Crackle.

The campfire danced atop the stones, casting a flickering orange light and hissing from fat dripping above. Six quail hens and a plump hare roasting upon a copper spit sizzled, their skin darkening to golden brown. Their aroma was tantalizing.

St. Cristabel turned the spit and anointed each with salt and sour wine. Her shadow - made long from the flame - danced over the hull of her dugout boat and bundle of supplies, more weighted for a beast of burden than a human. The vermillion metal of her bearing sword glinted as it lay upon the sapphire of her shield. Her helm lay close by. Unstrapped, chestnut curls - tangled and greased from long travel - hung down to the knight’s mid back, lightly swaying in the low wind that bent the fire toward the west.

Wurhi of Zabyalla hugged her cloak tightly about herself, shivering in the chill. Her belly growled and her eyes watched the meat as though it were glistening gold.

“Patience.” Cristabel did not take her eyes from her task, but her plate armour clinked as she shifted her weight in Wurhi’s direction. “You will have not long to wait, though I would curb your excitement. I am no master cook.”

“Don’t care. You take too long and I’ll eat it raw.” Wurhi rubbed her hands together rapidly. She glanced to the larger woman. “Er, thanks for making all this.

The knight waved a gauntleted hand. “You granted me freedom and life. I merely saw you both repaid.”

“You did that when you saved our lives.”

“Then it is repayment for the company!” Cristabel grinned broadly. “I am as starved for that as you are for this.” She pointed to the meat.

“I wouldn’t take that bet. I’ve had nothing but mushrooms, berries and water for days.”

“The last soul I had words with before you was the son of Avernix.”

“…Yeah, okay.”

The women snickered.

“Speaking of company, I wonder after your companion.” The saint glanced toward the forest. “Did he not promise to return shortly?”

“He’ll be fine,” Wurhi waved a hand dismissively. “Wish he’d hurry though.”

A mountain of fuel rose by their side. Kyembe had borne the logs up the flight of steps over many trips before retreating back into the dark of the wood. He often referred to the tablets of Lukotor the Wise, muttering to himself with eyes sparking with gleeful vindictiveness. He’d dragged the bodies of Eppon and four other corpses against the westward wall. Mercifully, their stench blew away from the fire; already Wurhi saw flies buzzing on Avernix’s son.

“He is taking a while though.” The Zabyallan eyed the sullen boughs far above them. The ruined tower rose four floors but the trees dwarfed it, and she felt like she was being measured by a ring of hungry titans.

“Worry not of the ogres,” St. Cristabel said with confidence. “The light upon this tower can be seen, but we are in a defensible position: ogres cannot reach us from outside and their bulk is much too great for the doorway…it is almost a pity.” Her eyes were blue balefire in the light of the flame. “I am still stiff and the warriors of Avernix were woeful exercise.”

A chill shuddered through Wurhi. That look in St. Cristabel’s eye was uncomfortably familiar. She told herself she was imagining it. “It’s not those overgrown brutes that’s scaring me - well, they are - but not as much as that old vulture getting that magic egg first while we take our time.”

“Oh, I would not worry about that,” Kyembe’s deep voice boomed from the stairs. The Sengezian had silently ascended the tower, his crimson eyes shining with an evil triumph. He gently held a long, black feather like a grand prize. “With this, our friends will be…” he chuckled darkly. “…far, far too engaged to worry about any eggs.”

“There you are!” The Zabyallan started from her seat. “I thought you’d been eaten out there! What’ve you brought?”

“A vulture’s feather!” he boasted as though it were the answer to all mysteries of earth and sky.

She blinked. “Why do we need a piece of corpse-eating bird?”

He chuckled darkly. “Trust me”

Making a noise of disgust, she turned away as he dropped down by the fire. He hummed with irritating cheer, warming his hands nearly in the flame. St. Cristabel cocked her head at the sight. “Are you quite fine?”

Kyembe’s lips curled in amusement and he passed his hands through the fire. Both women startled and he gave a jaunty laugh. “The dark elves dwell deep beneath the earth, where it grows hot and under-suns float in towering caverns for half a year at a time. It takes a truly great heat to burn their flesh and I am accustomed to even stronger flames.” He played with his ring in emphasis, the woman’s face gleaming within the skull’s maw. His nostrils flared. “By the Stars, that smells wonderful. You spoil us.”

“It is passable fare.” The knight poked the hare with a bronze fork. “Had I thyme, a clove of garlic and peppercorn we would have a true feast.”

Kyembe gave her a long, pleased look. “We have feast enough.” His eyes drifted to the stars. “We have our lives. Our wits. Our freedom. And our health. Things we did not have so much when the sun rose.”

“You’re in some mood,” Wurhi said.

“Of course!” he spread his arms wide. “There are many great things to look forward to.”

“Such as this,” the knight added. “Meat’s ready.”

She passed them each two quails.

Wurhi stuffed hers down her throat, moaning happily at the crisped skin and delectable juices. Kyembe tore into his with the ferocity of a lion over a kill. The saint took the hare and two remaining quails for herself and feasted with impeccable manner, yet finished all down to the bone. The little Zabyallan wondered at where she put it all. Then again, swinging that enormous sword, no doubt, built an enormous appetite.

“Nooow then.” Kyembe drained his water skin, then scooped up a handful of ash from the flame. “Might I borrow this fire, good knight?”

She gestured freely to it. “The fire is ours and yours.”

Bidding them to step back, the Sengezian added fuel to the fire until it towered into the night. He swiftly marked the stones with symbols drawn by finger in ash, so sharp they pierced the eye. He began to chant in terrible cadence, intoning foreign words sounding so vile they bore through the ear.

Wurhi’s belly grew cold at their familiarity; she’d heard similar utterances from the Lord of Nightmares in Cas’ chambers.

“What treachery is this?” St. Cristabel tensed, her hand falling to her dagger.

“Hey hey! What are you doing?” Wurhi whispered harshly. Inwardly, she lamented having anything to do with zealots.

The knight’s voice was flint. “Why does he prepare a ritual to summon a demon? A vile one at that!”

Wurhi defended him. “He’s…he’s…he’s…” She paused. She whirled. “Kyembe! Are you bringing a demon?”

He looked up with a wounded expression, pausing his chant. “You ruined the surprise!”

Wurhi exploded. “Why!?” she shrieked. “Why are you bringing a demon? Why are you bringing a demon with me around?”

“Trust me.”

“Stop saying that!”

Kyembe offered no more explanation as he dragged the piled bodies into an arrangement about the bonfire, placing them head outward to construct the points of macabre star. “I thought to use animal corpses that I found in the forest for this ritual, but our most gracious enemies have provided: the bodies of higher beings always suit magic better.”

With a lean finger, he drew three ashen circles surrounding them. “It will take too long to describe and time is short. Better that you see. All you must know for now is that you will be safe outside of these circles.” He looked at the tablets again. “The Three Who Dwell in Ash cannot break them.”

“The what?!” Wurhi cried.

The saint set her jaw, and her body began to move.

Panicking, Wurhi caught her by her armoured forearm. “Wait, wait!” Both the knight and Kyembe wielded terrible violence and worse magics, and she did not fancy her odds were a fight to break out between them. “See what he does first!”

“He trucks with filth.” St. Cristabel bristled. “I have heard both word fair and foul spoken of Kyembe the Spirit Killer, but it seems the truth lay toward the latter. The Three Who Dwell in Ash are vile beyond counting. To worship or call upon them is an act most foul.”

The Zabyallan frowned. To her, demons and gods were little different; deceiving, devouring, killing and demanding sacrifice. She had no grounds to see this ‘Amitiyah’ dissimilarly to whatever Kyembe was about to dump into the world. Of course, she was not so mad as to voice this before the zeal burning in the Traemean’s eyes. “We could have left you down in that pit to starve,” she said carefully. “And we’ve done nothing to you. If he’s doing something like this, it’s going to be for the damned best reason.” She looked to Kyembe hopefully. “Right?”

He peered up from Lukotor’s tablets. “What was that? I was contemplating these.”

Wurhi nearly pushed the knight aside to kill him herself.

Whoom.

The bonfire pulsed.

Crawling sensations of a thousand maggots froze Wurhi still. A bitterness settled into the air, weighty with the attention of something that should never be called upon.

“The door is open.” Kyembe’s smile was vicious. His crimson eyes were demonic in the firelight. “I will begin the call. Do not step into the circle and do not disturb the ash.”