Dimlas, far west of Khold and deep in the Fog. It was a great citadel once, teeming with the valley's people. Now it lies in utter ruin, a betrayal to its legacy. I did not pass through Dimlas but tarried instead along the route that runs east of its desiccated battlements. One could not pay me all the soubar in Parm to dwell in the place. To walk near its rotting hide was enough to chill my spirit. They have told me that something lurks in the hollows that once held many. I dare not go to seek what dwells deep in its fog-festered halls.
— Matacher Obaan, ‘Beyond the Fog: Collected Travels’
Great it is, and grey, and consumed by the Fog that coils down the valley. The mist curls all about the wooded glen and over the crumbling stone edifices. Luv can hardly make out the detail of the citadel. Much is hidden. The valley is a wide white lake, and Tall Wolf has ended the day's travel on the hills that overlook it.
It has been nine days since Khold. Each day, she has asked her guardian what travel remains. Each day, the answer has been different. Nine hundred days when they left, then four hundred, then fourteen, two hundred, and so on. When she asks Tall Wolf when they will know how many days truly remain, Tall Wolf tells her, "When we are there, we will have arrived."
Dymion lowers them to the ground. The beast stands tall, a great white lynx with two wispy tails and large tufted ears. She shoulders the three of them for hours daily. A mighty steed. Now, she rests and purrs as Tall Wolf strokes her jowls.
"Luv, you will hunt. Dymion will go with you. Make preparations." Tall Wolf feeds Dymion a scrap of dried meat and tends to the quiet baby in the makeshift cradle. Luv's mother has been silent since they entered the Fog three days ago. Now, on this vantage overlooking the grey valley, Luv is relieved to hear whining from the cradle. Tall Wolf tends to the child in silence. They have also been quiet since entering the Fog, and travel has not seen much conversation. Occasionally, they have tried to teach her or asked her questions. More, they have told her to be quiet while there have been other sounds: the Unseen of the Fog.
Luv takes a pack off Dymion's haunch and pulls out the short bow that Tall Wolf has given her. She straps the quiver to her side, near the small dagger she carries now always.
"Tell me what is around here," says Tall Wolf.
Luv inhales a breath of the air. She tastes it. Tall Wolf has emphasized this practice. This is the fourth repetition today. The air is not fresh, but wet and sluggish, and cold. Crisp water flows nearby, but there is something else permeating. Luv cannot place it.
"I smell a stream," she says.
"There is a stream nearby."
"There is something else."
The traveller takes a breath. "Dimlas," they say. "You smell Dimlas."
"Mother told me it was destroyed?"
"It died. Dimlas was taken by the Fog. We will not go there. Our path lies east.” Tall Wolf disrobes. Their skin is not so red as when they left Khold. The rash has receded and their skin is not weeping. They let their wrappings now dry in the cool evening air. They wear a blue tunic and silver bracers. Their only armour is a bit of black mail under their shirt.
"Toss me the kindling."
Luv tosses the bundle of sticks they collected after packing their morning camp. Tall Wolf douses the bundle in a sweet oil, then barks a word. The oil ignites and gnaws at the wood. Luv has watched the campfire construction several times now. She is still frightened by the traveller's magic. Tall Wolf is not a threat to her, she knows. Rather, they have proven a reliable and caring guardian. They are quiet most days, and impersonal. Yet, when Luv has thought to ask them about the Fog, about their travels or even magic, Tall Wolf has obliged with thorough, careful words.
"How do you light the oil?" Luv now asks.
"I believe I can, and I believe the sticks and the oil and the unborn flame believe I can also. It is not easy to learn, but I can try to teach you, if you'd like."
"Can children learn Elderkraft?"
"Children cannot learn Elderkraft. No one can learn Elderkraft. Lighting the fire is older magic. The magic that was natural in this land before the Fog came. All children can learn it."
"If no one can learn the Elderkraft, then how do people know it?"
Tall Wolf turns to look at her. Their expression is serious, concerned. "Why do you ask about the Elderkraft?"
"I don't know much about it."
"No one should use it. And if there is anyone who should, then it should only be women. Children can wield it, too, but should not. I have only known one man who could, but I have heard there are other men far in the east who are favoured by it, and so allow them to use it. They are dark spirits, though. Wounded by the Fog. Never trust a man who uses the Elderkraft."
"How can you wield it without learning it?"
"It uses you." Tall Wolf stands and claps their hands together. The fire dies. "I've changed my mind," they say, donning their robes. "I will go and hunt. Build this fire again."
"Can I use the flint?"
The traveller tosses the black stone to Luv. "Try listening first. If you hear no song, then use the flint. I am also leaving Maktub with you. Is that okay?"
Luv's eyes flash to Dymion. Tall Wolf's queer blade hangs by a leather strap from her haunch. The blade's hilt glares from her perch. Luv has felt threatened by Maktub since she used her to save Tall Wolf in Khold. It is a powerful artifact, and Tall Wolf refuses to speak on it beyond what Luv has witnessed. When asked, they only say, "Her name is Maktub. She is my weapon." Yet, late at night, Luv has sometimes woken and heard the sword speaking with Tall Wolf, taunting them.
"I don’t like it," Luv says.
"That’s good. You won’t touch her. She doesn’t like you either." Tall Wolf pulls her cloak back on and draws a small dagger from their belt. The dagger expands until it is nearly their height, a six-foot silver spear. "I will be back in less than a wink of Tharn."
Luv looks to the east where the evening light of Tharn rests above the mountains. It is a quarter full, a lidded eye greyed by the distant Fog. When she turns again to the campfire, Tall Wolf is gone. Her mother whines.
Racing through the cloudy growth of the wood, Tall Wolf scans for deer signs or moth marks. The woods grow dark and stranger the deeper they tread. There will be a shift in the Fog soon, an uncurling of the known places. Their path will be altered again. But this Fog is not unkind to them. Playful, yes, but not malicious. There are so many ways of the alien magic. Tall Wolf wishes they understood it better, but it is one of the many mysteries of the Elderkraft.
As they hunt, they recall the studies of the Ether Fane, the recitations of their youth. Verses of nonsense to their young mind now the profane truth, inimitable in necessity to them. When Ar'kheth first showed them Elderkraft, they became sick for three cycles. They almost died. The priests of Bendnfol nursed them back to health and Ar'kheth resumed the training, bringing the illness on again. It is no easy thing, even for those who practice Elderkraft well. Luv's concern for it is concerning. If her curiosity progresses, the magic will seek her out. It wants to be known and used. It wants to consume the world.
Tall Wolf crosses a glen and spies a silver elk prancing through the mist. They hiss a minor incantation, and the loam underfoot accepts the sound of their footfall. Their work is light, unheard, as they pursue the dancing stag. The silver spear in their right hand is heavy but will fly through the air like a falling tree to meet its mark. The spear has no name, and this is part of its power.
So many want to consume the world. Men, magic, monsters. The Fog touches them all. Tall Wolf is a hopeless wanderer. When they stop and give aid, they know it is soon replaced by treachery again. When they do nothing, it pains them. Maktub would have them leave all to chance. Leave the ways of the world to the Fog. What will become of anything?
The elk struts ahead, ignorant. The hunter approaches. Above them, the light of Tharn has hardly egressed. There is plenty of time.
The fire does not start. It smokes and sputters. Embers die. Luv grows impatient with herself, with nature. It is cold. The light of Tharn has opened and closed twice over and Tall Wolf has not yet returned. The Fog seems to encroach, floating from the valley to meet their camp. Panic grows but Luv tries to quell it. Where is the traveller?
She listens to the silence around her. It is so quiet now. She takes a deep breath. No animals dwell nearby. The scent of the stream is a suggestion. Only the wind scratching the trees fills her senses. The rest is quiet. Her mother is quiet.
Luv looks to where the baby's small makeshift cradle has been lying since Tall Wolf left. The ground is bare. It is gone.
"Oh, no—”
Dymion has not stirred. On her haunch, the Blade rests ominously. Where is the baby?
"Mom!" Luv cries, and then she realizes how stupid and pointless that is. What would Tall Wolf do? Should she wait for their return? There is no struggle, no disturbed ground where the cradle was moments ago. Luv gazes into the Fog beyond their small glade. What could have taken her? And where is Tall Wolf? The horrific notion of abandonment enters Luv's mind. Then she realizes Tall Wolf would not have abandoned them without taking Maktub.
Maktub.
Luv looks to the blade and wonders. Can she help? The blade gazes at her, indifferent in its power.
"Dymion?" Luv asks. The lynx glares at her, roused by her cry but grumpy. Tall Wolf speaks to the steed in a language unknown to her, but she knows the creature is fairly intelligent. More than a horse or an ox. "Where is Tall Wolf?"
The lynx yawns, whining, and looks around the wood. She sniffs the wind. Her gaze halts in the direction of the valley. Then, her eyes narrow as she stands. Something is wrong. Luv traces her sight to the deep mist of the valley where the ruins of Dimlas pierce the Fog. Tall Wolf went hunting in the opposite direction. They cannot be in Dimlas.
"Dymion, what is it?" Luv asks. The words are barely spoken before the lynx raises her head and howls to the night. Her cry echoes through the valley. Luv covers her ears and winces. Then, she takes up the bow. She has not fired it often but nocks an arrow now, nervous at what Dymion's call may provoke. Tall Wolf has told them always to keep silent.
It is too late, though. A dozen mottled hands fly from the Fog and seize her. Impossible arms pull her into their grasp. Something wraps around her face, something slimy and cold, and there is a gross voice that fills her mind. Then something bites her cheek, and Luv feels as though she has not slept in many days. She loses consciousness.
Like her mother, she is taken.
The spear is crawling through the air when the horrid sound of Dymion's cry breaks through the fog. The startled stag stumbles off as the spear meets the earth where it has stood. Tall Wolf is already looking back in the direction of the camp. Then, they are racing back through the glen, spear in hand.
Dymion only calls out of necessity. What has happened? As Tall Wolf runs, they see the dim light of Tharn changing rapidly, opening and closing. Irritation takes hold. The Fog has been mischievous. How long have they been hunting?
When Tall Wolf returns to the campsite, it is worse than expected. There is no one here. Even Dymion has vanished. Maktub is gone.
Tall Wolf stamps the butt of the spear on the hard earth. A veil of lavender dust cascades over the ground from the base of the stave.
"Show me what has passed here," Tall Wolf says. Their eyes have grown dark with violet light as the Elderkraft pulses through them. It oppresses their mind as the black voices of the Underneath bubble forth. Then they can hear the echoing incantations of the distant practitioners in Miasm who also commune with the Elderkraft. All are suddenly aware of the traveller’s presence.
Tall Wolf sees in the lavender dust the two children, the lynx, and another. It is something they have not seen in a long time. White tentacles curl like the mist, and thin humanoid arms crawl and seek. A cullwyrm. Their eyes turn to where the grey ruins shred the misty prison of the valley. It came from Dimlas, and it has surely returned there.
Tall Wolf cries out to Dymion in the language of the Inniliad, then listens. A weak whimper trills from the depths of the valley. She is out there, somewhere. Tall Wolf raises the spear overhead. At the spear's tip, a glistening orb of violent white effulgence immolates the air before they hurl it down into the valley. The orb splashes through the mist and detonates against a cluster of crumbling ruins. Magic disperses in all directions, the living light crawling and bubbling through the dark mist. Tall Wolf traces the shadowy aura as it searches the ruins.
They speak aloud to the valley, to the ruins of Dimlas, "What has been taken shall be reclaimed! I come for you, enemy."
A voice, curdled and dissonant, crawls into their mind: "One Who Crowds My Dominion, I shall claim thee also. You shall be kept by me and waste like your sweet retinue. If you come for us, you shall fail."
The craze of light crawling through Dimlas now egresses on a particular point deep in the Fog. It has found the creature.
Tall Wolf utters another incantation, feels their bones and muscles relax. The spear is lighter. The pain of the Hierophany diminishes. This spell is also for hunting. They will not reach the valley before the Seeking Light has faded, but at least they know where it is.
What remains of Dimlas is a suggestion of a place. It is not a place any longer. When things die, they should become an ecosystem. As when bog toads perish, often from age, and the bog sustains their decay for the other bog life, permitting a second existence to host the perseverance of nature. Dimlas is the inversion of such a noble death. It is nothing. It is absence. Tall Wolf is not surprised. Such is the nature made by the cullwyrm where it chooses to make its lair.
They are not intelligent creatures. They are large and deadly, and cognizant. This makes them formidable. Unlike the ancient drakes of the far North or the salamanders to the East, the cullwyrm is not a creature of honour or great wisdom. It is a fetid thing, a cursed entity spawned by the twisted manipulation of magic and flesh. Long ago, the first cullwyrm was made and set loose upon the world. It is by the grace of fate that they are solitary and unfriendly creatures, lest they multiply and spread their wickedness through Miasm.
Tall Wolf worries for the girls. When the cullwyrm takes prey, it does not feast on them. It does not consume flesh or blood or any matter. The cullwyrm hoards things. They keep what they take until it is withered to nothing, sustaining it for many years from their own fell magic as they extract all the living from it. As Tall Wolf moves through the ruins, they consider what this means for the two children. What state might they be in if rescued? Presuming the cullwyrm can even be defeated...
— I have never killed one.
Tall Wolf pushes through a crumbling patch of bramble caught between an ancient doorway. The Fog is so dense that they see barely six paces ahead. The surrounding valley and ruin are unknowable. It is all shadow moving in the white mist. The quiet is also unkind. The nature of Dimlas suffocates the senses. Even steps feel mistaken. They must stop every few paces to listen, to ensure they maintain their mark. The Fog has already tricked them today, the first time in sixty cycles it has done so.
They stop again, listen. They take a breath. The air has no flavour. There is no scent. Voices encroach, echoing mages in their head. The creature has not spoken again, but the others in the Elderkraft are occluding their sense-making.
Tall Wolf digs into their robes and pulls a small vial of white liquid from the infinite folds. They raise the thread of fluid to their nostril and snuff it. It does not hurt but is frigid as it passes into them. Their breath flutters, and their head blooms. It is protection.
Not enough. The voices are distant but undeniable. The Elderkraft is not a lonely magic. The potion will protect from the darkness of the Underneath, from Khrysis. However, the other practitioners could become a problem. Tall Wolf hopes they will not need the Elderkraft’s aid long.
Then, a voice breaks into their thoughts:
"What has brought you into the Fog, Traveller? What has brought you to us?"
Tall Wolf does not acknowledge the greasy voice. It is dangerous to answer the voices in one's head.
Then, the voice continues, and the ruins of Dimlas grow uneasy and humid:
"I do have them, Traveller. Your daughters. You are careless. The Fog cares naught for your kin. I saw you arrive. My domain is hill to hill to hill, and all of Dimlas belongs to me. The roots are mine. The stones. The Fog. Your daughters. You."
Something hisses in the undergrowth. The traveller clacks their stave in response and a crown of red runes crackles in the air above their head. The Hierophany veils them from mortal harm.
"I do not fear you, Grease of Dimlas. Where is my steed?"
"Ran away. You are alone."
A lie. It is sluggish, and not so keen. The Inniliad do not flee.
"You do not know the strife you have brought on yourself, enemy. I am no weary wanderer."
Tall Wolf listens as the voice comes on again, tries to find the source of the beast.
"You are naught but an insect to one as I, unweary wanderer. I have been here since the first Fog came to Miasm. I am what the Blood Tithe calls Vagrant Host of the Fabled Valley. I am godlike. What are you?"
"A god. Face me. Permit me to show you."
"I face you already. Your eyes do not see me. I am the Fog."
"The Fog betrays today. You are unwise to trust it, Grease."
It is right, though. The chattering mouldered voice is all-encompassing, like the silence and the mist, and the wretched ruins. It is either an illusion or immense.
A shadow shifts. What Tall Wolf had presumed to be a ruined wall crumbles without a sound. The voice chuckles. Tall Wolf looses their robes and sweeps them in a wide arc. A great portion of the Fog fills the cloth and vanishes into the infinite folds. It does little for clarity. On another pass, a ruined fountain is revealed. Another uncovers the shattered remnants of a stable. Beyond the stale ruin, there is no sign of life or struggle. There are no tracks on the ground or the revelation of something passing through the place. What menace had shifted in the mist is gone. Tall Wolf continues to gather Fog into their robes.
"I will find you, creature," Tall Wolf says. "I will kill you."
"You do not have the power to destroy me. I am older than the Fog."
"As am I, Grease. You are not unique. You are ugly. You consume emptiness. You are nothing. Even what remains of the Sun has no love for you."
"Do you think insults will goad me into revealing myself? You do not see me. You are dead already."
Tall Wolf pulls more Fog from the air with their strange cloak. Now, they notice something: a tuft of white fur caught on the jagged edge of a weathered stone. Dymion came this way.
"I am sharper than I seem, enemy. I am a philosopher of Bendnfol, and a magician of the Hidden World, of Seden. I am the lover of many and enemy of more. I wield the Hierophany of Wounds. I have been to the Underneath, to Khorkesh and beyond. I am known to these woods as Tall Wolf, but you should know me as Wyrm Eater. The folk of Brunedale call me that. Do you know of Brunedale?"
"I know everything."
"Then you know who I am."
Tall Wolf hefts the spear overhead and catches the twisting thing in the Fog above them, piercing its flesh. The air seems to shake as the spear is almost wrenched from their grasp. A dirge of milky ichor rains over them, a sticky stinking substance. Mouths moan and cackle in the Fog before the spear comes free. The pierced thing has pulled away from the warrior.
Tall Wolf, the Wyrm Eater, laughs. "Did I startle you, Grease? Did you think I did not know you were over me? That I did not know you were under me? I have never killed a cullwyrm, but I have fought them, and I have met many of your brethren wyrms. Some I have killed, and some I have called friends. But I will kill you, wyrm. I bet you will not even try and kill my friends before I can kill you. You covet their life too much to even use them against me. You are not even wise enough to prevent your defeat."
Tall Wolf is winded as a great white tentacle sweeps through the Fog and catches them in the midriff. The ropy flesh is slick with dew and filth and covered in wailing canine mouths that sink gnawing teeth into the warrior. On their crown, the red runes of the Hierophany boil as it defends against them. Tall Wolf is swept up and launched through the air. For a moment, as the tentacle releases them, there is nothing but the liminal emptiness of the white Fog. Then, they land on stone and earth with an almighty thud and a clatter as the spear ejects from their grasp. Tall Wolf rolls to a halt along the broken, overgrown cobblestones, gasping.
The cullwyrm cackles. The spear has vanished in the mist. Tall Wolf crawls to their feet and sweeps another portion of mist into their cloak, hoping to see their weapon nearby. It is gone. The Fog shifts and Tall Wolf knows the tentacles move in the billowing white shadows. They listen. The voices in their mind, the voices in the Elderkraft, are diminishing. Soon, they will be aware of Dimlas.
"You have made a grave error, disarming me."
"I do not err. You are mine. I will let you exhaust yourself. Your spear is gone. It belongs to us now. Do you wish to know how your children fare in my coils? Do you wish to know who else remains alive amongst me? Soon, you will know us."
Tall Wolf wonders who haunts the Elderkraft. Perhaps there is an ally among the voices. It is a vagrant, useless thought. They’re panicking. It is not preferable to be stalled by the beast. There is only so much time. They need to get close again.
"You need to feast on my exhaustion already, Grease? You are a fat, sordid cunt, aren't you? I had expected more from a cullwyrm. Hadn't one of your kin taken host of Lost Limesh? It is said they are so great that none can pass their domain without being taken. I expected you to throttle me. To take me soon. But no, you are afraid of the fight. Your kin feared me also. They sank into the earth rather than face me."
The ruins quiver as flesh recoils and shifts unseen. It is angered. In the oppressive silence and uncertainty, there is a sudden breeze. It plots something.
Tall Wolf hears a low hum nearby. Dymion, in the tall grass. She has found them. They move toward the sound and meet the cloaked hide of the lynx, a ghost among the fog and ruin. She is an intelligent creature, capable of remarkable intuition. The girls are not with her, though. Tall Wolf does not want to speak and give the steed away again. On her haunch, Maktub gleams. Her blade is half ejected from her scabbard, flirting with Tall Wolf. The warrior slaps the pommel, sheathing the blade before taking her from Dymion.
Tall Wolf moves away from the lynx. They make a noise between their teeth, mimicking a grasshopper. Dymion falls into the Fog.
"Enemy! I grow impatient. I will leave."
They move away from the ruins, presumably. Their bearings are muddled. The voices are silent. Tall Wolf waits, knowing they are now witnessed through the Fog and across Miasm by other wielders of the Elderkraft. They can sense that He is not among them, and so Tall Wolf will continue to use the rites. There are no practitioners they recognize, though, and that is concerning. Time grows short. Tall Wolf steadies their breath.
"Wretched wyrm," they whisper.
Then, their ankle is dragged out, dropping them to their back. It has coiled around their leg. Other appendages, thin and angular limbs like spiders, shoot from the mist and try to seize them. Tall Wolf relents, bellowing an incantation in the wild tongue. The ruins collapse in a wide berth around them. The cullwyrm howls as a portion of Dimlas crumbles. The crooked limbs are crushed and pulled everywhere. The tentacle constricts their ankle. Tall Wolf cries out. They are dragged across the stone. The tentacle continues to twist up their leg and then starts to chew on their shin. Teeth grate against the Hierophany, unable to break flesh. The creature pulls them through the fog and ruin. Tall Wolf calls to the wild overgrowth of Dimlas. Trees reach out to them, but their grasping hands fail to meet the saviour roots. The tentacle is up about their waist now. Its chattering orifices cluster on their thigh. Tall Wolf realizes they are not trying to feast on flesh. They are gorging on the Hierophany. The halo of runes burns white.
A wailing howl echoes through the fog. The ropy appendage shivers and stops dragging. Dymion's roaring blisters the quiet as she tears into the limb somewhere ahead, unseen. Tall Wolf scrambles for the tentacle wrapped around her. It is pale and greasy, coated in the grime and muck of Dimlas. A cluster of the canine maws chew at them with janky, nubby teeth. There are no fangs, only twisted molars and tongues.
"Got you!" Tall Wolf claims, seizing the ropy limb. They stuff their whole hand, then arm, into one of the gnawing mouths.
Eight words resound in the gloom and mist. The valley is quiet as the Elderkraft moves through what remains of the universe. It is all-consuming. It is a magic out of time. There are those in Miasm who witness already, but there are others called by the sudden surge of Tall Wolf’s invocation. Among the stars, there are watchers. In the Spaces Between the Fog, there are witnesses. Even in the Underneath, Khrysis hears the commotion of the cosmos, the recoil of reality from the Elderkraft.
Tall Wolf gasps as their arm is pulled deep into the cullwyrm's wandering feeder. The air is filled with the scent of burning flesh. Dymion yelps. A dozen more spider-like arms appear out of the Fog. Clawed, flaking hands grasp at them, trying to scratch their eyes out. It is too late. The Hierophany protects. The Elderkraft destroys.
Tall Wolf is pulled headlong as the searing magic surges into the creature. It pulls them deep into the ruins of Dimlas. Stone cracks and the earth beats against them as they are dragged. The cullwyrm wails horridly. Tall Wolf cannot let go. The Elderkraft wants to consume the creature now. They are stuck in it as it flails and curls them into the remains of the citadel. They are pulled through courtyards, down alleys, and then into a great doorway. It must be the heart of the citadel, a forgotten keep. The tentacle hurtles down hallways and then into another courtyard. Then, darkness as they are pulled into a well, through a dank cistern and further tunnels under Dimlas. All the while, the Elderkraft burns. The foolish creature is bringing them right to it.
It is dark. Tall Wolf tries to whisper a lullaby of night, to see, but they are tossed against the wet stone. It is painful, disorienting. If not for the Hierophany, they would have died some blows ago. The hard stone falls on them like nettles instead, scoring their skin but leaving them unharmed. Then, it happens. They merge with a host of flesh, a grotesquerie of blubber and limbs. Egregious mouths gnaw at them, grating and gibbering against the sizzling magic of the Hierophany. Their arm remains caught in the creature, burning. It is the only light: the dull lambency of the Elderkraft. All is a writhing, gleaming mess of pale filth.
"RELEASE ME," cries the enemy.
"Be unmade," replies the magician.
They curl their other hand into the infinite folds of their tattered cloak and draw the Blade of Certain End.
It is difficult to find the children. Others are recovered before them, but they are in a hopeless state. Tall Wolf can do nothing for them, cannot even recognize their species or their age. They are not living, just sustained. The cullwyrm took their minds first, and what remains of their bodies is useless to them.
Tall Wolf has closed their mind to the Elderkraft, but still feels the presence of one who watches them. The presence is unknown, clouded from their intelligence. For now, they ignore the watcher and continue to comb the lair of the cullwyrm. Against the odds, they find their spear among the debris of the creature. Then, they hear the wailing of the infant echoing through the catacomb. They find Luv along the way, unconscious. She clutches her dagger in her hand. Its blade is covered in white fluid. Tall Wolf is relieved. They find the baby weeping on the cold stone. The basket is gone. They wrap her in their cloak, fold over fold to keep her warm. They heft Luv over their shoulder. Their stave blossoms with a silver light. What remains of the cullwyrm is a quivering array of scorched and rendered flesh, cold and scentless. The greased, rasping voice is gone. Maktub sleeps. It did not die to the Blade in the end. It succumbed to the Elderkraft, the same force that made it. The magic would never give itself up to the Blade.
Luv’s mother seems fine. Indeed, her lungs are quite healthy now. Luv is not well. She is pale and clammy to the touch. Tall Wolf carries her and before long their shoulder is soaked with the girl’s sweat. She is ill. The cullwyrm has done something.
The clacking stave echoes through the chambers of the keep as Tall Wolf flees. Whatever resides next where a cullwyrm has been is not a thing they are keen to meet. They sniff the air and follow the breezes drifting from above. When they catch wisps of Fog overhead, they are relieved. The dark silent keep reminds them of the Underneath.
They emerge from the dungeons and find the Fog has diminished some in the ruins of Dimlas. There is not so much weight to the mist. It does not suffocate. It is a cold relief. Nowhere seems safe right now, and Tall Wolf cannot shake the feeling of the watcher. As they move from the desiccated halls of the keep and into the open air, their nose catches on something. An herb. Lavender. Black lavender.
Tall Wolf stops.
"You have been watching me," they say to the mist.
"I'm always watching you, love." The voice is everywhere but their mind. It twirls through the mist like a songbird's call.
Tall Wolf hears Dymion's chuff ahead and moves toward her. She rests at the feet of a short woman in dark robes. The woman wears a crown of black lavender and golden wheat. Her lips are black, and her eyes are yellow.
"Persephone. You hide yourself from me?"
"Verveine. You are far from Bendnfol. Far from anything."
Tall Wolf looks down at the face of the sleeping infant. "I don’t know if I can trust you, Persephone. Do you mean us harm?"
"No." Persephone stands. Dymion lumbers away. "I mean to aid. But you will bow first, Verveine."
"You are not my lord."
"Right now, in this moment, I'm all you have. Your acquaintance is infected by the cullwyrm. She will die untreated. Where is the nearest town, Verveine?"
"I am not she."
"You are my Verveine. You may wear the title of your kin, but you cannot turn from what you will become. I know you will not let the girl die. Bow. Let me help you, love."
Tall Wolf huffs. They call Dymion forth and gingerly place Luv on her broad back. Then they turn to Persephone and sink to their knees. They gaze at Persephone's toes where they shift from under her robe as she moves toward them. Her feet are covered in grass stains and the yellow pollen of spring flowers. Persephone stands over Tall Wolf and runs her hand through the traveller's shaggy white hair. She pulls their head into her robes.
Verveine kisses Persephone's stomach. She kisses Persephone's hips.
"Beg for me to help you," says Persephone.
"Dogs beg," says Verveine. "I am not your dog."
"No, you're not.” Persephone leans and whispers in her ear, “Be my bitch, though. For a week. Let me help you. Beg for me."
Silence passes between them. Verveine trembles.
"Please, Persephone. Help me help these children."
Persephone takes Verveine's chin and pulls her gaze up. Persephone's eyes are a broad field of golden grain. Her face is darkened by the long hours of the sun.
"Say it once more, Verveine. Whisper it to me. Want it. Want me."
Verveine's throat closes. Her eyes burn.
"One week. Please, Persephone. Help me."
A rippling tear in the mist appears. Beyond, Verveine knows Barlane waits, and Persephone's tower. Persephone smiles.
"Good girl. Now, come along before someone witnesses our communion."
The air and mist crackle as the tear closes. Then, Dimlas is silent once more.