Now the night’s merriment had ended. Bonfires had died to cinders, replaced by the cold of a northern Garumnan night, and Avernix’s fur-clad warriors snored under the sky in various states of inebriety. Clay bowls and drinking horns were scattered haphazardly, and the two southlanders stepped with care, lest an ill-placed foot shatter one.

The laboured voices of those who had continued the festivities in more private manners drifted from surrounding tents. Wurhi dreaded finding such sounds coming from Agisil’s pavilion as it loomed ahead, but they instead found it eerily silent.

No fire burned and the tent flap was tied shut.

The Zabyallan thief peered about, but spied no signs of life. Agisil, it seemed, had sent his guards away to celebrate, but that did not explain the stillness within. She exchanged a look with her partner. “A man like him gets drunk, drags three slave-women to his tent and just goes to sleep?”

Kyembe’s crimson eyes narrowed, standing out eerily in the dark. “Not in all the war-camps I have ever known. Unless he was very, very drunk.”

The two slipped up to the entrance and listened.

Grrrrnd. Clink.

From within came the quiet grinding of metal on metal and the clink of chain.

Placing a hand on his sword, Kyembe reached quickly for the tent flap.

“Wait, what’re you doing?!” Wurhi whispered, but too late to stop him from ripping it open. Moonlight poured into the tent.

Wurhi froze.

Agisil, youngest twin son of Avernix, lay sprawled on the cold earth with mouth agape and sinister bruises coiling about his neck. Wurhi had seen many who crossed The Maw only to be found with bulging bloodshot eyes and similar markings ringing their throats.

Above his corpse crouched three figures, two of which peered at the entryway with red eyes that burned like coals. The Vestulai warriors gave wolfish snarls, drawing closer to their charge. One had taken a dagger to her chain with little avail, while the other held Agisil’s bronze cudgel ready to spring upon any that came within reach of her fetters. Ku-Hassandra cringed behind them, her beauteous countenance stiffened in shock.

The club-wielding Vestulai rose, ready to strike, but stopped in confusion when her eyes adjusted to the moonlight. She fixed upon Wurhi. “You! How are you here?”

Before the Zabyallan could answer, the Sengezian pulled her into the tent and closed the entrance. “Catch,” he tossed something toward the wizard.

The other Vestulai moved with the quickness of a serpent, snatching it from mid-air and drawing back her dagger, but stilled at the feel of what she’d just caught.

She stared at a mummified hand dripping in sapphire rings.

“That is mine!” Ku-Hassandra darted forth, snatching it from her dumbfounded bodyguard. She slipped its leather loop around her neck and, clutching it to her herself, sighed deeply as though the hand were her own flesh re-attached. “At long last,” she murmured in relief, looking in surprise to the pair of southlanders before the entryway. “Thank you, I thought you long dead.”

“Conveniently not,” Kyembe said simply, crouching down to peer at the strangled Agisil. He touched the bruising on his neck. “With the chains, yes?” he looked to the warrior with the dagger. Like her companion, she was lean and muscular like a wolf.

“The boy was a fool to leave himself alone with a pair of Vestulai.” She glared at the body with disgust.

“Even bound ones.” The Sengezian nodded sagely. “We did not have chance to speak in the alehouse. I am Kyembe of Sengezi, and this is-”

“I know her,” she glared at Wurhi, who shifted uncomfortably. “She cheated us out of most of our wages.”

“I didn’t cheat!” Wurhi lied quickly. “Your luck is trash! Blame the gods, not me!”

“Now’s not the time,” the club-wielder cut in. “I am Thesiliea of Vestulon.”

“Ippolyte of Vestulon,” the dagger wielder offered.

“A pleasure.” Kyembe examined them with interest before looking toward the tent flap. “The horde is mostly asleep. We can make a clean escape, if we move swiftly.”

“Good, I’ve had enough of this filthy place.” Ku-Hassandra touched one of the rings on the mummified hand and hissed in a sibilant tongue. The chains binding the three women writhed into unnatural life, bronze links forming glinting scales and metal melding into flesh. The shackles transformed into a trio of serpents - brass-scaled and ruby-eyed - and unwound from the women’s waists to slither to the wizard.

They wrapped about her limbs as though she were a bower for ophidian kind.

Wurhi cringed while the Vestulai looked on in horror. The more the Zabyallan saw of magic, the more determined she became to avoid it. As a shapeshifter, though, she was dimly aware of her own hypocrisy.

Kyembe looked on with fascination scrawled upon his face. “Cleveeeeer,” he mused, lowering himself to appraise the serpents. “Do they remain alive or change back? Do they-”

“Not now, fool!” the small Zabyallan snapped.

Ippolyte and Thesiliea sprung into movement, snatching scattered arms from Agisil’s tent and girding themselves for battle. “I’ll avenge myself against the large one before I leave.” Thesiliea’s knuckles cracked dangerously on the cudgel.

“You may do that,” Kyembe agreed. “But I ask that you do not take his life.”

She looked at him sternly. “You have my gratitude for reuniting our charge with her magic, but that doesn’t mean you can command us. We’ll do what we must for our honour.”

“What if the reason was for tactics?”

Ippolyte frowned. “What do you mean?”

He looked to Ku-Hassandra hopefully, pointing to the corpse. “I lay the Cubus Mist on the brother of this one.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Their wizard will need time in breaking it.”

“And I left a little surprise for when the spell is lifted.” Kyembe grinned viciously.

“Cruel and clever. You deserve your reputation.”

“Not half so clever as the serpents. A wizard as poor as I could never manage such a feat.” Kyembe looked to the lean creatures, which flicked their tongues at Wurhi with interest.

The rat-shapeshifter took a large step away from them.

“One is immediate cunning, the other foresight.” Ku-Hassandra stroked the head of one of the snakes. “Both have merit.”

Wurhi’s expression soured. Did all wizards stand around congratulating each other endlessly? She spoke before it could go any farther. “Let’s split just outside the camp. They’ll be confused if they try to track us.”

“There’s sense in that,” Ku-Hassandra agreed. “They’ll need to divide their forces to follow both our parties. We’ll make south to find my boat.

“We shall travel north,” Kyembe said. “If you reach Laexondael, let us meet again.” He looked to the Vestulai. “I have drunk with your charge, but not with you. Care to fix that later?”

“You’re helping us escape,” Thesiliea extended her hand and grasped his forearm in a Tigrisian handshake. “I’d have drink with you any day.”

A sly smile curled across his lips. “I will hold you to that.”

Ippolyte stepped toward Wurhi and looked down. “And you. I’ll get my wage back, that’s a promise.”

“With your luck, I wouldn’t bet on it.” The Zabyallan smirked up at her.

“Enough talk,” Ku-Hassandra scooped up Lukotor’s tablets and gave them to the Sengezian. “Here. Details of the Egg of Gergorix and of the tribe’s demons. I’ve read them, but you might find them of some use.”

“I shall gladly take them.” He wrapped them carefully and bundled them to his back.

The older wizard looked up at him suspiciously. “You’re not going for the egg, are you?”

Wurhi held her face still while Kyembe did not answer.

“That is death,” Ku-Hassandra warned. “But what you both do after we leave are your own affairs.” She lifted the mummified hand and touched the ring on the index finger. “All of you approach me. I will gird us against the mortal eye.”

“You’ll what?” the Zabyallan retreated a step.

“By the Stars, a spell of invisibility!” Kyembe gazed at the mummified hand, impressed. “Even my master could never find one in all his travels!”

Wurhi eyed the hand as though it were a firebrand. “A spell of what?”

“It will make us disappear!”

“It’ll what!?” She recoiled, but too late. Ku-Hassandra finished her incantation and vanished like the early morning mists. Wurhi, Kyembe and the two Vestulai abruptly did the same.

Thud.

“Wurhi?” Kyembe’s voice spoke from empty air. “Wurhi?”

The Zabyallan had collapsed.

Once Kyembe felt around, found her on the ground and shook sense back into her, the group departed Agisil’s tent. Wurhi’s earlier horrors quickly gave way to childlike wonder. She waved her hands before her face and gawped at literally nothing. Her footprints appearing in the mud were the only sign of her passing and her mind threatened explosion at all the possibilities.

“They are gone,” Kyembe’s voice sounded from right beside her, and she nearly shrieked. There were some downsides, it seemed. “They will make for the south after they regain their equipment from Eppon’s spoils,” he chuckled darkly. “And they will leave him an amusing token of memory.”

“Good, good.” Still filled with exhilaration, she hardly listened. “Hey! Why don’t we slit the throats of that king and his wizard before we go? No one can see us!”

“That would not be wise,” his voice dropped low. “Any wizard that reaches this Lukotor’s age will not sleep without many wards about their bower. Without knowing the proper pass-ways, we might well have our blood boiled before we got within a dozen paces. As for the king, severing a life is a burden on the world, and the ripples of such an act can spoil more delicate magics. This spell is one. We would appear again and I doubt he is foolish enough to sleep unguarded, like his sons. Escape would be impossible.”

She snorted, but held her complaints.

Hidden from the eye, they moved quickly through the dark camp. Light footprints were their only sign of passing. The power of it continued to tickle Wurhi’s spirits. Soon, they’d crossed the crude boundary-line of the encampment and it was near impossible to stem her giddy laughter.

Her mood, though, dropped upon reaching the titanic trees.

The tiny Zabyallan craned her neck between roots rising as high as elephants. She was a little woman, but never had she felt smaller in all her life. Cold wind chilled her body and shook the massive branches. Their creaking sounded like the groaning of the very earth itself. A foul scent touched her sharp nose: greenery and death intertwined like a graveyard abandoned long ago. “Can…can we find our way through this place?” she murmured.

Kyembe clapped her on the back. “I spent my late boyhood in one of the greatest rainforests south of the Sea of Gods. Worry not.”

She swallowed. She’d never seen a forest before leaving her desert homeland. The closest thing had been the cultivated gardens of the merchant princes. She’d found the woodlands of Garumna pretty at first, but dampness and alien noises quickly cured her of their charm. There was something frightful about the woods at night, she’d discovered, something that gave rise to a primal fear she’d never known. And these monstrous trees made the towering oaks she’d gawked at look like lap-cats next to lions.

Steadying herself, she tried to convince her senses that this was just another kind of city. Another winding maze of alleyways and hidden places and dangers. She knew those well enough.

“Take my hand.” She held it out toward Kyembe’s voice. “I can’t see you and might not be able to smell you in there. I don’t want to wander away by myself like an idiot.”

“I will not let you,” Kyembe promised. “Now come. The spell will lose power the farther we get from its caster, and we need to cover as much ground as we can before it fades.”

The Sengezian’s slim, calloused hand wrapped around her own and pulled her forth.

Steeling herself, she stepped into the tree line.

She’d survived Cas and his Lord of Nightmares. Perhaps her luck would hold out.

Ku-Hassandra touched the ring on the mummified pinky finger hanging from her neck and spoke a word of power. She felt her bodyguards tense as their footprints faded behind them, leaving no trace of the trio. The same spell blotted out their scent from the grass and earth. Not even dogs could follow them now.

“There,” she finished. “Now only one trail leads from their camp tonight.”

She heard one of the guards shift in surprise. “They’ll follow the other two. They’ll think they’re the ones who killed that Agisil,” Ippolyte’s voice said.

“Why did you not tell them this was your plan?” Thesiliea added.

The wizard frowned, unseen. “The Sengezian would have tried to hide their trail, and it’s better for us if they are more easily followed. Like this, we shall be back upon the boat before the barbarians realize the truth.”

“You made them a decoy,” Ippolyte’s tone carried a note of disapproval that Ku-Hassandra did not appreciate. “After they gave us aid unbidden.”

“And I helped them in return,” Ku-Hassandra countered, and her coiling serpents grew agitated. “I hid them with my magic and gave them Lukotor’s tablets. All debts are paid, and we are as strangers once more. I know they go for the egg, and the moment they decided that, they’d already killed themselves.” She turned to the south. “In this way, their deaths will not be useless. Now come, we have far to go.”

Uncomfortably, her bodyguards followed, muttering a prayer of safe travels in low tones.

It was not only for them.