Death’s touch came immediately, as it always does.
Janel’s Turn. The Afterlife.
In sleep, I walk the lands of the dead.
Even within the Afterlife, I often wake to find I have been drawn to some death scene. Some spot where the crossing of souls has made the barrier between the land of the living and the land of the dead easier to pass. Demons seem drawn to these places too, hungering for a return to the land of the living—which is otherwise so difficult for them to reach.
Or was it?
(A treaty was the only thing preventing them from attacking us at will, Brother Qown claimed.)
I found myself back in Mereina.
A great many lives had crossed over in the old fortress’s history, so it was easily recognizable. And each death had created echoes through the Veils, giving its castle more strength. The newer town itself might have been invisible here, under other circumstances. Previously, the town had been too young and too peaceful for its structures to have left a memory resonating into the Afterlife.
Now?
Town and castle both stood in grim relief, solid and firm. Glowing phosphorescence lingered along battlements or outlined the patios, the tournament stands, the azhock. Ghosts wandered the grounds, addled and frightened. Their appearances mirrored their deaths. The poor warder stood in the nobles’ box, blue-faced, freed from his illness but perplexed by his current predicament.
Sadly, I didn’t have time to take these poor souls aside and clarify their situation, guide them to Thaena’s Land of Peace, offer them advice. I didn’t have time to explain they could die twice, the second death more permanent than the first. The demons would use those deaths to gain what they wanted most in the whole world.
Namely, the whole world.
Oh yes, the demons had come to Mereina. They would start a Hellmarch here if they could, would puppet these dead across Jorat slaughtering village after town after city until they had gathered enough souls to call a demon prince’s attention.6
And then the killing would never stop.
The demons had arrived to ravage the souls of the dead.
I had come looking for more challenging prey.
I wasted no time. Sword drawn, I laughed as my first swing took a demon’s head from his shoulders and—blocking a hellhound’s lunge with my shield—I stepped to the side. I began the slaughter, letting my hate and my rage fill me with a fire-like warmth. The first demon’s blood was black, the second a glowing purple; there were no rules for how a demon’s gore might appear.
I was impaling a demon tiger’s jaw with my sword when I heard a shout. I looked up in time to see a massive hammer smash into my face, throwing me backward.
Awake, such a blow would have slain me, but the rules are different when one’s existence is metaphorical.
I slammed my hand down into the ground for leverage and pushed myself upward. A massive skinless demon stood before me, muscles glistening red between white divisions of connective tissue and yellow fat.
He was still missing his lower jaw, though.
“Kasmodeus?” I spat blood to the side. “You recovered quicker than I thought you would, given how easily you died the first time.”
The muscles of his cheekbones pulled. A grin, or as close as he could manage.
**OTHER DEMONS WILL SCREAM AND HIDE THEIR FACES WHEN THEY SEE WHAT I DO TO YOU.**
I laughed. “Plan you, then, to save a few drowning puppies? Make soup for an old sick mare?” I smiled. “Roses. You shouldn’t have.”
His eyes glowed. **DIE, WHORE!** He swung his maul, letting momentum send it crashing down.
I barely dodged it. He was more powerful than before, but then again, he’d stolen at least a few poor souls who’d died too close to those damn stakes. Who knew how many souls he’d taken from dire sacrifices burned at previous tournaments?
He gave me no time to collect myself. No sooner did his first swing send dirt flying in all directions than he swung again and again. One devastating blow followed by another. I lifted my shield to block a strike, buying myself a chance at a closer swing. His blow drove me to my knees. I ground my teeth as I lashed out with my sword. The edge hit true, shearing through chest muscle and rib cage.
He didn’t notice. Or perhaps he didn’t care.
I screamed as his hammer caught me in the ribs in turn. Bones cracked. As it had in the tournament, I felt a great spreading warmth overcome me.
Fire sprouted from the ground under my fingertips, spread out in a spiral around me on the grass. It looked unreal in this place, a red-and-orange pattern against the Afterlife’s blues and purples. I had no time to question it, but I pulled strength from the heat.
What remained of his face grinned. **I WILL USE YOU AS A FOOTREST. I WILL MAKE MY CHALICE OF VICTORY FROM YOUR SKULL.**
He raised his hammer.
“Why don’t you stick with the practical? Clearly, you need a jaw—”
In the distance, an elephant’s trumpet split the air.
I raised my head.
He paused.
More elephants called to each other, their sound like thunder. In the living world, this would have been no great occasion. Elephants were not so uncommon there. In the Afterlife, however?
Elephants in the Afterlife have only one mistress.
I started to laugh.
“Well, then,” I said. “It seems Death has found us both.”
13: WAITING OUT THE STORM
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since the House D’Mon royal family massacre
Janel smiled as she stopped talking and reach13ed for her drink.
Kihrin sighed and tried not to look at Brother Qown while he mulled over the messy, ugly complications of Qown’s religion. He couldn’t think of anything more awkward than realizing the priest sitting across the table worshipped … Kihrin.1
Or at least, who Kihrin had been in his past life.
He broke his reverie as he realized Janel hadn’t started talking again. Kihrin looked over at her. “Wait, you didn’t finish.”
“Is anyone hungry?” she asked. “I think I might see what they have in the kitchen.”
“No, no, no,” Kihrin protested. “You can’t just leave it there. Did Thaena appear? I mean, what happened?”
“Oh, I thought we might take a break.” Janel’s feral grin couldn’t be described as evil, but only by the thinnest of margins. “Maybe skip ahead.”
She was teasing him.
Brother Qown opened his book up. “Are we really skipping?” He didn’t sound happy at all.
“No, never fear, Brother Qown. Do you have anything you want to add before I finish my part?”
“Just a bit. If I may?”
She waved a hand. “Go right ahead.”
Qown’s Turn. The ruins of an estava, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
Ninavis scowled as Count Janel walked away. “Hey, we’re not done talking.”
The count ignored her and curled up to sleep.
Ninavis started to hobble over to her, but cursed in pain and stopped.
Brother Qown sighed. “You’re so stubborn.” He offered Ninavis his arm. “Would it kill you to stay off your leg for a few days?”
“Given what we just left behind us, I’d say the answer is yes.” Ninavis limped over to Janel.