Devorah gasped for breath and caught the summer scent of pine woods, similar to those found in the North of Kempenny, similar to those where she had first found the leavings of Vahramp's minions, where she had last seen Rory. She got her breath under control and settled her senses, reaching out for Vahramp and the stink of blood that still filled her nose.

Quite suddenly, a vision of light dropped from the moon-filled night into a nearby clearing. Devorah pulled the shadows close, sliding away from the light, into the darkness. She unslung her bow, strung it, and drew an arrow in the space of moments, faster and more efficiently than should have been possible.

It took only a moment for her to realize the figure she held at arrow point wasn't Vahramp and wasn't one of Vahramp's minions, but she kept her arrow drawn and held steady.

“Don't move,” she said, her voice dry with nerves.

The figure had landed in a crouched position and she dropped to one knee. Devorah tightened her grip on the drawn arrow as she recognized the little girl: Piety, the girl with white hair. Devorah walked into the clearing, struck dumb at the appearance of Holy Father Vytal's apprentice, apparently now with the ability to drop out of the sky in a steak of light. She searched the girl for hidden thoughts but, like her mentor, she was well shielded. In the same moment, the young acolyte stretched her thoughts to her, and Devorah wrapped her liquid shield into place.

“Stop that,” she hissed, and she drew her bow a little tighter. The mental curiosity stopped. “What are you doing out here?”

The acolyte looked her up and down, far more brazen than Devorah would have expected of a ward of the church. Devorah returned the favor with subtlety. The girl was clad in a simple dress and slippers. Either she hadn't intended to be out in the forest tonight or she was foolish. Devorah hoped it was the former.

“I’m hunting,” Piety answered.

Devorah laughed, she couldn't help it. “In a worker woman's dress and indoor slippers, you’ve come to the woods to hunt rabbits?” Devorah eased the pressure on the bow and pointed it at the ground. What could she possibly mean, hunting? And what sort of hunting included dropping out of sky in the dead of night?

“I didn’t have much time to prepare.” The girl stood then, slowly and with her hands held palm downward.

Devorah reminded herself that this girl was the apprentice of Father Vytal, representative of House Loreamer. She liked Father Vytal, but Loreamer was her enemy. “I told you not to move.” She brought her bow back up reflexively. The girl seemed unconcerned; she stood up straight and looked square at her. Devorah pulled the shadows more tightly about her face.

“Sir,” the girl said, “I pursue an undead horror who just attacked Pinefort.” She gestured back down the hill at the town hidden by the trees. “He is fast and crafty and he’s getting away.”

That gave Devorah pause. She knew of Pinefort, of course, a military community in the north of Kempenny, and unless Father Vytal's apprentice had changed sides, that meant Loreamer had indeed invaded. More importantly, it meant the girl was on the trail of her own quarry. Devorah took another deep breath, inhaling the scent of Vahramp, but also of the girl.

“Is that blood on your dress?” Devorah asked, suddenly concerned the girl had been harmed in her pursuit of Vahramp.

Piety nodded. “I’m a healer at Pinefort.”

That explained it. The girl worked for Loreamer's forces in the capacity of healer. That made perfect sense for a girl such as her.

The time for shadows and games was up. There was an undead creature to kill, and this girl, if she had increased in power to the point of flight, might actually be able to help. Devorah lowered her bow and let go the shadows.

“I know you. A year ago, in Susnlance.”

Piety responded with a defensive posture. Though the girl wasn't armed, Devorah could feel her power, similar to how she'd felt Isabel Loreamer's power in Troutmouth. And though the girl's shield was tight, her body language was obvious.

“Stand down, acolyte. I mean you no harm. I too hunt Vahramp. I mean to correct the monster I have loosed on this world.” Though she spoke without dissembling, the girl seemed disinclined to believe her; she did not relax her stance.

“I should arrest you, Mayor Kempenny.”

For what, I wonder. I've been out of the country for months. I didn't start this war and I haven't been perpetuating it. Unless... But she had told Father Vytal she was the General of Kempenny's Army, Knight of the Province. Of course he would have reported on her promotion.

Devorah decided to focus on the moment. This girl was good-hearted. She would be more interested in hunting Vahramp than arresting her. At least, Devorah hoped so.

“It’s Governor Kempenny now, acolyte,” she lied easily, though she intended to make the statement true as soon as she could give her aunt to the Mountain King.

The girl relaxed. “Sister Churchstep,” she said, and she tapped the sunburst amulet at her chest. Devorah prevented herself from rolling her eyes. “So,” said the small, white-haired cleric, “you’ve succeeded your aunt as Governor of Kempenny Province. Are you also the General of Kempenny’s army?”

Devorah was growing impatient with the time lost that could have been spent tracking Vahramp. “I have, Cleric, and I am. But as you have said, Vahramp is fast, and crafty, and he’s getting away. We can fight with each other after we’ve dealt with him. Agreed?”

Sister Churchstep nodded. “Alright then, General, let’s deal with the greater of your evils. Then we can deal with the lesser.”

Devorah could feel Piety reaching out with her power, so Devorah did the same, stretching her necromantic connection to Vahramp, catching scent of the blood on him as he raced through the summer pine forest.

“Got him,” Devorah whispered. She took hold of the shadows, prepared to pull herself through them, then looked at Sister Churchstep. “How fast can you run?”

“I’m pretty fast in the air,” said the cleric.

Devorah smiled. “Have you got his scent?”

Sister Chruchstep nodded.

“Then I’ll see you when we catch him up.”

Devorah let the shadows take her. She slid through them, not unlike when she moved from the Taranaki palace to the forests of northern Kempenny, but rather than moving through the shadows, she held to them and rode them like a horse with a particularity smooth gait. Rather than the breath-crushing pressure, she felt cool, dark wind, and she laughed, exhilarated.

The scent of blood came to her on a dry breeze, as much her power as the movement of air, and she thrust herself through the shadows, closing the gap between herself and her creation with surprising speed. In what seemed like mere moments but must have been several minutes, she caught Vahramp's shadowy form ahead of her. She moved to take him from his back left flank, hoping to surprise him, but he caught scent of her and veered off, toward a small clearing.

Devorah bit off a curse and followed, knowing she'd have to circle around the clearing if he chose to enter it; the shadows wouldn't carry her through the moonlight. She wondered if he knew that.

But just as Vahramp entered the clearing, Sister Churchstep dropped from the heavens again, like some avenging angel, if avenging angels wore dresses of rough cloth stained with the blood of soldiers. Perhaps they did.

Vahramp staggered back, taken off guard. Devorah sped to the edge of the clearing and stopped. There was no inertia, she simply stopped, the shadows comfortable about her. She watched while Vahramp stared at the girl-cleric and the girl stared at him. Devorah drew her sword, prepared to use Sister Churchstep as a distraction to destroy the creature, but he recovered himself and turned to leave the clearing. Devorah barred his way.

She had never seen Vahramp so graceless, so caught off guard. She had often thought of him as a predator, calculating, patient, dangerous, now he looked like nothing so much as a cat falling out of a tree. Slowly, he steadied himself, brushing his hair out of his face, and stood so he could keep an eye on both of them at once.

“Now girls, there's no need for ugliness.” He leered at them in that disgusting way he had. His fangs lengthened, as did his fingernails, sharpening to points.

Devorah stepped to her left, putting herself closer to his back, and Vahramp moved with her, his smile fixed, his shoulders setting, preparing to move.

“You will not escape me again, Frederick,” Devorah said.

He shifted to look at Sister Churchstep, exposing his back to Devorah, though she was certain he wouldn’t be blind to an attack on his back.

“And you, Sister? Will you condemn me to death, or does your religious piety guide you to saving any life that can be saved?”

“When I think of all those you’ve killed, and worse, I have no pity for you, Vahramp. But if I thought a prison would hold you, I might spare your life.”

Devorah refrained from rolling her eyes at the saccharine response. There was no prison that could hold Vahramp, and even if there was, there would be no way to care for him. Though she detested the monster she had created, keeping him in a cell strong enough to hold him while simultaneously starving him was a disgusting prospect. No, it would be better just to kill him.

Vahramp laughed his condescending laugh. He knew Sister Churchstep’s words were vacuous. He held his hands out, and Devorah knew he was preparing to attack. He no longer looked like harried prey, but one who had taken stock of a situation and was in charge.

“So you would sentence me to death because of what she transformed me in to?” He gestured at Devorah. “Is it my fault that I’ve been cursed with unending hunger and the physical prowess to take whatever prey I please?”

Yes, Devorah thought angrily. You’ve always been a predator who took whatever prey he pleased. And though she knew he was aware of her, she approached the undead on shadow silent feet, fed up with the conversation and ready to attack.

“The General and I will discuss her crimes once we’ve dispensed with you, Vahramp.”

“So that’s it then? No trial, only a sentence. What if I surrender to you?” Vahramp sank gracefully to his knees, hands out at shoulder height.

Devorah struck before Vahramp’s silver tongue could way the naïve cleric. The most obvious target would have been to strike for his heart, but Devorah knew he’d be expecting that, she struck at his neck instead. Her gambit paid off. He turned, expecting to ward off a body blow and instead of parrying elegantly, he grasped at her blade. She thrust the blade as hard as she could, drawing blood from his palm. But his strength won out and he wrenched the blade from her grasp. Kempenny gritted her teeth as the undead hurled her sword at Sister Churchstep.

Devorah forced herself to concentrate on her own problems just in time to leap back from Vahramp’s claws. He struck again, and again, and each time, Devorah only just stayed out of reach, driven back. With weapons on her person, she was able to tap that extra reserve of strength and speed, but without one in hand she was unable to strike back. She drew at the shadows to obscure his vision.

Fortunately, Sister Churchstep was able to take care of herself. She survived the hurled rapier and lashed out at the undead with her mental strength. Vahramp staggered, and Devorah leapt on the opportunity to take the offensive. She grasped at the flail, a weapon she’d rarely trained with, and swung. Her aim was off, exacerbated by Vharamp’s superhuman agility. He twisted out of the way.

Sister Churchstep struck again, taking Vahramp’s feet out from under him, and he tumbled to the ground, losing much of his grace from the unexpected attack. Devorah brought her flail in a wide overhand arc. The weight of the flail struck Vahramp square in the back, driving the undead creature to the ground, breaking bones, and surprising Vahramp with pain. Devorah too was surprised. Her previous experience had led her to believe Vahramp and his undead minions were susceptible to a hard thrust to the chest, making rapiers the ideal weapon to fight them, but perhaps it was her talent with weapons that allowed her to damage him.

Vahramp staggered on all fours, making for the potential safety of the woods. Devorah quickly let fly her weapon, knowing before she loosed that she had him. The flail struck true and wrapped about the undead, taking him to the ground, wheezing. He cried out silently for mercy.

The small clearing fell quiet, filled only with moonlight, blood scent, and careful breathing.

“What did he say?” Sister Churchstep asked.

“He begs for mercy,” Devorah replied, though Sister Churchstep did not hear her. Instead, the foolish girl approached the duplicitous creature. Devorah let he, she was a useful distraction. Even if the flail would hold him, it would not kill him. The rapier, on the other hand, could pierce his heart and with his heart destroyed, she could touch his skin and then his power, still a presence at the back of her mind. With that, she could unravel him. She snatched her sword from the ground and slipped into the shadows.

“General?”

Stupid girl!

She had turned her back on Vahramp. It was only a moment, but a moment was all that creature needed. Devorah had hoped to use Sister Churchstep as a distraction, but she had not meant for the girl to get herself killed. Vahramp leapt upon Piety, his teeth tearing at her throat. Devorah heard Piety’s shoulder snap. The cleric screamed, and with her scream, Devorah felt a great pressure building, similar to the pressure she felt when she traveled via shadow, to when she’d watched Heir Loreamer walk through a doorway and vanish.

Devorah struck. She drove her sword into Vahramp’s back in the same moment that whatever it was Sister Churchstep was doing released. Devorah felt the power wash over her own shield. Vahramp convulsed so violently the sword was again ripped from her grip. She watched as his body shrank away from her and Sister Churchstep, shrinking in on itself. He convulsed again, and Sister Churchstep dropped from his grasp. He staggered away looking more and more like the creatures he created. Devorah interposed herself between Vahramp and Sister Churchstep.

Vahramp fled and Devorah tensed to follow, but her nose was filled with the scent of blood, Sister Churchstep’s blood, and she hesitated. She could follow him, finish him, but the girl with white hair was dying just at her heels.

“Damn.”

Devorah turned and looked down at the girl. Her dress was drenched in blood, her shoulder was a ragged mess. She was dying. Devorah could feel the life draining from the girl, could feel the dusty power of necromancy tickling about in anticipation. And though Devorah feared allowing Vahramp to escape would mean his survival, she didn’t want the girl to die. So she sheathed her sword, knelt, and lifted Piety into her arms. She was small, smaller than Devorah had expected, and lighter too. Devorah took to the shadows and slid through them as fast as she could to Pinefort.

“Nearly had him,” Devora muttered, letting her words get lost in the shadows. “I tried to kill him when he was alive. I tried to kill him now. That’s twice I’ve failed.”

Devorah looked at the girl in her arms. She looked so much like Heir Isabel Loreamer, and not unlike herself. And if Devorah herself was secretly related to the Royals, then why not this orphan girl, a girl who had showed such courage, valor, nobility? Perhaps, indeed, Sister Churchstep, ostensibly her enemy, was also her sister. Devorah could not explain why that thought sparked a bit of joy in her chest.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, Cleric,” Devorah said, more for herself than anything. “But House Loreamer is deeply flawed. I cannot prevent way, so I have to win it. I’m sure you won’t understand. The Church has their claws in you.”

The shadows were like ink on paper and she flowed through them smoothly. Soon, the lights of Pinefort loomed before her. She considered leaving the girl at the city's gates, but there was no one to assist, so Devorah knew she must enter the domain of her enemy.

The soldiers she'd seen slain in her vision remained sprawled and broken and unnoticed. Devorah hurried past the lighted area on her feet though she was able at least to pull the shadows with her to cloak her passage. Once through the gate, she was in shadows again and cast her vision through the shadowy streets to find the quickest, most concealed way to the fortress.

“I owe you my life, for the incident at Sunslance. You did well, better than I had expected. I repaid the clerics already, and now I’ve repaid you.” She was certain Sister Churchstep couldn’t hear, but she continued anyway. “You look so much like her. And, I suppose, like me. Perhaps we are sisters afterall.”

At the steps to the fortress entrance, she found help in the person of Father Vytal. A moment of shock stunned her to immobility. How could the cleric be both here in Pinefort and in the Taranaki Empire? But it was a matter for another moment. She hurried toward the cleric, broken girl bleeding in her arms and called out.

“Father Vytal!”

It took the man only a moment to assess the situation and hurry down the stairs. Devorah laid the girl at the bottom of the steps and retreated. He didn't look at Devorah, but immediately began healing his apprentice, putting a hand on her head. Devorah backed away quietly until she was in shadow once again. After several minutes, Father Vytal looked up, searching for her Devorah was sure, though she could not read him. Devorah pulled at the shadows firmly.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Devorah took the shadows and pulled herself back to Madam Iyabo's apartment in the Taranaki Empire.