Huare Enoch Kausar

 

“Mnh?”

“Don’t worry,” Irje gasped, “just some wermage passing by. Keep going.”

Covering her mouth, Huare hastily drew a rune of silence. What else was she supposed to do? She had assumed that Irje was using one of her toys when she walked inside, only to see… him.

In that position. Doing those things.

Once the tip of her hoof finished the last line, Huare allowed herself to peek through a tiny gap between the inner curtains. She wasn’t a sneak — it was a matter of confirming what she had seen already. Nothing more. Huare had the sky balloon now to occupy her time and distract from less important things like the pleasures of the flesh. Nor was she that desperate that a mere sight of lustful acts or Companion-like skills would make her lose all reason. Huare wouldn’t be able to look at the faces of her sisters and cousins when they'd get curious about her travels. What would she say to them? That she looked away at the last moment? How could she call herself Huare the Bold after that!?

Especially when this wasn’t some Companion slave or even a pretty-looking wermage; Samat had plenty of those. This was a daimon.

Huare licked her suddenly parched lips as her tongue felt too big for her mouth. Her eyes did not lie, and neither did Lita’af Hikmat when she called him the daimon of flesh. Whether he hid his Spark or lost it, that tongue was a product of Flow without any doubt. No murk or wer in Emanai could grow theirs into something this… long, flexible, and… vigorous. Even the Kamshad warforms weren’t this specific — their bodies would either turn completely or not at all.

Was he related to the fleshcrafters in the Far East? The ones who supplied Kishava with body parts for their siege arusak-at? Or was this also a part of his daimonic knowledge that allowed him to mimic magic without using Flow? His sky balloon needed simple fire to fly, after all. Flame spells or the attached air oar only made it easier to control.

Huare startled herself when her fingers brushed against the hot and throbbing velvet of her antler. No. She was not excited. Not in the slightest! The male flesh rarely excited her anyway. They looked too childish for her eyes with their lack of curves in proper places. They acted childish as well.

What Huare did appreciate, however, was the skill of his tongue. She knew a thing or two about the pleasures of the mouth, and — despite Irje’s frequent shivers — his attacks were both relentless and precise. Huare’s fingers gripped her antler. Erf’s hands kept Irje wide open to his thrusts and laps, and Huare could see how the dance of his tip through Irje’s folds made her lose control over their rune of silence from time to time. It was rather vigorous, but it was exactly what Irje wanted. Huare could tell by the movement of her silenced lips.

A daimon with the skills of a Companion and willingness to use them.

How envious.

Huare wondered how it would feel if such a tongue wrapped around one of her antlers, how it would moisten its entire length with his saliva just as he eagerly wetted Irje’s fuzz. She heard herself moan. If he could change his tongue to this extent, was he capable of growing other things as well?

Just as Huare was delving deeper into her dreams, with her hand rubbing her antler, Irje did the unthinkable. She bent down over Erf’s prone body and took his shaft into her mouth!

Her legs clamped around her other hand that she did not realise was already there; her fingers sodden with her arousal. How indecent! Did they always act as two Companions, tasked to put on a show for the excitement of visitors, or was this done just because she was peeking? Irje never glanced again in her direction, and the camp was full of Sparks all around. Huare pulled her antler sideways; the dull pressure at its root felt like pleasure. Her gaze jumped from left to right as her fingers slid deeper inside — who was serving who here? Irje felt so dominant just a heartbeat ago, and now she was serving her daimon, who in turn was serving her.

“-n’t try to talk,” Irje shivered, “while you are so deep inside. You brought this upon yourself, Erf. Do you think I would let you return to your finger after that song? No, you do not wake me with verses about love and family… and expect not to… finish the deed that your words have promised. Anaise will get you… later.”

So that was why Irje had this unexpected ‘visit’. Huare remembered hearing the song when she was in the air, hearing his kithara sing as if this was a palace of a Pillar Matriarch and not an arm camp in the middle of the Forest. Her hand motions picked up the pace — she understood quite well how Irje felt when a daimon that stirred Emanai Matriarchate would openly and slavishly profess his love, despite jeers and snickers of passing warriors.

Huare also understood why Anaise Hilal, whose face was redder than her hair, was suddenly too busy with her spell drills. She knew that Kirana would have run away in a similar manner. And would have left her with the daimon. Alone. To do anything with him that she wanted to.

Her moist fingers mirrored the movements of his tongue while her other hand tugged her antler just as if it was Irje working on his rod. And in her mind — she felt Irje’s lips, waiting for that seed. Huare saw him buckle and Irje’s cheeks bulge and she let herself scream through her own release, confident that her rune would hold no matter what.

“I was a bit backed up, I guess,” Huare murmured between rough pants.

She pulled a piece of cloth and quickly wiped her fingers and then her thighs. Huare felt a bit weak in her legs, but she had little time to spare. Irje’s mind would clear soon, and she would undoubtedly notice her Spark being a little bit too close. Huare was not going to be caught with her juices running down her legs. Or be caught at all.

One last pang of curiosity made her lean back to the curtain and peek inside again. Yes, Irje was a former slave and he was a daimon, but her desire for his seed was just too unnatural. She was in control, yet she still chose to taste his seed.

The daimon’s seed.

Huare ignored the mess on Irje’s face and glanced around the tent’s interior. Their vigorous actions were bound to leave… marks elsewhere. While they were busy with each other, Huare let Flow bring her one of the stray globs of white.

She shook away the thoughts of putting it inside of her. The Enoch Matriarch was quite adamant that their standing within the House would drastically increase if they managed to sway the daimon, but she wasn’t in Heat. And neither was Kirana. There were also possible consequences to consider first. Zamindar Enoch Azrin was quite adamant that she had no intention of being the next Roshanak Kamshad Gulnaz, and any strife between them and the daimon would be seen as their personal failure and not in any way connected to the House of Enoch.

The last thing Huare wanted was to lose the backing of her House and gain the ire of the daimon at the same time.

But to have a little taste when no one was looking?

Huare glanced around the tent’s entrance like a hawk, sensing every Spark and listening to any rustle of murks nearby. Irje likely sent servants away, but she was not going to rely on a mere assumption. With her heart thundering in her ears and her antlers burning, Huare touched the glob with a shaking finger and placed it in her mouth.

“Oh.”

Not only was it not outright disgusting, it had an extremely pleasant taste. Sweet and fruity like an expensive honeyed wine. It was no wonder Anaise Hilal looked so scandalised whenever Irje complained about the ‘inadequate’ taste of drinks in the maniple. Huare thought that Irje was merely spoiled by the riches of the Pillar Manor, but she was wrong. Irje was spoiled by her daimon.

Huare silently fixed her ruffled kaftan and left the tent with a nearly normal walk. She glanced at the balloon in the sky and shook her head; she had to find Kirana.

XXX

“Erf…” Lita’af sighed. “You are wearing your helmet. You know what happened the last time.”

I chuckled while checking my gear. “You used your fists to mould it around my face. But I believe it is impolite to come to the fight half-dressed. You are a strong opponent, and I won’t disrespect you in such a way.”

Or so she thought. In reality, she used her fists to mould it around my skinsuit. Yes, it did interfere with my perception during that fight, but it kept my real armour hidden. And this fight had a lot more eyes looking at us.

She shook her head. “Do you wish to borrow one of mine?”

“Thank you, Lita’af Hikmat, but I will be better without it. I am used to the weight of my helmet, and I know when its steel will hold and when it will break. Your Carapace masks are strong, but they are not artefacts. For someone like me, it would be nothing more than a thick shell. It will likely hinder me more than a slightly bent helmet could.”

“When a polite Lady offers you a mask that is worth more than your armour, the correct response is ‘thank you very much’.”

I glanced at my new ‘adviser’. Rabbit ears but not Albin. First Spear of some other maniple. Plenty of scars and a hefty two-handed sword. “And what should I say if said borrowed mask breaks in the middle of the battle because its runes are dim? A polite Hatay wermage will pay for its cost?”

The warrior barked a laugh. “I can see why she decided to spar with a murk! Your tongue is sharper than some spears out there.”

There were a bunch of people present, but it wasn’t crowded. Most of them I already knew. The Kausar twins were angrily whispering among themselves off to the side. A satisfied Irje and a still-fuming Anaise were closer. The members of my finger and a separate Kamshad entourage that came with Lita’af were watching without much noise. And finally, there was a small but diverse group of wermages standing by themselves. The Hatay adviser was part of that group. From what I could tell, it was some collection of local champions, strongwomen, or something along those lines. Quite a few non-standard weapons, scars, and strikingly fancier armour.

They were rowdy but kept mostly to themselves.

Lita’af frowned, her tail twitching. “Are you refusing because you expect me to demand a repayment?”

“A cost is a cost; even if freely given, it becomes an obligation on my honour. You know the feeling yourself, or you wouldn’t have replaced my broken helmet during our last spar. It served me well when the Thing attacked me.”

“But this is not the one I gave you.” She approached me. “May I?”

I pulled my helmet off and gave it to her. “I am not wearing it for the sake of appearances. See that small dent on the side? It was tested — proofed — by a werbow arrow, shot from less than five steps away. That mark tells everyone that it is arrowproof.”

“Quite an unusual way to put a maker’s mark,” she murmured.

“It is a mark of guaranteed quality. Even a skilled artisan can fail on occasion. Such tests guarantee the sufficient quality of armour by rejecting the defective pieces.”

“You say dangerous words without even realising it.” Albin approached us with a grin.

“Azhar Mesud,” Lita’af nodded to our intruder, “you sense danger in its quality? The helmet is indeed strong but still comparable to a Carapace.”

“He should be, by now,” I grumbled. “Are we going to finish one of our games or not?”

I could give one thing to Albin — he knew how to think outside the box. Mephistopheles in disguise came up with a truly ingenious way to stop me from winning our matches by ending said games prematurely. Time and time again, he would come up with yet another excuse, only to pester me for another match a little bit later. Starting from the very beginning, obviously. My suggestions about him trying to be a better man and admitting defeat were ignored outright due to the looming threat of a date with Mushaf Davlat.

Granted, I wasn’t actually sure if I was winning. The games were always close and never progressed far enough to give even a hint of who was going to win. Albin was simply bothered with the way I was playing my openings and how I developed my pieces.

“Oh, but you have a spar with Lita’af Hikmat. And then you need to report to our General.” He winked at me. “You have no time for games.”

I scratched my chin. The mention of the General reminded me of a tiny conundrum. I kinda broke the artefact. Just a very tiny little bit. A smidgen.

The ‘memory of a sound’ had a limit on what it could replay. It was capable of recording yells and loud noises but quickly turned inert once I went a bit further. On the one hand, I got a ton of valuable information about the nature of Flow within the artefact. On the other hand, I destroyed the Divine artefact that was lent to me by the Censor.

Well, I hoped that it wasn’t destroyed. My final experiment drained enough Flow so the ‘recovery part’ could not re-energise the artefact back to its default state. The question was whether artefacts could be ‘restarted’ or not. From my understanding — they could be, but this was Emanai I was dealing with. They often built things, mundane and magical, not because they knew how and why they worked, but because if they were built in a certain way, they worked. Wrena crafted co-prime gears for her mechanisms not because she knew what being co-prime meant but because Emanai craftsmen had noticed that certain pairs of teeth numbers worked a lot longer than the others.

They called their gods Heurisks if that wasn’t telling enough. A nation of mages, blessed by the gods of the ‘rule of thumb’ of all things.

But the said artefact was once nothing more than Albin’s prank on his sister, a toy. If anyone could prevent his sister from getting some leverage, it would be him. The man who was very interested in my early chess strategy.

“Maybe I should set a price for every game we start anew.”

Albin’s eyes bulged. “You broke it already!?”

I coughed and switched the topic. “What danger were you talking about anyway? The metal can stop the arrow, but it doesn’t mean that the entire helmet is invulnerable. There are still gaps.”

He grinned. “You are either concerned about Isra Haleh making a significant amount of weak helmets despite her skill, or you are expecting less skilled smiths to do the work for her. Both of those scream scale. Are you preparing to dress entire arms with those?”

“What use is but a single helmet to the entire Emanai?” I shrugged my shoulders. “What use is a hundred?”

“I am certain that Emanai would appreciate your contribution to her arms,” Lita’af spoke up. “As long as the cost is within reason, that is. If we could afford to dress every spear in Carapace scales, we would’ve.”

“I am certain that they could be sold for the same price as the current ones without lowering their quality. The same could be said about body armour. We are talking about the defenders of Emanai, after all. But this is not a discussion for now or even for tomorrow. I lack the magic to snap my fingers and summon thousands of helmets in a single moment. It will take years to scale up the production to where it can supply entire arms. At least five, if not ten. Every step needs to be expanded as one can’t cook an exquisite meal by using half-rotten ingredients.”

Both of those metrics were more than generous, and not to the Houses of War, but I was in no rush to put everything else on hold just so we could gain a monopoly in armour manufacturing. A handful of presses and plate rollers could do the work of hundreds of smiths. The resulting buckets and cuirasses would be plain looking, but they will get the job done. Any further engraving could be left to their smiths. As it should be.

I looked at Lita’af. “I am certain that we will have plenty to discuss once this campaign is over.”

She watched me silently for a few moments, then returned my helmet with a sigh. “I see your point. I assume that you are ready to start our fight?”

I nodded, and — after a brief discussion about rules — she started walking away from us to the opposite side of a sparring circle. The area was enormous since it was designed with wermages and spells in mind.

Albin nudged my side with his elbow. “How did you break it?”

“Your sister would be quite disappointed if I told you first.”

“My sister would be eager to see you with her broken gift.”

I cast him a glance. “Are you capable of breathing life into inert artefacts? Is that a Shebet thing? Or a Chasya thing? Because without one-”

He rolled his eyes and flicked me a tiny pouch.

I caught it mid-flight, only to hear another fart coming from within. How mature.

“Consider this as the payment for our previous games.”

I nodded and stuffed it deep under my brigandine where my flesh pouch was. Getting it accidentally bent during the fight would be more than idiotic. “There is a limit on how loud the sounds can be. Eventually, it uses all of its stored Flow trying to recreate the sound and is unable to replenish itself.”

“Too loud? It can remember the sound of a thunderclap. Where did you find something louder than that?”

I glanced at him. “My farts are louder than yours, Al.”

XXX

 

Lita’af tilted her head at the twin coils in my arms. “Whips, Erf? That is an unusual weapon to use against me. I am sure that you know wermages are trained to avoid the tentacles of Things.”

I stood still as the lashes bit into my wrists and connected to the Harald interface. A second of frisson as my body suddenly realised it had a lot more ‘skin’ to feel through and a lot more ‘muscles’ to move with. Another second and my lashes uncoiled across the arena.

I heard some murmurs from the bleachers but paid little attention to them.

“Yes, Anaise informed me as such. But those are not tentacles, and I am not a Thing either. Our styles are… slightly different.”

She thumped her oar down. This one was water and fire.

“Begin.”

I jumped to the side, avoiding the stream of fire, while my right lash wrapped around a boulder and flung it at the wermage. In the meantime, the left one stabbed the ground deep enough to get me the first proper leverage.

I grinned through the pain as my skinsuit plunged stabilising fibres into my body. “It’s showtime.”

My lash screamed from its rapid contraction, giving me twenty gees toward Lita’af. I had to give her props — she was quick enough to start forming a wall of stone in my trajectory. My shoulder punched through the half-formed pile of dirt, and I saw the transformed werwolf twisting away at the last moment. Her oar was spitting balls of fire in my general direction.

I smiled as my lash curved my flight around the arena, feeling her magic brush over me and immediately let go. The wermage telekinesis, not Irje’s kind, used the caster’s body as leverage to exert its power. If Lita’af wanted to wermagehandle me with her magic, she would need to dump all my kinetic energy through herself first.

Lita’af slammed her foot into the ground, bringing multiple walls across the entire arena, and unleashed a pair of fiery whips herself.

I twisted away from a searing crack, while my lash intercepted the other one, and landed into the dense cloud of dust that now blanketed the arena. My previous movements stirred quite a lot of air, and Lita’af didn’t help with her terrain manipulation spells either. That wasn’t an issue — I wasn’t relying on my eyesight anyway. Not in this helmet.

My lashes didn’t launch me back into the air this time around. I was here to train and not to triumph. My quick flyaround across the arena, as well as the recent battle against the Creature, made me confident enough in my ability to maintain distance or to get away if I had to. What I needed was more experience in attacking. My probing attacks had been futile so far — without even knowing about the true ability of my lashes, Lita’af kept dodging them anyway. Moreover, it had been a while since I experienced mid-range double gees and never in this body. The compression and stabilisation of my skinsuit did their job, but I wanted to be sure that my spleen didn’t travel all the way into my foot by accident. Diagnostics ran a lot smoother and quicker without said double gees stirring shit up. Or any other direction.

I dodged into a side tumble as a wall behind me cracked from the impact. Lita’af wasn’t using kid’s spells this time around. My pavise wouldn’t last past a single spell. My brigandine? I wasn’t sure, but I was certain that my kaftan would be rags. I ducked behind a pile of rubble to avoid the next hit; losing my kaftan would be annoying.

A few more dodges, and I could try lashing her once aga-

Her magic engulfed me once again, pinning me in place just as a huge fireball smashed into my fire-resistant lash. My lash screamed.

Not from pain — they had no pain receptors, unlike my dendrites. It contracted.

“Won’t catch me twice like that…” I murmured as the sudden force of that pull yanked my magical restraints.

A few metres away, Lita’af slammed into a wall with a loud thud.

“For every action, Lita’af Hikmat, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at my words. Sometimes, Physics was the top bitch in her relationship with Magic. Since I was a murk, I felt obligated to cheer for my home team.

She pulled herself from the pile of rubble and spat bloody dirt from her mouth. “That was a suicidal move, Erf.”

“I wasn’t planning on smashing myself into a wall.”

“You were planning on ripping your arm off if I wasn’t holding it with my magic.”

I shook my head. “I am sturdier than that.”

The LASH system wasn’t a standalone. Not only did it connect to the Harald interface, but it interlocked itself with my skinsuit in the process. For exactly this reason. I liked my biology to remain biology and not become physics.

“I will keep that in mind from now on.” She flicked her fingers, and her oar jumped into her palm. “Are you going to continue talking during the fight?”

My left lash yanked me aside from the giant gust of flame while my right one swiped straight at her. Despite the close distance, Lita’af still managed to twist her body away from the coiling appendage, grab it, and swing her kattar down on it.

I grimaced at the scraping sound.

“Still caught you,” she panted.

“You did. And why would you do that?”

Her fingers squeezed my lash, but that did just as much damage as her blade. Lashes were designed for space movement and industrial-level accidents. If it could shrug off getting pinched by a wayward cargo container, it could shrug off the grasp of the Kamshad werwolf.

“Whips are dangerous when they fly, Erf. Something that you showed plenty in this fight.” Her oar hummed with power as she weaved fire and water into one single spell. Splitting water into gasses, combusting them, and collecting them back together into a blob of water once again. Lita’af either knew the secret of fire spells or was aware of the synergy. “You either lose one of your weapons or I-nnah!”

“I warned you,” I murmured as I observed the suddenly collapsed werwolf. It was safe to say that my lash completed its field test successfully. In that regard, the Kamshad were at a disadvantage since their shifting forms hindered their use of armour. “This is not a mere tentacle. Neither is it a mere whip. It is the lash of an alchemist.”

“Poison!?” Muramat roared. “How dare you!”

Why couldn’t that dust cloud stay a little bit longer?

“Muramat,” Lita’af stood up. “Stay out.”

“But sister, he-”

“This is my fight!” she growled at him. “Back down!”

Lita’af glared at him until he stepped outside the circle and then turned her glare at my lash tightly coiled around her hand. She yanked at it, and I let go.

She flexed her claws. “Is my brother correct? Was it coated in poison?”

“It was pure pain. And no, I am not being cheeky with my words. Rather than making you feel it by hurting your body, my lash simply gave you the pain directly. There is no damage, no wounds. Nor does it last longer than the contact. Your fire whips are more dangerous in that regard.” I pulled my lashes back to me and returned to my initial position. “Shall we try again?”

She stared at me for a long time in silence. Then her eyes bulged. “By the Thr—” The rest was smothered by her hand.

I glanced around. “What?”

Lita’af took a couple of calming breaths and shifted back to her human form. Her tail was still rather bushy. “No. This time it is my turn to concede defeat. I know you saw me coughing blood merely moments ago.”

I shrugged. “There was quite a lot of dust in the air.”

My skinsuit caused the massive internal bleeding at the beginning of the fight anyway, so it didn’t feel right to rely on technicalities now. I was also mildly curious to see what she could come up with now that she knew about the ‘poison’ secret.

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be a sparring match anymore. There will be more than blood, and we did not come here for that. Can I take a closer look at your weapon?”

I considered her request for a second, then sighed and started to collapse one of my lashes. I brought them here exactly because I was not afraid of one getting stolen. They could neither learn much from an inert lash, nor would I be left defenceless since I had more stored in Samat.

Once it shrank to its default three-metre length, I coiled the lash like a whip and silently offered it to her.

Lita’af shook herself from staring at the shutdown transformation and glanced at me. “Please give me a moment; I will use a cloth.”

“No need.” I wiggled my bare fingers that were holding the lash. “It is inert.”

My other lash coiled into a much larger loop in my other hand.

She took it carefully. “It’s warm.”

I chuckled. “Your oar is probably warmer.”

Lita’af morphed suddenly, making me twitch for no reason, and sniffed at it. Then she listened, as if trying to hear the heartbeat it never had. Then she stared at me. Then — at the crowd behind us.

Muramat stood tall and indignant. Showing everyone around him just how dishonourable my use of ‘poison’ was. The Kausar twins were still discussing something among themselves. Irje and Anaise glanced at me with concern, but I quickly shook my head, telling them everything was fine for now. Albin was sitting on the barrier wall he summoned before our fight had started, munching on handfuls of popcorn from his trusty bowl and grinning at us.

The rest of the viewers had split into multiple groups and were busy discussing our fight among themselves, judging by the frequent fingers pointed our way. I was proud to see that my finger looked a lot more dignified than the rabble of wermages. Except for Hajar Kishava.

My First Spear was busy collecting heaps of silver from a nearby table and yelling at other betters to pay up.

A loud crack made me look back at Lita’af, only to see her pondering the uncoiled lash in her hands. Every rune on her armour was shining twice as brightly as they did during our match. Was she trying to see if the lash could break a fully powered armour? Or was she trying to break the lash itself?

“Lita’af Hikmat?”

She coughed and released her magic. “This is indeed quite a powerful artefact. Thank you for letting me take a look at it.”

I frowned as I received the lash back. “Artefact? It shouldn’t manipulate magic. It can’t.”

Was this some excuse to rationalise her loss, or did she sense something that I couldn’t? I needed to send a very urgent missive to Yeva so she could test one of the lashes with the lithoscanner and see if it somehow picked up the ‘local flavour’. Then-

Lita’af tilted her head. “Of course it can’t. It is inert, is it not?”

I shut my mouth with a clack. She was completely off with her assessment, but I couldn’t even refute her without further divulging my secrets.

“I wouldn’t be this lax if it was.” I had to try, at least. She belonged to a very small group of sane Kamshad members, and it was better if she was uncertain from a lack of knowledge rather than angered at my lies.

“You are lax because they are useless away from you.” Her claw pointed at my body. “Without something else… Either you, something on you… or even in you — they are dead. Only to come alive when they are together once again.”

I palmed my face. I think I had a whiplash from that shift. She wasn’t stupid and could put two and two together. She just didn’t have proper terminology at hand, so she used what was available to her. “Just don’t call them artefacts, please.”

Lita’af shifted back to her human form again and solemnly nodded. “I understand. You have my word that I won’t.”

She paused, twiddled the tip of her tail for a moment, then glanced at me. “Would you like another spar, Erf?”

“Now?”

Lita’af smiled. “No. In a tenday, perhaps. I wish to prepare.”

 

 

Siavash

 

“Did you hear what happened in the first maniple?” A wer whispered over the bonfire.

His companion glanced at him over her mug. “What?”

“Some murk annoyed the Silver She-wolf. Like The Noble Silver one. The first daughter.”

Siavash paused his conversation about medical charlatans and started to listen.

“So? We have plenty of murks to fill in the gaps. They can take one from the ships if they need more.”

“She didn’t just send him to the Forest. She brought him to the arena! One of my fingers was standing watch on a nearby tower. He said that she was spinning him across the entire circle like a giant sling!”

The other wer spat her ale laughing. “Tell him to stop drinking before duty! What did he say she did next? Put him in a giant werbow and shot him back to Uureg?”

“He swore on his mum! Said there was fire and everything. Dust everywhere as if an entire maniple was charging through.”

Siavash leaned in. “Did you know that Lita’af Kamshad Hikmat is well-known for her calm character?

The female wer glanced at his sash and choked on her ale.

“We wouldn’t dare to badmouth the… the Lady of the House.” She turned around and slapped her companion. “Quickly! Tell him your fellow spear was full of piss!”

Siavash raised his hands in a friendly manner. “Peace, young warriors. What I meant to say is — if she were to act in a manner described by his tent-mate, the offence had to be truly heinous.”

Both vigorously nodded their heads. “There can be some truly vile murks around. Pah!”

He scratched his chin. “You know, I think you’ve seen him.”

“He isn’t one of ours! Our tents are on the Ulastai side. None of them would dare to walk across the camp. Especially after what happened recently.”

Siavash nodded. “Yes, I heard the grave news. Hopefully, he will recover and clean the stain of his actions from his finger.”

The female grimaced. “He died last night.”

“Well, his wounds were severe. Once they start to rot, it is a lost cause.”

“He got better after that healer apprentice tended to his wounds. But it didn’t last. They say he was cursing the healer before he died.”

Siavash reeled back with a fake surprise on his face. “You don’t say!”

He leaned in. “I fear something very dangerous is upon us.”

“What do you mean?”

Siavash glanced around and leaned even closer. “I hear rumours, you know. That murk who faced the noble Lita’af Kamshad Hikmat was none other than that young healer you were talking about.”

The two swore.

“So the Lady of the House avenged us.”

“That is the scary part. The murk survived. How? I do not know. No one does.”

“May the Three Horns pierce that cur down!”

 

 

Lita’af Kamshad Hikmat

 

“Thank you for coming, cousin. Please have a seat.”

“Lita’af.” Mushaf furrowed her brows as she looked around the tent and the multitude of runes within. “Did something happen?”

“Yes. And I wished to discuss it with you.”

Mushaf crossed her arms. “Go on.”

Lita’af turned toward her attendant. “Saya?”

“This is the last rune, mistress.” She bowed. “The chest is by your couch.”

“Thank you, Saya. You may leave. Make sure that the guards outside don’t let anyone in until one of us tells them otherwise.”

“It will be done, my mistress.”

“Is this yet another attempt of yours to change my mind about Muramat? I didn’t expect you, of all people, to resort to threats.”

“Muramat won’t be the topic of our discussion today. The runes are for our protection.” Lita’af unlocked the box and glanced at Mushaf again. “Tell no one of what you will see in the box.”

“Tell me what’s in it first.”

“The secret runework of House Kamshad.”

Mushaf sucked air through her teeth and sat down. “Something this serious? You have my word.”

“Thank you, cousin.” Lita’af opened the lid and started assembling the final rune from carved-out pieces. “As you know, I had another spar with the Kiymetl Daimon-”

Mushaf raised her eyebrow. “You wish to trade a secret for Muramat?”

“Mushaf… please.” Lita’af sighed in exasperation. The runes were quite draining. “I already said that this will not be related to Muramat at all. I wish to discuss Azhar Hatay Mesud.”

“You wish to pay me to back off? Now? I am not a child anymore, Lita’af. I am aware that the daimon greatly favours Azhar Mesud. Why would I give him away if I can get said daimonic secrets at a later time when Azhar is firmly in my grasp?”

“I do not wish to purchase… Azhar Mesud, either.”

“Then what is the price?” Mushaf gestured at the runework. “I am not stepping into any of this until I know what it would cost me.”

“Why don’t I tell you first, and then you can decide how much you would owe me for this information?”

“That simple?”

“That simple.”

Mushaf harrumphed. “Well, I don’t like it. Something does not sit right. I know you are up to something.”

Lita’af rolled her eyes, as if the runework wasn’t telling enough. “It might cost our Houses more if you do not know.”

“Fine! But I will be watching you carefully!”

“Thank you,” Lita’af breathed a sigh of relief, “that is exactly what I want.

“The daimon brought two new weapons for our fight. Something that Isra Haleh would never craft herself. He came with a Gift.”

Mushaf goggled at her. “This is very bad news for your House. If it’s true.”

“I know, but that is our internal problem.”

“Why do you think they were Gifts? Did he bring a glowing kattar? A spear?”

“That would have been much, much simpler. No, the Gift was made specifically with him in mind. Are you aware of how secretive he is? His Gift is even more so.”

“How does it look?”

“I don’t know. I never saw the Gift itself. I saw its effects. It turned two whips into two living snakes. I saw them move on their own volition. I felt their sting. And then, I wielded one and tried to light it up myself. There were no runes for a wermage like me to power. Meanwhile, the Gift did with barely any Flow. Impossible to notice if one was paying attention only to the snakes themselves.”

“So, where does Azhar Mesud come in?”

“He gave it to him, Mushaf. Before our battle, Erf was dead to the Flow. No Spark. No runes. Nothing. Azhar Mesud came in at the very end when we were alone. He said a few revelations mixed with nonsensical things that only the daimon seemed to understand. Once our fight started — there were ripples through Flow around Erf. I didn’t have the time to observe it then, but I felt it clearly once we were done. Just as I didn’t have the time to think about every oddity surrounding Azhar Mesud.

“Mushaf Davlat,” Lita’af re-checked that every rune was alight, “It is my belief that Azhar Hatay Mesud… is a Divine Heurisk.”