01. A Heart of Ashes (Belosveka)¶
Years ago, on a pilgrimage to the banks of the Sacred River, Belosveka had accidentally picked up a hot coal. It had formed a skin of soft, gray ash overnight, and she’d mistaken it for one of the smooth prayer rocks piled up beside the remains of the previous night’s bonfire. The delicate shell had crumbled as she lifted it, depositing its burning heart onto her palm.
The Anashi girl reminded her of that coal. The child was a year shy of a dozen and small for her age, shivering in her furs as she trudged up the mountain trail. She didn’t look particularly threatening, clutching her satchel to her chest as though it were keeping her insides from falling out. But something beneath her surface seemed to radiate a dark, invisible menace. Perhaps it was her smoky skin and the eruption of silvery curls beneath her hood, both of which evoked visions of smoldering ruin. Or perhaps it was the Anashic prayers she whispered to herself, quietly and ceaselessly, her unnerving eyes of molten copper locked on the ground. Given what she’d been through, the girl’s idiosyncrasies were understandable, but she dragged the weight of her heritage behind her like a blood-soaked rug.
Belosveka tore her eyes away from the girl and scanned the trail, absently rubbing the burn scar on her palm. One edge of the path dropped off into a ravine, where the bleached remains of a wagon lay shattered far below, scraggly plants stabbing up through the planks. At this time of year, the pass would be bitterly cold, but travelers could either brave the claws of winter or gamble on the perpetual chaos of other seasons: sudden, violent gusts like the one that had sent that wagon over the edge, or piles of rock and melting ice crashing down the slopes without warning. In these mountains, it was safer to endure the predictable brutality of the winter.
She took a sip from her canteen, grimacing. The water tasted off. It had come from the same river in which a mob of villagers had drowned the girl’s mother, claiming that only the sacred waters could wash away the stains of Anashi sorcery. Belosveka wondered briefly whether she was tasting the woman’s death, as though that desecration had somehow defiled the entire waterway. She strove to banish such superstitions, yet they sometimes wafted back into her consciousness like a foul smell.
She glanced back at the heavy crunch of Pietrad’s boots behind her. Her sergeant was a bit older than the other operatives under her command, his wide mustache streaked with silver. His stocky frame and ungraceful manner belied a sharp wit, something the two of them had in common. She, too, had often been underestimated due to her size, as though being big and being clever were mutually exclusive.
“No ice yet,” he observed, frost puffing out with his breath. “That’s good.” Above the jagged peaks, the sky was fading to a deep cobalt. They had initially hoped to make the leeward side of the pass before nightfall, but a patch of thick mud earlier in the day had made for slow going.
Belosveka nodded, although they both knew the weather wasn’t their biggest concern. The pass was far enough from Thelenza, the Sarmalan capital, to be outside their sphere of weather control. The route was remote and seldom-traveled, ideal for crossing the border without being seen. But the trail brought them dangerously close to the ruins of Anash. The proximity to that haunted place had set everyone on edge long before they’d picked up the girl.
“The child is strong for her age,” Pietrad commented. In typical Dzharian fashion, he steered clear of direct confrontation, but his subtext was obvious: the child was slowing them down.
“I’m sure you’ll set a good example for her,” Belosveka said, implying that she understood his reservations, but still expected him to do what was necessary. She had ordered her staff to remain calm and rational like the spies they were rather than the humble pilgrims they pretended to be. The mob’s desecration of the river had made it easier to convince her team to go along with the idea of bringing the girl with them, even after Belosveka had been forced to slay two of the villagers herself. Yet she often caught her operatives glancing at the Anashi, muttering protection charms under their breath. Privately, she understood how they felt, but she couldn’t have them questioning her decisions.
The stout officer nodded and glanced back at the others, frowning. Pietrad was fastidious about propriety, but when he was truly worried about something, he would chew on it until she finally ordered him to spit it out. “Let’s hear it,” she said.
“The girl,” he admitted. “The way she stares at us, like a statue. And the muttering. It’s not natural. The troops are spooked.”
“Her mother was just murdered right in front of her,” Belosveka chided. “You expect her to go skipping through the wildflowers?”
Pietrad shrugged. “I pity the child, myself. But the junior operatives are saying she’s a shadow-shaper, a summoner of demons and the like.”
Belosveka scoffed. “Sounds like I should have a word with the Minister of Training, if they came out of the Academy willing to believe such nonsense.”
“I agree,” Pietrad said. “Still, if there was any truth to what those villagers claimed...”
“Then perhaps she can negotiate with the Grandchildren for us, should we come across any,” Belosveka said, deadpan.
Pietrad’s mustache lifted a bit, his sole acknowledgement of her joke. The older she got and the higher she rose in seniority, the more she valued people like him, who avoided pretense and flattery. “I don’t buy into it, of course,” he said. “We’ve both made this crossing before and seen nothing more dangerous than wild hogs. What I am worried about, though, is that we’ll be distracted, watching the girl instead of our flanks. If we’re wrong, that could mean our skins.”
“Fair enough,” Belosveka said. “I’ll speak to them.”
The older man met her gaze. There was something more he wanted to say, but she waited for the current of the conversation to carry it to her. “We could have traveled to Sarmala with the official delegation,” he said at last. “Down the river, as is proper. No ice, no ghouls, no haunted pass. You could have ridden into Thelenza in your guise as Minister of Trade, in safety and comfort, and been greeted with a grand feast.”
She scoffed. “Sarmalan feasts are always a disappointment. The food looks good, but they slather everything with that sweet vinegar they love so much. You can’t even taste the ingredients.”
“True,” Pietrad said evenly, patting his belly. “Their cuisine is a travesty. But we’re risking our lives to infiltrate the capital without being seen. If that’s so important, why jeopardize it by rescuing some girl?”
Belosveka frowned, considering what to tell him. Her leadership was based on her instinct for developing assets over the long term, Pietrad himself being a prime example. When she’d first met him, he’d been a municipal priest, bored out of his mind and craving meaningful violence, which she’d given him. This time, she might say, her instincts told her the Anashi girl was worth the inconvenience.
But there was more to it than that, a reason she couldn’t share even with him. It was why she had led her team to that village in the first place, so close to the menacing border of Anash. Years of careful, clandestine work, sniffing out the faintest of rumors, had pointed her to that place. If the rumors proved true, the Anashi girl would someday wield a power not seen in generations—a power that could lead to a new society built atop the ruins of Sarmala.
She settled on keeping her reasons to herself. Pietrad was under her command, after all, and the spring owed the stream no explanations. “I hear you,” she said. “But the child is strategically important, for reasons that aren’t your concern.”
Pietrad saluted, but chewed the end of his mustache a moment longer. “There’s something more,” he said, glancing back down the slope, where the shadows were growing across the trail like dark roots. “While I was relieving myself behind a boulder, I overheard Djitric say we’d be safer without the girl and her bad luck. He mentioned how easy it might be for some misfortune to befall her in the pass.”
“Arid hells,” Belosveka growled, squinting back at her troops. Pietrad had never liked Djitric, and had tried to talk her out of selecting the sly agent for their mission. She wasn’t particularly fond of the man either, but Djitric was a master of infiltration, so she’d chosen to include him anyway. It galled her to learn that Pietrad’s distrust had been warranted.
Thankfully, the sergeant wasn’t the type to gloat. “How do you want to handle it?” he said.
“Keep the girl close to you for now. I’ll deal with Djitric. We can’t allow this insubordination to fester.” The sky was quickly growing dark, the temperature starting to plummet. A few pebbles clattered down the hillside as some animal headed for its burrow. Once they made camp, she’d take a few operatives aside, those she knew best, and see how deep the wound really was.
Pietrad spat. “What if it’s already spread?”
Belosveka straightened, meeting her sergeant’s eye. “If I have to, I’ll cut out the rot myself.” The waning light caught the points of witchglass in her skin as she moved her hand to the silvery coil encircling her waist, a reminder of why she was in command.
Pietrad glanced at her weapon. Even in Dzhar, few people carried the taspara. In lesser hands, the long, thin ribbon of razor-sharp witchglass was as likely to injure the wielder as her opponent. But for the few who managed to master it, the destructive elegance of the taspara was unparalleled, as fluid and deadly as a water snake. And since it could be coiled unobtrusively around a wearer’s midsection, it had the added benefit of looking like a harmless fashion accessory.
The corners of Pietrad’s eyes wrinkled a bit. For him, this was the equivalent of a guffaw. “I’d buy a ticket to that show. We’ll have to be careful, though. Some of the younger...” He trailed off, frowning at something up-slope.
“What is it?”
“Thought I saw something cross the trail up ahead.”
Belosveka glanced up the hill, but saw only stark rock and lengthening shadows. “I’ve heard night vision is the first thing to go, old man,” she joked, turning back to him. “Maybe you should eat more—”
She froze. Behind Pietrad, dozens of pale shapes were slinking down the hill, low against the stones as they approached the sheltered bend where her company was resting. She was sprinting down the trail before her mind fully caught up, unfurling her weapon as she ran. Pietrad cursed and whistled the alarm, three staccato blasts, before hustling after her.
She was close enough to read the confusion on the faces of her soldiers as she dashed toward them. Djitric was standing, about to say something, when a Grandchild shot out from behind a rock and tore his neck open like a steamed tomato. The creature landed on his chest and bent over his corpse, its mouth fastened around his exposed spine.
One of the junior specialists broke the silence with a scream. The operatives scrambled for their weapons as more ghouls crawled over the rocks, dark eyes glittering in their round, white faces. The creatures were in constant motion, chittering and grinning as they popped out from behind cover.
Belosveka had only encountered Grandchildren once before, and then only from a distance. Up close, they were even more horrifying than the stories made them out to be. They were vaguely humanoid, with translucent bodies that swelled with blood as they fed, a perverse cross between a child and a tick. Their features were blurred and half-formed like melting ice sculptures. Above unnatural eyes with white irises and black sclera, dark veins spidered across their bald skulls. Their unnaturally long and slender limbs tapered into wicked black talons, and rows of black, needle-like teeth rippled across their mouths in sickening waves.
She observed these details in brief flashes as she neared the base of the hill. Her company was lightly armed, carrying only daggers or the occasional hatchet. Combat was supposed to be their last resort. No armor, no shields, nothing pilgrims wouldn’t carry.
The sole exception was Belosveka herself. As she ran, she used the pattern of her breath to pull herself into the battle trance. Each heartbeat drove her mind further toward the deep, calm water at the center of her consciousness, the place where thoughts melted away and she became pure fluidity.
Her taspara caught the air and flowed around her like a river of light. The battle trance turned the rush of time into a trickle, the world moving like cold honey. Her emotions drained away, making space for the raw sensation that flooded into her from her team, the invisible currents of their perceptions focused through the shards of witchglass in her skin. Details crashed into her, stripping away doubt and hesitation and leaving only the clean certainty of combat.
Where the trail broadened, a group of grinning demons encircled three of her agents, feinting and waiting to pounce. She noted with muted pride that, despite their obvious terror, her young troops had formed an appropriate defensive structure. She’d taught them well.
Her taspara shot out, slicing off a Grandchild’s forelimbs before curving back and eviscerating a second. Their blood, so dark it was almost black, glittered oddly as it spattered on the trail. Sensations cascaded through her mind, making her aware of each drop, each bouncing pebble, the pure information driving out everything else. Fear and anger and sorrow would hit her later, once the trance was over.
She spun into the heart of the battle, a whirlwind of crackling light. The whites of her eyes were aglow, her veins flickering like lightning beneath her skin. It felt as though both she and her foes were puppets manipulated by an unseen hand, the Grandchildren registering an almost-human surprise as they seemed to step right into her attacks. The battle trance orchestrated her movements, making each gesture seem inevitable.
Past the reach of her onslaught, though, her company was outmatched, fighting in small groups. She observed with tactical detachment as a young operative panicked and broke formation, lunging forward to strike. His aim was true, but the surrounding Grandchildren took advantage of the opening and overwhelmed his group, tearing them to strips. The isolated soldiers needed to come together into a single formation, or they were doomed. Belosveka’s emotions were flattened by her trance, but she knew the screams would come back to haunt her later.
The ghoul that had slain Djitric looked up from his corpse. As she watched, its nose finished lengthening, its jaw narrowing until it bore the man’s exact likeness. It emitted a series of odd clicks, followed by what sounded very much like a word. It sounded like Anashic. The surprise almost bounced her out of her trance. The damn things could speak?
That mystery, like her emotional responses, would have to wait. Where the trail flattened out, Pietrad had managed to bring together several groups into a defensive circle around the campfire. The Anashi girl huddled in the center of the circle, clutching her satchel and shaking with terror. The transformed Grandchild was fixated on moving toward this larger group, offering little resistance as Belosveka killed it.
Another ghoul finished feeding and looked up from its victim, its features morphing into the likeness of its kill. It, too, emitted the strange Anashic word before its eerie gaze latched onto the campfire. It began to advance in a straight line, ignoring the chaotic circling of the other monsters, fixated on the circle of humans.
No, not the circle. The girl. The creature was moving toward her as though on a winch. Through the wavering heat of the torches, Belosveka saw Pietrad make the same observation. He looked at the girl, who was watching the demon with dismay. The battle trance revealed his calculations, the decision playing out with crystalline clarity across his honest face. A single innocent girl versus the many young operatives he was sworn to lead? It was no choice at all.
He raised his axe.
Her taspara swam through the air like a proud banner, its motion almost lazy, and sliced through Pietrad’s neck on its way to the ghoul behind him. To someone who didn’t understand the battle trance, it might have looked like a mistake. He had time for a single glance at Belosveka before he fell, his expression of innocent surprise joining the endless parade of images that would haunt her after the battle.
The last isolated group of operatives fell to the demons, leaving only the main circle to defend. Belosveka swirled around the perimeter, slicing through the monsters like a gale, until the Grandchildren finally realized they were outmatched. The creatures scattered back up the hillside, hissing as they disappeared into the rocks like a draining flood.
Steeling herself, Belosveka released her trance. The lightning in her veins flickered out as a wave of exhaustion barreled into her. She staggered, somehow keeping her feet, but cried out as the pent-up emotions hit her all at once. Grief crashed into her like the first gust of an ice storm. With it came the moans of the wounded—her soldiers, her companions, her responsibility.
She dropped to her knees, the taspara falling from her shaking fingers. As always, the witchglass remained pristine, blood refusing to cling to it. If only her conscience could remain as unsullied.
She looked up from the reddened ground and found the Anashi staring at her. The girl’s skin blended in with the hillside as the last sunlight finally fled the sky, the ash of her cheeks fading to charcoal at her fingertips. Her eyes, too, were surrounded by darker skin. Wide with fear, they looked like twin caves aglow with firelight, portals to some evil place. Despite her exertion, Belosveka felt a chill ripple down her shoulders.
“The Grandchildren spoke,” she said to the girl. “After their faces changed, they said a word.”
The child stiffened. Belosveka could tell from her expression that she had heard the word and that she, too, knew it was Anashic. The child looked down at the ground, withdrawing further into herself. “Verified,” the girl said softly. “That was the word.”
The Anashi finally looked up, tears catching the torchlight, and a rush of shame joined Belosveka’s other emotions. The child was alone and frightened, the battle heaping fresh terror atop the trauma she had already endured. If the Grandchildren had indeed been drawn to her, it hadn’t been because she’d summoned them. She was as much a victim as the Dzharians.
Regardless, the child’s connection to the creatures was a confirmation: the rumors had been correct. It was certain now. Belosveka looked past the Anashi to where Pietrad’s blood was still absorbing into the path. The current of his life drained away to rejoin the Dark River, as all lives eventually must. He had been loyal and staunch and she would miss him.
The surviving operatives were tending to the wounded, holding back their own grief until they’d dealt with the immediate problem, just as she’d taught them. They’d fought well, and she was proud of every one of them. But none of that mattered now. They could not be allowed to live after seeing what they had seen. The best she could give them was the respect of killing them herself once they reached Thelenza.
She knelt and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What did it mean?” the Anashi whispered, hugging her satchel like it was trying to flee.
Belosveka smiled and wiped away the child’s tears with her thumb, her hand almost as big as the girl’s face. “It means you’re very special, Vaye.” She glanced around to make sure the rest of her team was out of earshot, even though it soon wouldn’t matter what they’d heard. “The Anashi were once known as The Children of the Storm,” she whispered. “And one day, the world will call you that again.”
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