Daniyah

Daniyah

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The continuation of Pale Leaves

Daniyah woke with the taste of sex on her tongue.

The taste of him still clung, salt and skin, the bitter edge of dried spit. Something faintly sweet and something sour. Her mouth was dry, her lips tacky, her throat raw from campfire smoke, moaning and whatever the hell else they'd done to each other out in the dirt. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth like old leather. Her thighs were tacky, her neck tender where he'd kissed it raw. The ghost of the night before haunted her skin.

Her guts cramped, low and deep, the kind of cramp that meant she had minutes before her body made decisions for her. Garrod’s arm was a dead weight across her hip, warm and slack with sleep. She rolled out from under it with the careful guilt of someone slipping from a lover’s bed, only they weren’t in a bed, they were on cold earth and matted pine needles, cloaked in a wool blanket. She sat up with a hiss, stomach knotting. The fire was ash and soot. Garrod lay half-curled beside her, a slab of heat and muscle, blanket tangled around his waist.

She blinked hard, head pounding, guts turning. There was poison in her. Not metaphorically, but an actual poison. A slow brew she'd swallowed days ago. But her body hated it. Hated her. And now it was coming back up, the poison wanted out. The Widow's Breath was clawing its way back up. Her mouth watered in the worst way. Daniyah groped blindly for her shirt, finding it crumpled near the edge of the blanket, still wet. She hauled it over her head anyway, the cold fabric slapping her back to the world. She staggered toward the trees, barefoot, stomach pitching harder with every step. Cold slicing up her legs. Her stomach cramped again.

But she stopped.
She froze halfway between retching and breathing.
Something was wrong.

Bootprints. Several. Not Garrod’s. Smaller and quicker. No attempt to cover them. Her gut did a different kind of flip, bile mixing with adrenaline now.

“Shit.”

It ripped out of Daniyah like a reflex, low and sharp, cutting through the pale morning air. Bile slick up her throat, but she swallowed it down. Daniyah spat, a thick line of saliva clinging to her lip. She wiped it with the back of her hand. The nausea hadn’t gone away, but now it was drowned out by rage. Shame. The creeping burn of failure in her throat.

They’d been robbed.

They’d been fucking robbed!

They had fucked like gods. Slept like corpses. While they were tangled up in dreams and each other's limbs, some sneaky bastard had walked in and lifted the one damned piece of cursed gear that shouldn’t even be touchable.

"Fuck."

Daniyah swore under her breath and staggered back toward Garrod. “Garrod, wake the fuck up!" She nudged him lightly with her foot, before she crouched beside him and shook his shoulder.

"You’re not gonna believe this, lover boy, but we got stripped tonight."
 
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Sleep was heavy on his eye. Deep in his bones. Felt good across his skin. Shift and rasp as it did in those little moments when the mind stirred to wake.

Did not mind so much, that some branch break, or bird hop had tripped his mind out of the deep lull. Muscles were wrapped warm against other muscles. Bones felt the weight of other bones.

Daniyah. Some part of his mind remembered, too pleased. And back into the dark soup of slumber he would go. Made a little sound as he felt her slip away.

Thought nothing of it, because there was hardly anything to think about. Piss break. Weird itch. Maybe she wanted to go and rinse off.

Fuck it.

He could not remember the last time he had slept so good and he was going to-

"Garrod, Wake the fuck up!"A nudge. All heel of foot.

A grunt, as he turned away. What was it then. Some critter get into the pack? He huffed, got up and out, all cat come out of their curl.

"Lover boy-" he had started grinning as he worked himself up.

"-we got stripped tonight."

Green eye sprang open all splash of cold water. "What?" he said, spine bolt straight. Head snapped to the pack, hair a tangled rats nest mussed up to the winds.

Gone.

Belephus was gone. His armor. Swords. "What in the fuck," he hissed through his teeth, half out of the blankets. Scrabbling his eye wrap, snugged to the old wound.

A cold and soundless hiss there where sharp shard of green almost always seemed to perch. Claw, and scratch.

His hand snapped the blanket off. Reached for his braises, jammed one leg in, all bounce on his ass as he jammed the other. Got up. Fingers knotting the strings, if only to keep busy while his mind raced.

All of his stuff was gone. Save the cooking kettle. Fingered the pouches of his pack.

"Fuck," he whispered. Skin gooseprickled by the morning cold. Pulled his hands out empty. "Course the Heart is gone too," looked to the mules.

Still there. Back to Daniyah.

"Couldn't have gotten that far," not with all that stuff. Felt his gut twisting like this was all his fucking fault.

No use in lamenting it now.

"You missing anything?" he asked as he slipped on his hose. Tied them down. Everything was fucking damp. Crusty. Shit. "So much for cleaning up," he muttered with a smirk as he worked on his boots. Bitter, for the hunt ahead.
 
Half-sure she was about to throw up, but it passed...for now. Just cold sweat and that raw nagging pain behind her ribs, like her insides were scraping against bone. She clenched her jaw and straightened up, eyes on Garrod as he scrambled his limbs and got up.

“Didn’t touch a damn thing of mine,” she dragged her fingers through her hair. “Guess they didn’t think much of bone charms, a bag full of salt, and ghost ashes.” Or they knew how good mules were at guarding and alerting, and just avoided the stuff near them. She jerked her chin toward her pack, untouched and still where she left it. Crossbow was still here too, which was weird. That thing was worth more than an elf's left nut. But it seemed like they didn’t even look at it.

“Either that or they were looking for your cursed shit specifically.” Her pale eyes flicked back to him.

Everything was sore. Her legs were stiff, her head was pounding, and sweat trickled down the back of her neck despite the chill. Felt like she'd wrestled a corpse full of bees. She snorted, rubbed the heel of her hand against her brow. Skin clammy. Cold sweat beading at her hairline like a fever breaking the wrong way. She looked at Garrod as he finished tying up his hose.

“You go... before whatever’s wearing your gauntlet gets any ideas.”

He would be far quicker right now. And much sharper than her. Garrod was already half-dressed and strapping on what gear he still had, stiffly alert like a hound chasing blood. She didn’t rush. Just stood there for a beat, shirt clinging damp to her skin.

“I’ll pack. Clean. I'll catch up.”

The beasts stood in the early gloom, tails swishing, indifferent to the fact they’d been surrounded by thieves in the night. She ducked past one’s flank, reached beneath the saddle roll, and hauled out her crossbow. She slung the strap over her shoulder, then crouched to fish out bolts and a quiver.

Not the good bolts. Not the silver or the bone-tipped ones meant for the undead. Just sharp steel. Enough to kill a man. Or several.

She walked back to Garrod without ceremony. He was still pulling himself together. Daniyah tossed the quiver down near his boots. Thunk.

“Here,” she said flatly, holding the crossbow out for him to grab. “You’re borrowing it.”
 
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He laughed. "Or they are fucking buzzards," Slipped shirt on. Jammed it down. Gambeson, mail shirt. Glad for that.

And his fucking knife still on his belt. Gave thanks for small graces as he pulled the leather straps tight through their buckles and loops. A nod to the suggestion.

"You'll catch up," he said, still looking about.

For all the fucking bliss they had snagged from the jaws of night. Dawn always came to collect.

Paused a moment. Looked to her, feet half ready to take off. How she moved, all slow through the mist. Reminded him to breath. Shook his head, and fixed the fit of what little kit was still his.

Mail over his gambeson. Greeves on his boots. Flexed his right hand. Felt every single one of the jagged scars there across itch as fibers and chords wound taught with the curl of fingers.

Thunk.

He looked down. Saw the feathers, all proud bouquet.

"Here." Her crossbow caught the light. "You're borrowing it."

A smirk. All knife loosed from its sheath. "You worried about me, lover girl?" little croon to it. Grabbed the crossbow, turned it in his mitts. Checked the action, and the tension on the bolt crank. Slung it with care. Took up the bolts. "Borrowing it," he said with a nod. Fixed their belt across his chest. Looked to her. A long moment.

All sussorous there in the void of his missing eye.

Left onto the trail the thieves had left behind.
 
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"You worried about me, lover girl?"

Her chin slightly tilted, arms crossed, eyes unreadable beneath the mess of damp, light hair. Then he looked at her, long enough for the air to stretch taut between them. Daniyah held his gaze.

"Don’t die."

Then he turned to the hunt. She stood there a while, just watching his back get smaller, darker, until the woods swallowed him whole. She listened for a while. Just stood there, fingers resting on her upper arms. Then she got to work. The blankets from the night before was still tangled on the ground. She picked them up, gave them each a shake, and watched a fine mist of dirt, leaves, and pine needles scatter into the wind. Rolled them up.

Everything smelled like smoke and old sweat. Her jaw clenched. Enough of that.

She headed for the river, a short walk downhill through brambles and slippery stones. The water was cold enough to stop the heart. The shock of it hit her lungs like a hammer. She scrubbed fast with the almond-scented soap. She ducked beneath, came up gasping, water slicking her hair to her skull. It dragged the warmth from her bones, but it dragged the rest of the night with it, too, sweat, sex, the shame of sleep too deep to hear thieves at work. Pulled downstream like it had never touched her.

When she finished, she sat waist-deep for a moment, hair dripping. Her breath fogged in the cold air. Muscles burned with chill. Back at camp, she dressed fresh. Clean and dry clothes. She bent to the firepit, ground it out with dirt and the heel of her boot until it was nothing but gray paste. Packed the last of the gear with swift hands.

The camp was cold, clean and done.

The pale mule gave a soft grunt. She patted its neck once, mounted, and kicked it gently into motion. Hooves crunched through the pine needles as she followed the path Garrod taken. A few meters in, her stomach lurched like she’d swallowed a live eel. She blinked, tried to breathe through it, hand cramping the reins tighter. She clenched her teeth, swallowed once, hard. It didn’t help. Her gut turned inside out.

“Fuck..!”

She reeled the mule to a halt, fell out of the saddle, staggered three steps toward a tree, hit her knees. Hands braced in the moss, she vomited with a sound like a wounded animal. What came out wasn’t food. Wasn’t bile.

It was black. Thick, sludgy. Oily like tar, flecked with silver threads that shimmered for a moment before vanishing into the dirt like they’d never existed. Her breath came ragged, sweat beading cold on her skin. Daniyah groaned, choked. Her mouth tore open with another violent retch, and more of it came. It smelled like something that had been buried too long. Sticky and slow, sliding from her lips like entrails from a split belly.

She spit the last of it onto the roots. Blood in the foam. Her gums stung. She was trembling. The tree she’d grabbed for support was turning black where the vomit touched it, bark blistering like it had been in a fire. She breathed, finally, a rattling inhale. Her lips were slick with black. She sat back on her heels. For a moment, the whole world tilted like she was floating just above her skin. Her body didn’t feel like hers anymore.

Then it passed.

She looked up the trail again. Wiped her mouth with a handful of moss. She hauled herself upright, legs stiff and shaky beneath her. Climbed back into the saddle like a corpse reanimating. Then she rode on. Tasting carrion.
 
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Brinda's nose was all scrunched up as she eyed the strange piece of armor, just dangling from old Jesper's pack of loot. Her own portion of the haul, mainly the clam shell of the breastplate, and the thinner of the two swords, hardly made a rattle as they trekked. Dulled by smuggler's cloth.

"I can swear, I see it starin right at me," Brinda said, all nasally and wonder eyed.

"Then stop starin at it," Jesper cut.

Brinda huffed as her heels tread over soft leaf litter and earth. "Easy for you to say," she said as the trek started to wear on her. "You aren't the one down wind of it,"

A grunt. "It's just an old relic," turned his hard eyes onto the girl. "Keep your eyes off it, and your mind on the getaway,"

A grunt. A heft. The sound of canvas sliced apart. A thunk. Greatsword, fiend's arm, and other bits of good steel rattled in the hull of a canoe. A second grunt there after. The armor and messer clunked down while the old buzzard went about his work. All long limbed and nimble, his lanky arms moved like a spider's legs weaving its web. Nestled a bit there, shift a pack next. Snugged it all nice and tight.

Brinda breathed heavy. Wiped the sweat off her brow. Rubbed at her scrawny shoulders. Moved to the work. Eyes went wide. "Jes! Your arm!" she called out.

Jesper made a sound. Turned to see where the kids hands were clutching. Already busy with their aid. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. No real concern in his voice. Looked down to the gauntlet. Saw its pale eye staring right back up at him. His blood, spattered there by its tines. All star's light diffused through silver haze as the bone white shimmered like the mist in green lightning's afterglow. “That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.”

"Wha-what?" Brinda asked, cleaning the wound off as it bled through the thick canvas of the old buzzard's coat.

"Something I heard an old Buzzard say, long ago," stilled as the kid finished their work. His eyes fixed on the fiend trapped in its jewel. And the blood that had vanished from its plate. "Pay it no mind,"

A nervous laugh from Brinda. "As if," cinched the bandage clean.

Garrod followed the tracks through the woods like a hound on the scent. Nerveminded the fucking ache of his legs, or how it felt like they would tear themselves right out of his hips as he raced through the forest. Crossbow slung sure, quiver held fast to reduce the bolt rattle.

Signs would show.

Careful as these Buzzards were. One was clearly not used to carrying so much extra weight. A heel too deep in the mud with one step. Leaf litter and pinecones stomped hard the next. Off kilter. Struggling. Made the older ghost's tracks show up. Hard as they were to see, even when Garrod looked hard for them.

Gait easy as the wind stirring. If not for the hitch that showed every tenth, or thirteenth step. Didn't slow him down any though. Part of the Cazadore respected that. Admired it. Envied it. Hated it.

"Fucking Buzzard fuck," he said through gritted grin. Traced the outline of the bootprint with his fingers. Dry. Pressed his pads there to the indentation. Just a touch damp. Morning dew pressed down. Still hadn't burned off. "Not so far behind now," he said through panted breath. Lurched up from his crouch. Hurried forward.

He could smell the blood before he saw it. The tang of iron tickled him all the way up to the back of his skull. Felt his lips stretch to a smile, and his teeth show to the river's breeze.

"Fuck," he said as he happened upon the scene.

Could see the two's prints clear as day. They didn't give two shits about hiding. Because they had made off on a fucking boat.

"Fuck!" he cursed with a growl and a shout. Boots stomped out the shore. Felt his feet sink in the river mud. The cold sink into his ankles. The rush of the water fill his ears.

Felt green glass crack across the black of his mind. Felt the smile spread wide. The teeth sink.

Crows took flight from a distant tree, far down the river. Black shapes in muder's flight. A scream. Young and full of agony, rolled up the river and right into Garrod's bones.

He took off. Heels spraying mud and grit. Down, down, down the riverbanks. Reeds snapping, rushes scratching. Ducks quaking before they took to the waters and struck away with the frogs and fishes.
 
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The mules picked their way through the roots without complaint, smart beasts that they were. Garrod’s trail was carved into the earth like a curse. Boot prints punched deep. Weeds snapped clean. Fast, purposeful, the way a man moves when his blood is up.

But then... The scream. It peeled through the trees like skin off bone. Carried on river wind and full of wet, cracking terror. Daniyah reined in hard, boots hitting the ground a heartbeat later. Because when a fiend-bound gauntlet goes missing and screams are carried by the winds, there’s only one way that story ends...

She tied the reins off to a low-hanging branch, slapped its hindquarters. "Stay." She told both of the mules. Oscar snorted, ears twitching. Daniyah grabbed her sword from where it hung sheathed against the mule’s flank. She could hear Garrod’s steps up ahead, maybe fifty paces, reckless, splashing, crashing, full of purpose. He was just ahead of her now, charging straight toward it.

She walked.

The air was changing. Heavier. Greasier. Wrong. A bird dropped from a branch as she passed. No wound. Just dead. Spine snapped in terror. She drew her sword. The blade was black as the void between stars. The scabbard gave it up like a secret, it didn’t ring. The steel did not sing like normal steel. But it whispered. A low, scraping sound against the soul or like breath in a cold tomb.

The black forged with iron fallen from a star, quenched in blood from a blind lamb, tempered in the shadows of an eclipse, bound with spells older than the written word, and buried in unhallowed ground. In the right light, the blade shimmered. But not with polish, but with drifting faces. Blurred like reflections in dirty glass. The blade was more a ritual than a weapon.

“Let’s see how deep you’ve sunk your claws, fiend,” she muttered as she moved closer.
 
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Pay it no mind. He said. Pft. As if. The thing had sliced Jesp right open. Jesper Ghost Fingers. Buzzard's Buzzard. Too good at what he did for Dens to turn him away. Even picked up Tracker work, when he wasn't stalking the right tract.

Cut him like he was fresh from the nest just learning to fly. All fall to the earth and red hurts.

She would keep her eyes right on the damned thing. Wouldn't take them off of it. Even as her arms worked the leaf bladed paddle, through the river currents. The nose of their canoe zig and zag counter to the stream.

"What did I tell you?" Jesper said, all cold and distant. His paddle hardly made a sound against the rush of water.

Brinda's splashed, just loud enough to hear at each dip of the oar's head. "I can't just, not look at it,"

A click of the teeth. "Since when you fancy getting so smart with me, girl?" the old Buzzard snapped. Huffed. "Things like that, only get more of you, the more mind you pay them," glanced back to see the scrawny girl. Mane all rat's nest, cheeks gaunt from the lean life they led. Canoe knocked against the opposite shore. Couple miles upstream. Worked himself out. "You hear me?" voice still hard as iron as he grabbed the packs. Hefted the greatsword and the gauntlet on.

Brinda huffed. Cut her eyes away. "I hear you," she said. Stashed the oar, and worked her own pack on.

River was shallow enough to ford. His eye looked to clouds. Tried to paint those black wings there across the steel colored horizon. Cold river run across his ankles. Choked up the quiver, nestled the crossbow. forded over the rush.

Careful as he could against the river rocks. Lifted quiver and crossbow over his head as the water got higher. Up to his waste. Frigid and draining and threatening to drag him off. He kept his march. Pumped his legs.

Felt hot all the same. Felt his chest ready to burst with how hard his heart hammered. Felt the glass spiral and churn in the ink of his mind. The teeth sink. Grind. Shatter bone and savor warm, fresh, meat.

You always denied me, Oh Bearer Mine.

Rushed the more across the current. Broke over the shallow banks on the other side. Shook the wet water log out of his pants best he could before he picked up pace. Couldn't quite run, with how heavy the water made him. Not till it drained. Hobble stepped. Awkward, but he couldn't wait. Couldn't stop. Up the trail he went.

Past their banked canoe.

It winked at her. She swore it winked at her. Almost seemed to smile. The strange jagged edges of its geometry. Invited her in.

Just try me on. It seemed to whisper. You saw how Jesper looked at me. It teased. He wants me all for himself. It goaded. But I would rather have you.

She blinked. Found her hand upon the cold shimmering bone of the gauntlet. Could feel it course beneath the pads of her thumb. Pulse. Its eye, wide and inviting as it stared up at her. Fingers, almost seemed to curl, in tender invitation.

Go on. It beckoned. Slip right in.

In her hand slipped.

"Brinda!"

CRUNCH.

Blood gushed onto the floor with wet splash. Scream ripped out of her throat. Crows set to the sky.

Garrod trained the crossbow ahead. At the dying embers of a smokeless campfire. Couldn't see any movement. Could smell the blood though. Could taste it in his mouth. Almost feel it coat around his tongue, and the gums of his teeth. Mouth watering like a slavering dog. Made him grit his teeth to the point of popping.

Heard a gurgling breath. Wheezing through the wrong holes.

"Fuck," he growled, and moved out of his cover. Into the camp. Broke through the brush. Checked left and right with bolt pointed to killing height. Saw the blood. Everywhere. Saw the lanky limbs of a buzzard, all stretched out on the ground, back leaned against a tree. Arm gone. neck ripped open. The hand he had left pressed hard against his neck as the last ragged breaths of his stubborn life pulled through his failing lungs. Horrid red grin spread across his face.

"Didn't, think, she'd be the one, to break," the old Buzzard said.

Garrod stared wide eyed at the dying man. Lowered the crossbow. Looked about. Greatsword gone. No sign of Belephus. Save the blood starting to coagulate.

"Don't let it take her," the old buzzard wheezed. Pulled Garrod's eye to him. "Please. Don't let it take her," last breath rattled out from him.

Garrod stared at him a long moment. Cursed beneath his breath. Moved back to the trail.

A rustle in the growth ahead of Daniya.

A wiry frame come burst through the tall grass and the shruberry. Faster, stronger than anything so lithe had the right to be. The runed monster slayer heaved there behind it. Swung overhead to crash down over Daniyah. All reckless abandon.

The white gauntlet, clamped about the hilt of the blade. Red pouring out from the gaps in its construction. Pale eye, burning a horrid green.

The girl was young. Face split wide by a grin that contorted her features, as if an angry child had painted a face across her flesh. "It's too bad she won't live," the girl spat out in a voice that shook with chords not her own. All hiss and pride and too sure of itself. "Then again," Hefted the sword, and swiped again, cross cut, flat an aimed to cut in two. "Who does?!"
 
Daniyah got the blade up just in time, parried high, and the shock of it near tore her shoulder out of its socket. The impact sent her staggering back through mud and dead reeds, boots slipping. Daniyah hit the ground hard, breath punched out of her and the sword almost slipped from her grip. Mud splashed up her arms, wet and cold. Gods, she hated close work. She was better at twenty paces. But there was no distance here.

“Gods damn you,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

The girl’s face, what was left of it, grinned back at her like a mask. All twisted, wrong, occupied. The girl came in again, the green jewel of the gauntlet burning like a forge. Daniyah rolled aside, barely escaping the first hack. She came up on one knee, black blade raised one-handed, bracing to parry the next strike. The fiend’s blade came down with savage force. It slammed into her shoulder, driving the edge of its weight through her leathers and biting into muscle beneath. Pain flared hot and cruel, arm trembling, vision flickering at the edges.

Daniyah ripped a small pouch from her belt with her free hand and bit it open with her teeth. Silver dust spilled into the air, blessed and bitter.

"Fiendbound. Blood-bound. Flesh-fed. I see you, and I name you nothing."

Flung her wrist forward. The powder erupted in a fine cloud, a pretty shimmer in the morning light to the girl’s twisted face.

Daniyah gritted her teeth and leaned sharply forward, twisting her torso and rolling her shoulder under the weight of the fiend’s strike. Faces shimmered faintly in the black steel, twisting, snarling, echoing past kills and restless spirits. Daniyah surged forward, boots digging into mud. She drove her weight into the strike, swinging the black blade in a wide arc aimed low.

The air seemed to tear, a razor trail of the black sword cut through the morning mist. It dragged at the things that should not be in this world, the undead, demons, fiends, wraiths, pulling at the unnatural presence. Sucking them closer to its edge.
 
A snarl, all blooded teeth showed through cracked lips and red stained mask. Hungry. Sharp. Eyes that seemed hollowed out wells, and there at their pit, that same chartreuse light that blazed within the jewel. Spiral and ancient in its turn. Twisted the girl to its bidding.

All laugh and cackle at the curse. The pain it could see. Feel. Taste. As the monsterslayer scraped against the void blade. The horrid sound of the weapon's clangor, set shivers across the girl's skin. Spine tingling, gut turning.

"Oh, it's not me they have damned," spoke the shattered chorus of dissonant voices. "But you know that too well,"

Come the powder, and the skin the demon wore hissed and blinked back. Blade faltered as its voices coalesced through the sounds the mortal's throat could make. "Red Bride!"

Shook it off, guarded, quick, instinct and mimicry using the run of the great blade as a shield down across the length of its bloody vessel. Caught the the whispering edge across the hard bite of the old weapon. Two magicked swords, refusing to give way to the other.

Starmetal and moonless magick against dragon bone and steel of a revenant's heart.

And while the midnight blade pulled at the fibers of Belephus. The twines of his very presence there in that world. He had fed too much. Been worn too long. Moved with the expert wrath of its bearer. Shift the sword's length, just so. Turned the great weapon over, all seamless deathtrap. Weak off the strong.

Flowing up, to bring the murder blow down inside her guard. Just as Garrod would.

The clank of smooth action. Whistle of bolt. Pinged off the sword's blade with enough force to set it off the line.

"Ahyiid's piss," Garrod cursed, already reloading the next bolt. Whistled long and sharp to Daniyah.

The girl, possessed by Belephus laughed. Blood pouring still from the cracks in the white gauntlet. Bones shaking violently as the flesh shined with sweat. The morning mist boiling off of her feverish glow. "What a nice day for an exorcism!"

Second shot sailed wide as the girl's body jerked to violent speed. Rushed Daniyah with a slow sweep of her legs, making use of the greatsword's reach.
 
The voice of the fiend was a scraping, many-throated sound that made the air feel thin.

Red Bride.

The name pressed against her skull. Buried under years of salt and steel. Still, the fiend found it, like it listened to the echo of what she had tried to bury. They always found out. Demons were predators, hunters in a world that favored the quick and the cruel.

The scent of roses and the taste of black honey, the silk veil sticking to her face, his hands. So soft, but too cold.

Her hand faltered. Just a fraction. Just enough.

The dragon blade came screaming through the air, but a bolt pinged off the fiend’s blade just as it swung again, just enough to shove the killing strike off its line. The sword’s edge grazed Daniyah’s ribs instead of gutting her, tearing a jagged line through boiled leather and cloth. Hot blood ran down her side. She heard Garrod whistle, but couldn't afford to take her focus of the fiend.

The second bolt hissed past, close enough to stir her pale hair strands.. The fiend moved unatural, all jerks and lunges and speed stolen from something that should never move like flesh. The blade came in low. The greatsword swept out in a wide, almost lazy arc. Daniyah tried to pull back, but the ground was slick with river mud.

Steel met meat.

The blade caught her just below the knee. The weight of her own body pulled it further apart, her leg buckled instantly. She went down screaming, half from shock, half from the agony that flooded her head and made the world swim in white flashes. Her sword clattered beside her. Mud and blood slicked her hands as Daniyah tried to drag herself backward. Pain shrieked up her leg when she moved, and she fell back down. Warm blood pooled in the mud underneath her.

Her breath came shallow, trembling. One hand pressed to the shredded limb, hot blood pumping from the ruin of tendon and bone. The life pulse beating between her fingers, running out of her calf. A wet rush that steamed in the cold morning air.
 
A cackle, mad and excited. Spine broken backwards as the sword was heaved back up, blade ran with black blood streaked with silver stars set to fall across the patterned slab. White clawed hand gripped its ragged grasp across the sword's hilt.

The girl's face, contorted into a wicked smile.
"Darling," her multichorded voice said, full of venom and mockery as she took a wet slap step toward the downed and dragging Daniyah. "I need you to try and bleed less."

A steelhead bloomed through the girl's knee. She stumble stepped. Near fell. Caught herself only to have cartilage tear and bone grind horrid in its failure. Pop. Snap and fall to wet earth.

Growl ripping through her chords. Her eyes snapped to the sound of rushing feet slapping against the river mud. Crossbow dropped, sword of moonless night snatched from the muck. All swipe and turn, and thrust in fluid eight,

Clang, clatter. Sparks flew. Green flame ate away the bolt. Sealed the wound. But the arm still bled. Spattered, sprayed the girl's life across the wilds.

She laughed, wicked with glee. "Oh, Isn't this fun?! GARROD?!" she sounded in shattered ecstasy. Mousy brown hair bleeding to lifeless white. Her eyes spirals of madness like pits in the wake of a dead star.

A kick low to Garrod's blind side. Set him to trip. Caught a cut on the outside of his arm. Bled warm. Turned the next thrust. Only to hear the the starmetal sword's void song. Felt it rend his mind, there in the space behind his missing eye. Had him stammer.

The girl which Belephus wore cackled. Drove the monster slayer's point home. Plinked into chainrings. Popped one. Two. Sank like a tooth. Garrod grit through his teeth as he felt it bite through flesh over his heart. Scratch bone as the girl drove it in, deeper by fractions. Only the bind he had locked against the guard kept it from digging deeper.

"Oh, you should see the look on your faces," the girl hissed. "Cazadores,"
 
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"Garrod!" The name ripped through the fog of pain and mud and blood. His name tore from her throat, in a sound more animal than human. Her chest heaved, lungs burning, leg shredded beneath her, but the fear, horrid, sharp, real, fueled her. It ignited the memory of lessons long ago and ancient bone-deep knowledge a vampire prince once whispered to her.

Her leg throbbed with pain like molten fire, and Daniyah let it all feed the spell. Fingers plunged into the wound, pressing deep, letting the copper-sweet blood curl and writhe along her fingers. Pulled her hand out and traced frantic sigils in the air, arcs and spirals that twisted and writhed with terrible hunger. She whispered under her breath, guttural words, syllables older than kingdoms, older than death. The words scraped at her throat and ribs. The blood obeyed. The blood gleamed unnaturally, blackening as it spilled, and it lifted, from the ground, from her wounds. Words weren’t enough. She fed it, let it feed on the living essence of her own torn flesh. She gave it everything, pain, fear, rage, love, every heartbeat that begged for Garrod’s survival.

It twisted, writhing, crawling across the ground in snakes, reaching toward the gauntlet. The blood coiled up the girl’s wrist, over the pale metal, sucking at the sinews and veins, at the soft tissue beneath. Daniyah's blood flowed like rivers of shadow, coiling around the arm, sinking into the cracks of the gauntlet, searing at the limb beneath.

Daniyah leaned forward, teeth bared, eyes fever-bright. The magic she poured into her blood was sadistic, feeding on pain. Tendons twitched and screamed, bone grinding with wet, sickening snap. The girl's muscles strained. The arm shuddered violently, ripped, twisted, and then, with a horrid, wet tearing sound, it came free. Flesh and blood sprayed across the mud, painting her and the riverbank in a grotesque bloom. The gauntlet dangled, suspended in the living river of Daniyah's own life-force, twitching as if alive.

A violent twist, the living blood flung the severed arm, still dressed in the gauntlet to the side. It landed with a wet, grotesque thud, rolling in the mud like a discarded carcass.

The girl’s grip on the greatsword faltered instantly. The weapon jerked violently in her remaining hand. Muscles convulsed in panic. She staggered, torso twisting unnaturally. The girl's eyes, wide with hysteria, and her scream was high, a spasm of rage and disbelief, as her body fought to compensate. The sword spun in her grip, a clumsy, dangerous thing, more likely to bite her own foot than land on Garrod.
 
Like petals and leaves scattered by the autumn breeze, motes of red danced about wide eyed Garrod. His lone green eye swollen with all the horror that had just ripped itself into the world.

The girl's scream raked across the black of his mind. Daniyah's voice, still rattling through his bones as the sword fell.

Breath seemed to bleed out of him. Slow. Agonized. Temporal anomaly betwixt the beats of his still pumping heart.

Blood. Blood. There was so much fucking blood.

Sword came free with a rattle and ring popping slice across and through his chain mail shirt. What strength he had, what footing he still found, turned the sword away. In he stepped. Shoulder ramming, foot slipping behind hers.

Clumsy, one handed, wild as she was small. It was easy for him. Knocked her on her ass. Wide eyed and teeth bared, he kicked her chest down with the hard jut of a heel. Sent the monster slayer splashing against the mud with a wet squelch. Eye stared down at her.

Chest heaving, midnight sword firm in his hand as the girl moaned and turned, and clutched at the horrid stump of her arm.

His head snapped back to Daniyah. Blood pouring out of her. Red haze still streaked about the air where he could still see the accursed sigils she had drawn against the silver mist.

Skin paler than parchment.

A breath. His eye trembled. Hands shaking. Right hand clenched white knuckle around the hilt of the starmetal blade. Heard something rustle through the reeds. Eye locked to it. Legs moved without thought.

Oh, now you remember me, Oh Bearer Mine! the voice within his skull scraped as he moved, all frantic pace. Now you take the time to FIND me. The laugh that came, cruel as it was fearful.

Garrod saw it. Pale carapace gleaming its strange light. Fingers scuttling along like the legs of some wretched bottom feeder.

Get away from me! The voice hissed.

Garrod glowered, looped the sword against his belt. Took two long steps and snatched up the gauntlet. Girl's arm still there in. All dangle and squirm. Fingers twitching and flicking, little legs set to kick. He pulled the hunting knife from its sheath, turned the squirming scratching gauntlet just so.

Unhand me! the demon cried.

Garrod drove the knife's point in, and shucked the girl's arm out of the pale gauntlet like so much lobster tail.
 
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Her breath came in short, ragged bursts as the last threads of her spell began to unravel. The sigils, still faintly glowing in the fog, flickered once, then guttered out like embers.

The blood fell.

It came down all at once, like drenching rain from a torn sky. Warm one moment, then chilling as it met the mud. Her blood, his blood, their blood... it was all the same now, nothing but meat and memory. Her hands trembled as she stared at them. So small now. So empty. The power that had burned through her veins moments ago was gone. It had burned itself out, replaced now by a hollow, ringing nothing.

She lay half on her side, half in the mud, leg twisted beneath her. Where the blade had gone through, the meat of her calf and knee looked chewed apart, bone half-exposed under sheets of blood and grit. Each time her heart thudded, a little more red welled up and spilled down into the cold river muck. Her head lolled, breath slipped through gritted teeth as a moan.

The girl's scream had died in her throat, turned into a wet, rasping whine. The place where her arm had been was a ruin of jagged meat, tendon, bone pipes shining through the gore. She writhed, kicking weakly in the muck. The rage that had been burning in her eyes was flickering, dimming, stuttering like a dying candle. Her body convulsed. The fingers of her remaining hand clawed at the mud, digging trenches as if trying to find purchase.

Daniyah’s fingers shook as she pressed them into the torn flesh below her knee. She could feel the splintered bone beneath. The pain came in waves that made her vision lurch and stutter. But pain was familiar. Pain meant alive. “I am not dying here,” she hissed. “Not for some fucking thieves.” She yanked a belt from her waist, looped it around her thigh above the wound and twisted it until her vision spotted. Then she dug in her pouch until she found a clay phial. The stopper came loose with her teeth.

The smell hit her first and then the sting as she poured it straight into the wound. It wasn’t just pain; it was the feeling of things moving. Flesh hissed and knitted. Soon her wound was a cauterized knot of angry meat, red and black. When she finally breathed again, her face was ashen. Sweat and blood streaked her jaw.

Daniyah slumped back against a stone, breath sawing through her teeth. She looked for something that would hold. A length of driftwood, pale and chewed clean by water and sun. It was long enough. Thick enough. She hauled it close and levered herself up on it. Used it for balance and leverage, braced herself so the ruined leg needn’t shoulder the weight.

She limped across the churned mud toward the thief, the driftwood thudding into wet earth with each step. Up close, the thief was small and very human. The girl’s chest heaved where she lay, and Daniyah felt no mercy. She lowered herself down slowly, straddling the girl. Then Daniyah's fists did what hands were for. First one quick, driving punch to the cheek, knuckles smashing into soft meat with a wet slap. The girl’s head snapped to the side; mud, spittle, and a tooth flew.

The thief tried to curl away, to cover, and Daniyah met the movement with another fist in the mouth, teeth clacking, the sound a brittle crack that bounced off the reeds. Every punch was a bargain with pain. The blows kept coming, face, jaw, nose... until the thief’s eyes rolled and the curses turned to gurgles.

When she finally stopped, the girl lay dazed, one side of her face a ruin of swelling and blood. Daniyah leaned down, blood on her knuckles. “Next time you steal from me,” she growled, “I will tear your fucking head off instead.”
 
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