***

Janurana slipped down through the leafless canopy of the dry trees after leaping from the fire’s light. A few small twigs snapped off as she passed, but she landed just as silently as when she first fed in Daksin’s capital. The forest rattled as the horde of creatures from the campfire were descending upon her. Janurana turned, ax ready, spinning it to excite herself.

From thin air a cart length or two before her, purple shadows took form, not unlike Dekha’s but a closer shade to the moon’s clouds. Snakes of violet smoke leaked and cascaded down from multiple circles floating above the ground, like ethereal rivers over the bleaching and burned skeleton of an elephant. The imps popped out of them.

Their infant sized, twitchy, purple bodies, marked by their shining teal eyes vibrated in place. They cocked their heads in curiosity as they sat perched on the massive skull and ribs. The rest of the imps caught up on their own, accompanied by the ragged wolves. They all stopped the same distance from the armed Janurana.

Her gwomoni eyes could see them much more clearly than a normal human’s but still she mainly tracked the sounds fanning out to surround her. Janurana stood her ground, ready to break their attacks when and if they charged. One wolf obliged, leaping forward only to catch the butt of her ax, she thrust her arm forward in a punching motion, as though she wasn’t holding the weapon. It tumbled into its comrades with a yelp. Her eyes didn’t widen as they had before, when the blood from her enemies preoccupied her thoughts. Her attacks were instinctual, like the animals around her, even if she was doing her best to emulate her mother’s soldiers.

She yelped, more surprised than hurt as an imp nipped at her foot. It was smiling as it had snuck up behind her while the wolf attacked. Janurana flicked it over the tree line with a whip of her leg all the same.

The creatures took a step back. They shifted in place, exchanged glances, or displayed their fangs to hide their fear. Janurana was unphased. She stayed in place, prepared, like a bull with its horns lowered. She spun the ax as she shot her gaze back and forth trying to keep an eye and ear on every angle.

The creatures behind her shuffled more than the others. Janurana faced them and a tiger leapt from the crowd, claws bared. She fell to the ground to let the beast soar over her.

It landed as silently as Janurana, and almost as gracefully. Its cover blown, it circled her with noiseless, regal steps to demand the honor of single combat. The tiger stalked around her, as the lesser animals backed up. She circled the tiger as it circled her, locking their gazes. It could not get behind her. The chittering of the other animals grew as they barked or growled to encourage their champion. With near invisible speed, the tiger locked onto its target and pounced, and just as quickly Janurana leapt to the side at full speed so it passed only a hair’s length from her nose.

It crashed into the tree behind her and slid to the ground.

‘Too close,’ she thought.

Giving herself no time to relish in the minute victory, she wound her ax for an overhead chop. But her grunt of effort betrayed her move. The tiger leapt away, leaving her blade buried in the spent soil. Then it pounced again as Janurana ripped the blade free. Just as its teeth came too close, she shoved her ax handle into its mouth. The tiger bit down and whipped its head from side to side trying to swing her to the ground. When that didn’t work it swatted at her like a child in desperation.

Janurana smirked, remembering a move she had seen once before and fell backwards, pulling her ax and her foe along with her. Even as she pulled it, the tiger swatted before her foot met its stomach, sending it soaring over and behind her, barreling into the tense crowd of wolves and imps.

They jeered and howled, not willing to attack, but they needed to frighten Janurana and cheer their champion. A few of the wolves and imps transitioned to tepid sniffs or impish cackles respectively as the tiger shook off the last of its disorientation and leapt back into the arena, much to their delight. It seethed with rage.

Janurana flinched, trying to keep her resolve. Her opponent’s fury dripped from its exposed fangs. She took a step back and it took its first step forward, its claws ripping into the ground. With another step back, she bumped into the tree against which the tiger had crashed.

It pounced. Before Janurana could dodge or attack, a thunderous cry ripped through the air and, of all things, an elephant plowed through the darkness. It snatched the tiger from the air like it was a falling stick. The tiger flailed uselessly, surprised and unable to grab the trunk, and was flung aside. Janurana watched as the elephant bowled through the crowd waving its trunk and legs about, stomped over to the skeleton, and swatted away the interlopers who dared sit upon it. A few of them ran over to the tiger, nudging it with their snouts or paws. Annoyed, the tiger shook its head, growled, but scurried away pathetically when the elephant charged again.

When the Outside creatures bolted away, it charged Janurana. She scrambled up the tree, then leapt to another as the elephant rammed it and tried to knock her loose. After she had cleared a few more trees, it calmed.

The elephant turned to the bones. Much to Janurana’s surprise, she watched the lone animal lower its head and bend one leg. There was no mistaking what it was doing, it bowed to the remains. As if the forest was being respectful, the lingering chitters and growling from the imps and wolves faded away. There wasn’t a sound to disrespect the somber display. The quiet didn’t bother Janurana as the elephant didn’t bolt into the distance away from her mother.

Despite the night, Janurana could see a patchwork of scars running up and down its legs, some fresh. A few larger ones ran across its torso and she traced her own sari’s patches. She hadn’t seen an elephant herd or even a lone male in musth since the Scorching and figured they must have all retreated to the jungles of the north.

Janurana watched the elephant change legs and continue to bow. There had been times she would follow a herd, far enough back to not be smelled or heard, but close enough to let them scare off any multi-headed kalias or notice her mother first. Eventually, the elephant lumbered back off into the night.

As she leapt from the tree, she gave it a gentle pat to thank it for letting her use it. But it shook when the wind picked up, almost in response, and the tiger’s annoyed cry rose in the distance. She bowed to the tree and began her search for the herbs.

She scanned the sparse forest floor. The leaves and grass were as scarce as with any forest north or south, but small signs of life did their best to break free from the singed soil and catch the meager rays of sun. Having traveled further north there was a slight increase in foliage to barely offset the more devastated Borderlands as she neared the jungles. She spotted one flower, purple and shaped like a ball, garlic. The smell sent Janurana scurrying away, holding her nose. It was as pungent as Dhanur’s rancid wound, something her gwomoni senses told her to avoid as poison, but Janurana knew the flowers she needed didn’t repulse her. 

But try as she might she couldn’t quite remember how she knew which flowers to find. Or how she got the information. She had an even harder time remembering the last time she had even been sick.

‘Wait. Did I need them for someone else?’ Janurana tried to think back.

In the sea of black, brown, and pale green, she soon spotted the struggling island of white and pastel pink.

“Ah!” she exclaimed in discovery. By no means was the crop strong, but it would have to be enough.

The wind gave another shudder and the brush beyond rustled once more. Janurana held her ax close. When nothing pounced at her she nodded to the nearest tree and bent at her hips to grasp a handful of the flowers. Their stems were wiry and thin, they bent under her fingers and easily came free of their roots.

She knelt, pulling up her sari so her bare knees touched the ground rather than allow more dirt to be ground into the fibers of her dress. Her fingers were clean after her bath at Dhanur’s house but she sighed and dug through the dry crust of the soil. It cracked as easily as the flowers came from the roots and she pulled slabs away before getting to the looser soil underneath.

“Oh, come now, I don’t have the time…”

 Before too long she reached the bumpy roots of the flower. It was the size of her hand, and she scratched at the skin quickly to be sure it was the right tone, to make certain she wasn’t further poisoning her escort. The flesh underneath was pale yellow and the sharp spice filled her nose in an instant, ginger. She bowed quickly to the hole in gratitude.

Janurana checked her surroundings, heard nothing, smelled nothing, but still proceeded cautiously, constantly spinning in place. A tiger had caught her by surprise years ago and the tiniest scar on her left breast still stained her skin. It was under a yellow stitch on her sari where the claws had torn through. She snatched up the flowers to inspect them one last time. They smelled fine, not like Dhanur’s wound. Sniffing again, Janurana nearly jumped as the scent brought back her memory and she was soon lost in it.

His name wasn’t there anymore, but Janurana remembered him from far back, and wondered if it was when she had first run into the forest to escape the gwomoni who destroyed her home. Whenever it was, she had tried to eat a corpse, pushing past its scent, then stumbled onto the road while clutching her stomach. She remembered how much of a struggle it was to drag herself along the ground and claw her way to the nearest town for help. Every inch was an agonizing trial. Her mind was completely blank as she focused only on the next move. He was the local doctor, an herbalist, and brought her through the gate. That part was fuzzy too. She made sure to absorb the scent of the flower and root he gave her for later when she woke up the next day. It was a general flower, good for whatever made one sick. He was kind to her even after seeing what she was, letting her stay with him for as long as she wanted when she was better. All she had to do was help him find herbs in the Outside. Despite the threat of her mother, he didn’t seem worried.

“There aren’t spirits this far south,” he would brush her off. She couldn’t remember what he sounded like or how old he was. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either. Janurana had met a few. But she had also been Outside for longer than most so it was to be expected that she found more spirits. “Even if we see one, I’ll spark up a bit of—”

Janurana scowled deeply at the lost memory. He had burned some herb to keep her mother away and left a bundle at the town gate every day. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not remember the name or smell or look of the plant. She had asked around multiple towns to find it again but the southerners either didn’t know as they had no use for such an herb or laughed like it was a joke, asking in turn if she was going to fight the north alone. Conversely, the northerners she found took it as an insult to be asked how to keep away spirits by such a fair skinned southern woman.

She could see the light of her and Dhanur’s fire in the distance and frowned at the ginger that could help Dhanur most, but not herself.

Janurana wondered if her dead companion was kind or just using her knowledge of the Outside. She could tell him where she had spotted a patch of blue flowers or pond reeds. But if she met him so early in her life she wouldn’t have known that much. She had forgotten when exactly it was.

‘He never said Daksin. This was before the plateau got its new name. And you only ate a corpse once, early on,’ Janurana thought.

Whether or not he was being selfish, she learned about ginger. He had used the leftover flowers they collected to make a decorative chain around his fireplace. His entire house was comfortable and cozy, covered in all kinds of plants that made the walls close in, but like finding a perfectly sized hole in a bush to curl up in.

And Janurana would never see it again.

Thanks to her mother, he was gone, taken one night when Janurana knew she should have told him to stay home. He couldn’t get the bundle out in time.

She exited the forest to the verge of stumps and saw Dhanur on the ground inside with Dekha ever watchful.

The heaviest patch that rested on her thigh weighed heavily as she saw Dhanur. The proud warrior was nearly convulsing from sickness, all because she had wanted to be kind and help, hoping something good would come of it. She would never have gotten ill if Janurana didn’t show up. Dhanur would have been gone too if not for Dekha.

She couldn't help but place a hand over the patch and trace. It felt as it always did, the same familiar bumps underneath and resewn thread. She felt the dried and dead flower from the herbalist’s chain, the single bone she took from his body, and the other mementos from those she had known and lost over the years.

She arrived at the threshold of the fire, but stopped short of its visibility.

Janurana wasn’t sure if she even wanted to continue, remembering how she found the bodies of those she had befriended before. But Dekha turned to her, staring, unblinking as Dhanur coughed.

She was face down in the dirt, a few feet from where she’d vomited as she had tried to scoot away from it. She still heaved, but nothing came forth. After every attempt, her head hummed with pain.

Janurana kneeled beside her companion. She looked at Dekha. He was still and quiet. Her mother was nowhere near as another wolf scowled from behind the light, having followed her from the forest. But it was so preoccupied stalking the threshold, it didn’t notice a massive stinger fly through the air and impale its chest. It couldn’t even yelp as both its lungs were skewered. Dekha took a step back as a scorpion larger than him grabbed the corpse in its claws and proceeded to enjoy its meal.

Janurana nodded approvingly at the wolf being torn apart.

“Dhanur,” she prompted, putting down the ax and stroking Dhanur’s back.

Dhanur only grumbled.

Dekha began chuffing the ground again, prompting the scorpion to rear up, clacking its claws and waving its tail. The venom that should have killed the wolf leaked from its tip. But it had its kill, and decided not to fight. It dragged the corpse into the night.

“Here. One moment.” Janurana wiped the rest of the dirt from the roots and broke one apart, peeling off the papery skin with her ax. “Just chew on it.”

Dhanur looked up at her, squinted, then moved her arm pitifully to take the root. “Wh-whas,” she forced the words through her teeth, squeezing her eyes completely shut again.

“Just nibble it for a second.” She rubbed Dhanur’s back and tapped her lips with the root.

The touch sent butterflies into Dhanur’s stomach, she opened her mouth and bit down. The root was spicier than she expected and she whimpered as her stomach settled.

“’m sorry,” Dhanur sniffled.

“For what?” Janurana snickered with a raised brow. “Being sick? It happens.”

“Makin’ you-makin’ you-g-go, I-I shoulda…” Dhanur couldn’t continue as her throat got tight with tears.

Janurana slid her hand down Dhanur’s back, but Dhanur’s body swelled. It was only a cough, but Janurana thought it meant another heave, and she snatched her hand away. “Just chew. There you go. It’s okay.”

Dhanur swallowed and Janurana stroked her unique red hair.

“There. Don’t feel bad. You’re helping me get away from the gwomoni and my mother. Let me help you.” Janurana neglected to mention any blame she thought she might have for getting Dhanur involved. “Things happen. We can only work with what we can change and flow with what we can’t.” The wisdom from a story her father told her always rang true. They were both a lesson his own swampy lands knew well and holy inscriptions from the religion of her mother’s homelands in the Rivers further south. Her father said Janelsa never read them because she never liked the second half. “Dhanur?”

Dhanur snored loudly in response.

Janurana smiled, continuing to rub Dhanur’s head as she curled into a ball. She took a last look back to Dekha for assurance that all was well.

“Were you that close to Dhanur when I left?” Janurana asked him.

Regardless, having slept on Dekha’s back for the day and had at least some blood from the squirrel, Janurana stayed awake to take the night’s watch until they departed a bit before dawn.

They left their camp later than Janurana would have liked, after the sun began to rise. Though Dekha wasn’t alarming, her anxieties grew as Dhanur continued to sleep off her night of sickness. The flowers and their roots were letting her sleep. It was with much goading that Janurana finally roused Dhanur to her feet, only vaguely protesting, as if out of obligation.

Janurana helped her to Dekha’s bags so she could continue resting and pressed more of the tuber into Dhanur’s hands, then kicked out the fire. She took Dekha’s reins in one hand and swapped her ax for her parasol with the other as her back began to just barely tingle.

She rushed through the city, orienting herself north and passing through any alleyway or broken house in which Dekha could fit. He was soon caught in a particularly mangled pile of rubble and nearly jolted Dhanur awake. Despite Dekha’s lively showing last night, he didn’t pull himself free. Janurana grabbed his leg, yanked it from the rubble’s grip, and disgustedly wiped the flakes off.

“Wh-Wha?” Dhanur stirred as the smoke passed by her to become his flesh again.

“Nothing. Go on. Sleep again.”

Janurana stuck to the main roads. She glanced into the broken homes to see imps scuttling away from the burgeoning dawn with a fragment of pottery, ruined bronze spearhead, or dusty, scorched bone.

A few imps had made off with the scraps of food, discarded leather, or bones Janurana’s past companions had left behind when they had broken camp or been killed. Before the Scorching, during the war when armies would gather or move about, Janurana had seen swarms of imps raid their old campsites, making off with their little trinkets from the army’s trail. Dhanur had seen it too and didn’t understand why, but had quit questioning it years back. Both her and Janurana had heard plenty of stories on what the imps were doing with their collection, but no one had ever found the fabled imp cities of trash.

The thoughts on imps snapped from Janurana’s mind as her back twinged again. She caressed her parasol, checking behind her as they slipped through what would have been the open air market near the back of the town, which had become just open air. Imps were leaping into their swirls of purple shadows clutching whatever they found. Beyond the ring of divots that was the city’s wall, wolves were slipping into the pocket forests, though a few were daring to stay out among the recovering brambles and shrubs to riffle for rats or the odd hedgehog just emerging from or returning to their dens. Each that caught Janurana’s scent snarled at how she had sent them back, then figured a barely waking and thin deer would be an easier target.

Janurana looked back again but saw nothing. The animals weren’t fleeing her either. A few of the resplendently colored birds traveling from the jungle flew right over them and didn’t change course. 

‘Perhaps northern animals are more used to spirits,’ she thought.

She followed the path, the northern jungle growing behind the mountain that was no more than a full day’s walk. She could almost feel the rays of the sun through her parasol. The closer they got, the harder it was to make out the small peak of green flora crowning it. With Dhanur asleep, Janurana walked in silence, occasionally checking to see if Dhanur was alright.

***

Not long after they left the city ruins, Janelsa kicked the charred remains of their fire. It sent up sporadic bursts of dust causing the mortal and spirit planes to try to re–sync. It wasn’t as much as further south, but was still jarring to Janelsa after so many years. She had kicked, her foot going through the blackened log, then it would fly forward, appearing to jitter and leap instantaneously to points along its path before coming to rest.

Janelsa crossed her arms, curling her dry lips inwards as she scanned the burned stable’s interior. No trace remained apart from the dwindling embers glowing less and less as the sun was rising. She blew her errant strands of hair out of her face in frustration and caused a spattering of minute pebbles and dust to cascade from her hair.

“Urgh!” she exclaimed, wiping her face of the debris. “I’ll never be rid of this dust.”

“Kekeke, Humans always talking alone.” A new, stuttering voice caught Janelsa’s attention. It reverberated through the stable, coming from all places at once.

“I’ve yet to find anyone else worth my breath.” She brushed the dust from her shoulders, hiding her surprise.

“Spirit?” The voice smoothed out and manifested from a swirl of shadow to the shape of a Chohtah imp, transitioning fully to her plane. It didn’t jitter then, but stood fully upright. It had been one of the last stragglers before the sun forced them all into hiding. “All gone. All fled. How you alive? Why… Sky skin?” Her complexion finally dawned on the imp and it stepped back.

“It’s very keen of you to notice.” She fought back a sneer and surveyed the area once more. “I’m looking for my Shza—Janurana. I’m sure she camped here.”

The imp ran, but even on all fours, Janelsa easily caught up. She slammed her foot into its back, eliciting a ragged screech.

“Have you seen her?” she asked coolly.

It keened and scratched at the ground. “Clay hair and mud skin lady and night hair and wheat skin lady??”

“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed. 

“They go! Go jungle!” It wriggled under her and spun enough to grab at her foot. 

She smirked, grinding her heel. “Tell me more, please.”

“Too strong! Wheat skin kicked us around!”

“Not hard, I’m sure.” Janelsa rolled her eyes.

“Wheat skin is gwomoni!”

In an instant, Janelsa seized the imp by its throat. Its stubby but pointed fingers dug into her arm, trying to pry itself free. She casually tossed it aside hard enough to make it bounce.

“Thank you for pointing me in the right direction,” she scoffed and turned up her nose.

“You kill her, she kill you!” The imp hissed as it scurried away.

“You’ve been so helpful.” She smiled after the creature before exiting the building and grimacing in disgust. “Ugh, ugly little monsters. Imps everywhere. Disgusting.”

“That was a little harsh, don’t you think?” Muli leaned around Janelsa’s shoulder as if from nowhere.

“A little revolting, don’t you think? When it belonged to me at least this land was fruitful. I’m sure the governors think they are better off. Idiots.” She slipped the feather Deiweb had supplied from her muga, waiting for it to line up with the trail before slipping it back. One of the furrows on her forehead faded as she sighed.

“I see that feather spirit had a point,” Muli said, sitting on the stable’s table like Janurana had.

“Shut up.”

“It must be splendid to not have to dig in the dirt and take a bit of a break from this-”

Janelsa snatched a pebble, but Muli was gone before she had fully turned. She dropped her projectile and sighed again, then returned to her pursuit.