It had hurt. It had been quick, but it had hurt. It had hurt a lot. He had not even seen them. The Sapta had clouded his eye, and he had seen only the dead. He reached up a hand, and touched the harsh grain of much-worn wood. His mask… he was dead again, then. How much would he owe this time? What bargain would Mueh'zala demand now? This would cost.
The wind that was not there whipped at his kilt. A storm was brewing in the Spirit World. The starless sky raced past overhead. He looked across the tumult, across the devastated camp. Injured ravens flickered in and out of sight. Many injured, but few dead. The Harbingers and their allies were not dispatching their enemies, but leaving them where they fell. This camp was not their target.
The wind picked up. He shifted his footing, unconsciously, to brace against the storm. He knew he did not need to do so, here. He was more Real here, his E'ko strong against any attack. This was not the Living World. Still, he shifted his footing to brace against the wind that was not there. Beside him, Mueh'zala spread her cloak, and lifted first one foot from the ground, then the other. Yes, this would cost.
Nearby, the dead-raven-who-lay-in-a-place-of-bones shouted and railed against this attack on his former kin. Perhaps he shouted curses in his own tongue, but who was to say? The wind that was not there tore away words, and ate them. The wind was hungry for words.
Nearby, T'chali looked up at him and shook his head. The Loa of brewing had only recently joined the ancestors. T'chali laughed at him, and spoke, but even the words of a Loa were swallowed by the wind that was not there.
Ah! There was the corpse. No bones looked broken. One eye seeped pale fluid from underneath the wolfen features. Oh, yes. He had been wearing his battle face when he died. That mask, his battle face, had been torn from a worg that had attacked him in a cave in the Maya lands. It had not protected him. Still, it looked fierce… less fierce, of course, covering the face of a corpse.
The eye would heal quickly. Some fur was singed. How had he died? Oh, yes, that Warlock and its fel sorceries. Why had the humans' gods not forsaken them? Or perhaps the Harbingers drew their power from demons as well. The Fay did so, he had heard. Perhaps the humans had abandoned their gods for demonic power also.
He glanced back over his shoulder at Mueh'zala. Once again, T'chali shouted something lost to the wind that was not there. A warning? He did not know. Mueh'zala nodded. This would cost.
Wait, now, who was this? Amongst the beaten and the broken, one Fay warrior charged late into the fray. Ah, the wo'mon. She had found the camp at last. She leapt from her raptor and brandished her axe high. She shouted something that he could not hear. More words eaten by the hungry wind that was not there. The Harbingers turned their eyes as they swung into the saddles of their ungainly beasts. Ah, Ness wo'mon, ready to fight the world. Perhaps he should bargain now for two, with Mueh'zala.
The ravens turned their eyes to her too, as her axe lowered, ready to strike. Then the Harbingers turned their horses from the camp, and rode off.
They rode off, leaving behind them only Ness, the broken, and the hungry wind.
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