From the east, the city was a black, twinkling darkness against the great wheel of stars.
A figure hunched down in the dust, waiting. His head and body were swathed in the robes of his house, his wiry arms braced with jagged lengths of chitin, and his eyes were invisible behind uneven glass lenses, clustered together like a horse spider’s. His garments fluttered in the empty night breeze, and he did not move, as he had not moved for more than an hour now.
His name was Eket-Ba, and he was a remover of men.
Time passed.
And passed.
The stars had moved another hand’s span before the tip of his blade snapped out, pinning the deathrattle scorpion through its back and dragging it from the sands. He lifted the weapon in a practiced, ritual gesture, dragging the twitching creature down the length of its blade, bisecting the stinger precisely and leaving a thick, drying trail along its edge.
He watched it slowly disappear, thinking.
Your fates, our fates, are now one.
The words turned themselves over and over in the Envenomer’s mind, and she was made restless with the repetition of it. She paced atop the stair of the amphitheater like a plague lynx in a gladiator’s cage, stepping distractedly over the unmoving body of one of Ordrosyn’s serving girls, turning a glass knife in her hands. Blood painted the stone steps and pooled down into the tiles, reflecting the moonlight with sickening clarity. The Lord’s remaining men watched her with surreptitious glances, holding their tongues.
“Trap,” she murmured to herself, pensively, “This is a trap.”
Tied to this city.
She was tied to nothing. Especially not this gilded tomb stuffed with the witless, the lost and the mad. But oh, the reaver had known just what to say, had he not? Known far, far too well.
“Who are you, truly... Finally.”
Malkut stopped pacing as the Ichor-Mage’s daughters hurried to the base of the stair, Eket-Ba’s hand firmly on her shoulder. She flinched backward with a muffled squeal as her foot spattered into the spreading puddle of gore. The girls’ bodies were bound in the stiff corsets which helped her stay upright, her inner hands clasped behind her backs, each supporting the other. One head turned to watch the Drathans over her shoulder, the other grimacing as she met the Envenomer’s gaze.
Malkut’s voice was unsettlingly kind.
“Children, I suggest you make the explanation you are about to give me especially creative.”
“I can explain everything,” lied Thriss. “...I think I’m going to be sick.” added Thressa, covering her mouth and scuffing blood from her boot.
“Where is he?” the lash-mother asked, still turning the glittering blade in her hands, “The Ichor-Mage. Where is he, instead of here?”
“-Father is…” one voice faltered, the other rallying “...Father is meditating.”
“Meditating,” repeated Malkut, her voice cracking, sharpening by degrees like breaking flint. She turned to the Drathan men, tossing up her hands. “Of course. Of course he’s meditating. This is the man who supposedly defeated the Goat-Kings by dropping mount Dagoth on top of them, but I’m afraid getting off his fat backside for something as trivial as your lives is too much for him. We do apologize. I suppose we should ask the Shashul to call off the war. What do you think?”
"Um."
“Did he not believe this was important, little one?” the Envenomer stepped forward, descending the stair toward her, “Did he not think that the presence of one of the most powerful sorcerers ever to walk the face of the desert MIGHT be of some use in preparing for the most vicious battle the Houses have ever seen?”
“I don’t know! Why do you think I know? He...” Thressa threw out her hands in protest, her sister-self comforting her as she protested. She shuffled back another step as the dark pool of blood continued to spread, speaking up, “Oh! He said there was something I should tell you...”
“Then tell me, you piping little slut, and you'd best hope I like what I hear, because I promise you, nobody’s going to notice another dead whore by tomorrow.”
They told her.
Malkut-Ba stood outside, at the foot of the Vaatru-El’s insectile caravan as the wind sighed like a hollow, wounded thing over the lantern-lit sands, a numb, distant look in her eyes. She had no idea how long she had been there before she became aware of the assassin's presence at her back. She didn't turn around.
“Get into position and do as I’ve said," she told him, voice dry. "We’re leaving the moment they breach the walls.”
Eket-Ba spread his hands and bowed, sidelong, stepping back and receding into the darkness. But he paused at the edge of the lanternlight, turning his head slightly.
“...What did the wizard say?” he croaked.
The matriarch drew in a slow breath through her nostrils. Her eyes turned to the night sky, and its glittering canopy of stars.
“He said: ‘All roads lead to Zar Vorgul’”
Eket-Ba lifted his head sharply as two of the greatflutes sang their melancholy dirge across the hissing, ethereal midnight sands, the third bringing a high, sharp note of intent, weaving a strange, alien harmony with the others. The insect-mounts of the Viitru-Ba reacted at once, hunching over and burrowing rapidly downward, kicking up sand over their bodies until they were buried completely.
The Vitruvian assassins checked their weapons one last time and followed suit, submerging themselves until there was nothing left of their presence, and the pitiless night wind blew over an empty ocean of dull, dark sand.
And the great wheel turned.
Olmo Da'at.
A figure hunched down in the dust, waiting. His head and body were swathed in the robes of his house, his wiry arms braced with jagged lengths of chitin, and his eyes were invisible behind uneven glass lenses, clustered together like a horse spider’s. His garments fluttered in the empty night breeze, and he did not move, as he had not moved for more than an hour now.
His name was Eket-Ba, and he was a remover of men.
Time passed.
And passed.
The stars had moved another hand’s span before the tip of his blade snapped out, pinning the deathrattle scorpion through its back and dragging it from the sands. He lifted the weapon in a practiced, ritual gesture, dragging the twitching creature down the length of its blade, bisecting the stinger precisely and leaving a thick, drying trail along its edge.
He watched it slowly disappear, thinking.
Your fates, our fates, are now one.
The words turned themselves over and over in the Envenomer’s mind, and she was made restless with the repetition of it. She paced atop the stair of the amphitheater like a plague lynx in a gladiator’s cage, stepping distractedly over the unmoving body of one of Ordrosyn’s serving girls, turning a glass knife in her hands. Blood painted the stone steps and pooled down into the tiles, reflecting the moonlight with sickening clarity. The Lord’s remaining men watched her with surreptitious glances, holding their tongues.
“Trap,” she murmured to herself, pensively, “This is a trap.”
Tied to this city.
She was tied to nothing. Especially not this gilded tomb stuffed with the witless, the lost and the mad. But oh, the reaver had known just what to say, had he not? Known far, far too well.
“Who are you, truly... Finally.”
Malkut stopped pacing as the Ichor-Mage’s daughters hurried to the base of the stair, Eket-Ba’s hand firmly on her shoulder. She flinched backward with a muffled squeal as her foot spattered into the spreading puddle of gore. The girls’ bodies were bound in the stiff corsets which helped her stay upright, her inner hands clasped behind her backs, each supporting the other. One head turned to watch the Drathans over her shoulder, the other grimacing as she met the Envenomer’s gaze.
Malkut’s voice was unsettlingly kind.
“Children, I suggest you make the explanation you are about to give me especially creative.”
“I can explain everything,” lied Thriss. “...I think I’m going to be sick.” added Thressa, covering her mouth and scuffing blood from her boot.
“Where is he?” the lash-mother asked, still turning the glittering blade in her hands, “The Ichor-Mage. Where is he, instead of here?”
“-Father is…” one voice faltered, the other rallying “...Father is meditating.”
“Meditating,” repeated Malkut, her voice cracking, sharpening by degrees like breaking flint. She turned to the Drathan men, tossing up her hands. “Of course. Of course he’s meditating. This is the man who supposedly defeated the Goat-Kings by dropping mount Dagoth on top of them, but I’m afraid getting off his fat backside for something as trivial as your lives is too much for him. We do apologize. I suppose we should ask the Shashul to call off the war. What do you think?”
"Um."
“Did he not believe this was important, little one?” the Envenomer stepped forward, descending the stair toward her, “Did he not think that the presence of one of the most powerful sorcerers ever to walk the face of the desert MIGHT be of some use in preparing for the most vicious battle the Houses have ever seen?”
“I don’t know! Why do you think I know? He...” Thressa threw out her hands in protest, her sister-self comforting her as she protested. She shuffled back another step as the dark pool of blood continued to spread, speaking up, “Oh! He said there was something I should tell you...”
“Then tell me, you piping little slut, and you'd best hope I like what I hear, because I promise you, nobody’s going to notice another dead whore by tomorrow.”
They told her.
Malkut-Ba stood outside, at the foot of the Vaatru-El’s insectile caravan as the wind sighed like a hollow, wounded thing over the lantern-lit sands, a numb, distant look in her eyes. She had no idea how long she had been there before she became aware of the assassin's presence at her back. She didn't turn around.
“Get into position and do as I’ve said," she told him, voice dry. "We’re leaving the moment they breach the walls.”
Eket-Ba spread his hands and bowed, sidelong, stepping back and receding into the darkness. But he paused at the edge of the lanternlight, turning his head slightly.
“...What did the wizard say?” he croaked.
The matriarch drew in a slow breath through her nostrils. Her eyes turned to the night sky, and its glittering canopy of stars.
“He said: ‘All roads lead to Zar Vorgul’”
Eket-Ba lifted his head sharply as two of the greatflutes sang their melancholy dirge across the hissing, ethereal midnight sands, the third bringing a high, sharp note of intent, weaving a strange, alien harmony with the others. The insect-mounts of the Viitru-Ba reacted at once, hunching over and burrowing rapidly downward, kicking up sand over their bodies until they were buried completely.
The Vitruvian assassins checked their weapons one last time and followed suit, submerging themselves until there was nothing left of their presence, and the pitiless night wind blew over an empty ocean of dull, dark sand.
And the great wheel turned.
Olmo Da'at.
