Arms wheeling, Wurhi threatened to overbalance as Kyembe stared in open-mouthed horror. Catching herself just before she fell, she looked to the pit sharply.

The armoured figure gave no notice. Her song continued.

Kyembe, tensed like a bowstring, visibly relaxed after a few breaths. “Be careful!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

She winced and nodded apologetically.

Shaking his head, he made to move away.

Cruuuunch!

His foot loudly crushed a fallen bird’s nest.

They froze.

The song cut off.

“Who goes there?” the woman’s voice roared from the hollow. She whirled on them and ripped her sword from the earth in an explosion of dirt. Dropping into an expert stance, she brandished the monstrous blade as though it were a dagger.

“I am sorry!” Kyembe cried.

“No one cares! Run the hell away!” Wurhi screamed.

“Wait wait wait wait wait!” the woman cried behind them. “Do not flee!”

Wurhi nearly laughed in half-mad panic. Who in all the world would be stupid enough to fall for that?

The little Zabyallan had reached the tree cover when she realized she was alone.

No…no…it couldn’t be.

She turned around to find the Sengezian stopped, looking back unsurely.

No. No. No!

“Don’t stand and look around, fool, do something!” Wurhi shrieked at him. “Run! Run!”

He looked back at Wurhi anxiously. “I think she is trapped down there.”

“That’s why we’re running!” The Zabyallan hopped in frustration. “Because it can’t chase us!”

“I call on you, stay for a spell!” the woman called to them. “I have been snared in this pitfall for three days and have not heard even a rude ogre pass! I pray for your aid!”

“Pray to someone else!” Wurhi snapped. “Let’s go!”

“…who are you?” Kyembe called.

Nooooooo! The Zabyallan wished to scream

There was a pause. “I am St. Cristabel Esclanore, knight-errant of Traemea and champion to divine Amitiyah.”

Kyembe gasped in something akin to awe. “The one called ‘The Solidblade Knight’?”

“Aye,” the knight’s tone swelled with pride. “So I was monikered after the Battle of Jortos.”

“By the stars…”

“Who is that?” Wurhi demanded.

“A juggernaut of the battlefield,” he murmured. “A slayer. A wielder of the Tears of Amitiyah, which bring either balm or burn. And if the songs of The Weeping God are to be believed, then one of scant few in this world who have walked across the veil of death and returned.”

“Thaaaat sounds like a demon!”

“It is not,” he said in reassuring tones that reassured her not at all. He turned back to the hole. “How did a saint of Amitiyah find herself in a hole, with a boat, in the Forest of Giants?”

“May you not approach?” she called back. “I would look upon your faces and have you look upon mine.”

Kyembe’s eyes hardened. “And leave ourselves open to a Traemean longbow or fletched javelin?”

“You have my word!” the knight’s voice took an urgent note. “I will treat with you with no treachery uttered or intended!”

He pondered this. “…I have heard of you, Solidblade Knight, and you are told to be a warrior of honour.” He took a step toward the hole while Wurhi made choking noises. “But I will kill you if you try anything unwise.”

“If I utter falsely, I pray Amitiyah strike me dead before you have need.”

Kyembe tapped the hilt of his sword in deep thought, but startled as the tiny Zabyallan stomped toward him. “What are you doing?” she demanded in a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’re we here? Why’re we still talking to it?!”

“Information.” He touched his broken arm. “Wurhi, we are wounded. Tired. Hungry. In the midst of ogre territory.” He scanned the trees and skies around. “And perhaps also lost. We walk north, but how far west did the river wash us? We could tread north like fools until we see the fjords of Skjerna.” He nodded his head toward the pitfall. “But she may know where in this hell-forest we are, and we have her at our advantage.”

“Or she might know nothing and lie until we’re close enough for her eat our souls and cut out our hearts and smash our skulls and-”

“Wurhi,” he cut her off. “She is the first we have met in days that has not tried to kill us.”

“Because she’s stuck!” Wurhi pointed toward a heavy vine coiled around a branch far above the hole. “She’ll talk nice until she’s up here, and then the cutting and eating and smashing starts!”

“We do not have to let her up…besides, if I held my ring on her-”

She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t. That’s how thieves die.”

“Wurhi, I-”

“You’re pretending that you can do something when you can’t,” she said bluntly, and his wince told her she had the truth of it. “Your ring sputtered like a wet torch when you fixed your robe. First time I’ve seen it do that. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

Kyembe’s expression grew pained. “I…it is complicated. It is more difficult to use my ring’s magic on the opposite hand. It is usable…but slower and not as reliable.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I can still use it, so I thought it best not to worry you more.”

She leaned in very close. “If something’s wrong, you tell me. What if I do something risky because I think you can blast away all the problems to dust? I end up skewered, that’s what. Don’t ever do this again.” Her voice and gaze were iron. “Understand?”

“Ah…” He lowered his head. “Forgive me, I will not do it again. I am not used to working with others.”

“No need to explain, you said you won’t do it again, so it’s done. Done.”

A heavy silence hung in the air.

“…Hello? Are you still there?” the knight called from the pit.

“Quiet!” Wurhi snapped at the hole, then looked meaningfully at Kyembe’s broken arm. “…can you get a blast off if she starts doing anything?”

He frowned down at his ring. “In all likelihood, yes.”

She squinted. “You really think we need information?”

Kyembe sighed heavily and fiddled with his ring. “It is a risk, but all our information consists of a piece of Lukotor’s notes and Eppon’s vague words. Now that we are off course, that is not enough. We could wander aimlessly and allow Lukotor to claim the egg first. Or equally worrisome, stride into a nest of ogres.”

With dismay, she realized the Sengezian was right. If there was a chance this knight knew where they were, they had to take it. Even if she was probably some demon just waiting for them to get close so it could smash them, stomp them and eat their souls.

“You stay back.” Wurhi finally said. “We don’t want her seeing you with that arm. Could give her ideas. You get your ring ready. If anything happens, blast that big branch above the pit and drop it on her.”

Kyembe looked up to the branch. “Alright. If she so much as twitches, you move from there, understand?”

“You don’t need to tell me that.” She turned to the pit. “Alright, solid-knight-”

“-Solidblade Knight,” the imprisoned woman corrected.

“Whatever! I’m coming over there! My friend’s going to stay back and be ready if you do anything stupid! So don’t do anything stupid!”

“…I would prefer to look on you both, but I cannot fault your caution in such surroundings. Come forth, but know that if it is you who plots treachery then I shall strike you down by any means at my disposal.”

Wurhi nearly barked out a bitter laugh. In the twisting labyrinthine alleys of Zabyalla, young thieves and toughs would bluster and threaten each other before conducting any business. Frightened out of their wits, they buried their fear in bravado and attempted to wear the mask of dangerous fighters. She thought she’d grown past such things.

Of course, if Kyembe’s stories were true, then that thing in the pit was actually incredibly dangerous. Wurhi crept forward, tensed and ready to dart away if she so much as heard a twig snap. “Stay near the centre where I can see you!”

“Here I remain.”

Cautiously, the little thief stepped into full view of the hole.

St. Cristabel of Traemea was haggard beneath her helm, her face stained in oil, sweat, mud, and urgency. Her large blue eyes were narrowed and - despite the filth - a sea of freckles marked her complexion. She had not the countenance of a villain, but Wurhi knew that the most dangerous ones nearly never did. “There. We see each other now.”

The knight appraised Wurhi. “Might you grace me with your name?” Makkadian words came from her mouth, but her lips clearly moved in another tongue. The inconsistency was chilling.

“I’m Wurhi of Zabyalla, who folk call The Rat,” she raised to her full height. “We have each other’s names. Now, answer the earlier question.”

St. Cristabel looked behind Wurhi. “And your companion? Might his name be shared?”

“Any more questions and we leave you down there to eat worms!”

The knight’s face reddened. The Zabyallan thief tensed to spring away, but she was merely subjected to a glare full of wrath. Good. The woman wasn’t capable of getting out on her own if all she could do was glower.

The armoured warrior took a breath, and when she exhaled the anger drained from her like water from a slope. “A swift wind to glory blew me here,” she said steadily.

“A what?”

“A wind of fate, if you will. I seek glory to heap before Amitiyah’s throne.” She drew herself up. “Triumph in both arms and arts, the chronicling thereof, riches tithed, and just deeds dedicated to Amitiyah, to calm his tears.” She made a wide, sweeping gesture. “I travel where swift winds to glory blow me, seeking challenge in his name.”

Wurhi blinked. She blinked again.

This knight was clearly filled with madness. The Zabyallan resisted glancing back at Kyembe, lest the madwoman throw something at her while she’d turned.

“I joined the great hunt for the dragon that haunts the mountains of Riyen,” St. Cristabel continued, either unaware or uncaring of her audience’s reaction. “A tremendous red-scaled beast that has terrorized the countryside, said to be a holder of burning flame, poisonous fang and wicked intellect.”

Wurhi made note to never go to this land.

The saint’s eyes turned wistful. “Its death would have brought much glory to my god. Alas! Like so many others, I failed to find the creature’s lair. After a time, I knew I was bested, and took the river toward Laexondael to sing my chronicle at the great temple: the search itself was still a tale worthy to reach the weeping god. Yet the swift wind to glory blew me true. I heard tell of a hulk of an ogress that haunts the ruin of Gergorix’s city. She is said to be a titan even among her race, and commands a tribe that may be the largest in all the Forest of Giants.”

Wurhi stiffened and she heard Kyembe quietly swear. What sounded like the mother of all ogres lay right in the middle of their destination. Why? Why did this keep getting worse?! She fought to keep the dismay off her face while the knight continued.

“Danu the Bottomless they call her, and in her might I thought to find suitable challenge. I rowed until the waters grew shallow then began my portage north.” She looked at her surroundings, her jaw tightened in agitation. “I was foolish and stepped onto this trap, and the weight of my kit sent me plummeting, though Amitiyah preserved my boat in the fall. The mud walls are devilish slick and I cannot climb free. My food runs short, and I fear a shameful death of starvation awaits me.”

St. Cristabel looked up to Wurhi imploringly. “I pray, toss the above vine to me. I shall be in your debt.”

The Zabyallan mulled her words. If the Traemean was a liar, she may have been the worst in all realms ever walked by mortal, demon or god. A perfect lie was the careful blending of truth and falsehood, with the latter unremarkable so as not to be noticed. The fisherman with a full basket who adds a handspan to ‘the one that broke his line’ is hardly questioned. The fisherman who claims to have landed a crocodile and let it go is chased off.

Yet, there was a ring of truth to the knight’s words.

Dragon hunts? Giant ogres? Ironically, her story was so grandiose that what was less believable was that anyone would be foolish enough to utter such falsehoods. It was madness. Yet Kyembe had also told impossible stories when he’d crawled from the River of Scales, and he’d proven more than capable of accomplishing them. Perhaps this was the same. Much like the Sengezian, if her tale was true, that would make her a fool. A dangerous fool.

“If we let you up here, you won’t do anything to us?”

“I would dare not harm my saviours: Lord Amitiyah despises treachery, as it brought his father to unjust end.” Her gaze held Wurhi’s with an uncomfortable intensity. “I swear upon my honour and grace that I shall not seek to harm you unless you seek to harm me first.”

Wurhi heard the Sengezian move, but didn’t bother looking back. Fancy words moved fools, and he would probably be making for the vine if she weren’t around.

“Good. Prove it,” she pointed down at the Traemean. “Tell us where Gergorix’s city is, if you know it. We’ll finish our business there and if we live, we might let you up on our way back.”

St. Cristabel’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, I know where it lies. I ask that you free me before I direct you.”

Wurhi shook her head. “Not going to happen. You could cut us into dog meat as soon as you’ve got your feet. Tell us first, then we’ll let you up and go.”

A proper lie. A bit of the truth, merely twisted.

The knight shifted, her armour making no sound. Blue balefires blazed in her eyes. “Do not insult me. I swore to utter true, and so I have done. It is your party that cloaks themselves in clandestine manner. You offer no word nor courtesy and yet demand them. A fool I might be to trap myself thusly, but twice the fool I would be to give you what you ask with no guarantee. As soon as I told you what you needed, you could leave me to grim fate.”

The little Zabyallan grimaced. Maybe the knight was not such a fool.

She steeled herself, preparing to haggle. “We’ll drop the vine, but first you-”

Whiiish!

“Wurhi!” Kyembe leapt forward, his sword drawing a gleaming arc.

Clack!

He struck down an arrow mid-flight. Its stone tip buried itself in the earth, its shaft quivering. A chill went through the Zabyallan; it would have caught her in the neck were it not for the Sengezian.

Savage calls in Garric boiled up from the trees.

Grotesque barking ripped from the east and south.

“Shit, shit!” Wurhi swore. “They found us!”