinging from their hands.
Then, there were the cries coming from their victim, mingling with their own bloodthirsty shouts. Leste shivered at the harsh sounds and gripped the hilt of her sword more tightly.
She rocked back and forth in her saddle, wondering what to do. It did not take her long to decide. She would help him. Whatever he had done, she could not imagine it being so vile as to deserve being ridden
Milanda’s eyes asked the question she did not dare to speak.
“What would you rather have others think of you, girl? That you defeated one of Man’s deepest fears in mortal combat and were given immortality as a reward for your prowess? Or, that you were cursed for taking someone who was not yours to take? For being the Father-Creator of such an act? No, you’re safe from me, girl. Never fear me in that regard. But beware the men of this world above all things. They have a darkness born to them that not even the Gods can fathom. I know this because I am its root and seed.
“I have lived, and I have seen the giants of humanity brought to their knees. I was there the day they nailed the wrong man to the cross, and I saw how he wept at his fate. How forsaken was he. Yes, they conquered much, they achieved so much, but always it was born from death, darkness, and pain. The one thing they could not master was themselves. They spent centuries in fear of creation, only for themselves to be the ones who laid waste to the world. Humanity undone by humanity; ever has it been so, girl, ever shall it be. And it all began with me. Would you like to hear more?”
Milanda quietly said, “No ...”
Chapter Seventeen
Leste’s horse spent the morning tramping over the land and there was barely a sign of life around them. How many days travel now, was it? Six? Seven? Eight?
Had she missed Subote ?
Are the Gods angry with me, she wondered in black humour, is that why things have gone so ill?
She was losing count of the days and growing sick of subsisting on roots and bitter berries plucked from thornbushes. Pale tufts of brittle grass thrust through the cracked ground at irregular intervals, and when her footsteps disturbed them, they collapsed into dust. She was coming close to the mountains. They were no longer a roughness on the horizon, they towered over it, though she was not yet in their shadows. Clouds continued to creep across the sky, creating an unbroken monotony that mirrored her journey thus far. Leste was glad of the robe she had packed, as it fended off the worst of the elements, but she would have killed for a moment of shelter and sanctuary by the time noon came around, when the wind began to pick up, driving blinding sand and stinging grit into her face.
As the day wore on, the wind eased, and she stopped to let her horse rest. She was chewing on a mouthful of bland, dried meat when she saw a small black form moving towards her across the horizon. It was coming over the hillocks at speed, bobbing, ducking, and weaving.
A man —a young man in rags. It looked like he was running for his life. Leste took a step forward, her fingers stroking the hilt at her waist when she saw his pursuers appear. A group of men, no better dressed than the one being pursued, but mounted and armed. Leste recognised scythes, short swords, and clubs swinging from their hands.
Then, there were the cries coming from their victim, mingling with their own bloodthirsty shouts. Leste shivered at the harsh sounds and gripped the hilt of her sword more tightly.
She rocked back and forth in her saddle, wondering what to do. It did not take her long to decide. She would help him. Whatever he had done, she could not imagine it being so vile as to deserve being ridden
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