It felt like all she ever did was run. Run from whorehouse to whorehouse. Run from Lillandyr's knife. Run from Ashtorath's madness. Now, she was running again to save her life. She felt tired. Tired and heavy.
She fell asleep, slumped over with her back against the wall in the abandoned, ramshackle house. It wasn't a good or satisfying sleep. She couldn't remember her dream, exactly, but it felt as if she were constantly fleeing from something she couldn't see. Llara woke up chilly, with an ache in her neck. At first, she thought she was alone. Maybe he had left her. She did not feel the warmth of another being, nor did she hear the expected sounds of a male's heavy breathing.
But then she remembered, with a dull, numb realization, that he didn't sleep. He didn't breathe.
Her tired, puffy eyes lifted to see him standing at the dingy, broken window. She assumed by how statuesque and still he was that he had been standing in that exact place all night. He was a guard dog, scanning for intruders and threats. His heavy hand was on the hilt of his sword.
Llara didn't speak. She shifted and sat with her knees pressed sharp to her chest. She peered at him, studied him. She felt like a prisoner but she knew that she was free. If she left right now, she doubted he would stop her.
Beg her not to go, maybe. Plead. But she had made the decision to stay.
And, she thought as she tucked a red curl behind her ear, he said he loved her.
Quietly, she observed his pale, bluish profile as he stared out the window and watched, ever vigilant like a lighthouse looking for ships to turn away from the perilous shoreline. Did he? Could he? She had never been loved before. Not truly loved with feeling. With emotion. With such devotion or respect. What did it mean? Was it even real? Or was it just the first step of madness that eventually all Unquenched succumbed to?
Probably. It probably was. She was not a fool. But what difference did it make? Wasn't all love a form of madness? She had only a whore's perspective. She was an outsider looking in when it came to matters of the heart.
He was lovely, in his own way, she noticed. She smiled a little. From a distance, yes, he could be beautiful. She squinted and tried to imagine what he looked like when he was alive. Handsome, probably. He was a very big man. It made him look like a monster. But alive? His hair was probably flaxen yellow and his build made him intimidating, but distinctly masculine. Maybe he would have loved her while his heart actually thumped, pooling warm blood through his skin. But maybe not. He would have been courted and married to a noblewoman. They would have had beautiful, strong children, too. He wouldn't have had time for redheaded whores past their prime.
Though, the thought was still comforting – the image of him smiling.
While he stood in dignified silence, she admired him. He wasn't snarling or touching her with chilled, waxy fingers. She briefly pretended that he was just a lord in his manor house, looking out to the stretching canvas of his golden property under the afternoon sun. Now who is succumbing to madness, Llara? she thought as she pressed her forehead into the ball of her hand. Thinking the Unquenched General was beautiful and that he actually had feelings for her.
But what was so wrong with briefly believing something so wonderful?
And he made her feel safe. It was quiet in the abandoned building. And she knew – she knew that if anyone stepped through the door looking to find her? Lillandyr's soldiers. The royal guard. An angry mob. Even a dragon – he'd slaughter them all and save her. He'd proven that, certainly.
She relished in the silence as if it were a thick blanket to wrap around her shoulders. She had a weapon. A powerful, monstrous, beautiful weapon with a cape of silver hair. Ashtorath.
Her stomach reminded her that she couldn't stay. She was hungry, starved, but felt nervous asking for food. He didn't need to eat, well, not bread. Nor could she sit there forever. She felt nervous asking him for anything. Technically, he owned her, didn't he? He didn't need to give her anything. And he saved her, she knew. She was grateful for it. Without him, she was certainly dead, without a doubt.
She ought to tell him.
"Ashtorath," she whispered, but loud enough for him to hear. He didn't turn around. He didn't even acknowledge her. She soaked in another icy breath. "Ashtorath, thank you."
"We can't stay," he said. He had no breath. Nothing frosted the glass when he spoke. He still didn't look to her. His voice was flat and monotone. It held no emotion, blank and gray.
"I... know," she said as her hand smoothed down her leg. It was dusted in dirt from the dingy floorboards.
"And the Festival is coming. The Feast of Saint Baellith. It is just a few days away and there will be more people in the street and in the city. People... celebrating my sister." His voice trailed off at the end as he glanced over his spiked pauldron. His eyes were a winter's blue in the darkness of the room.
"We will go to the Underground," he declared, leaving no room for argument in his tone.
The Hidden Quarter, he meant. She knew of it, of course. She had been to the Market a handful of times for one reason or another while she was working in the poorer whorehouses. But never, ever did she linger. It was an overwhelming place. It was dangerous. It was best that women – especially women like her who were usually unarmed and had no special skills or talents – went with an escort.
If one were to have an escort, General Sunmourne was ideal. It was unlikely with the hulking behemoth that anyone would bother her. Once down there, they could perhaps navigate their way to another city. The Underground was a vast, gnarled network that spanned the continent.
It was perilous, of course. There was Seralah the spider and her men. There were Unquenched that were both loyal to her, and those that were rogue. There were cultists. There were random knots of bandits, highwaymen, and gangs. And there had even been rumors of freakish, horrible monsters.
But it was probably the best chance they had of escaping the city undetected. He was right. After the fire, they would be searching for those responsible to bring them to justice swiftly, especially with the Festival lurking.
"We will wait," he said as he turned away from her again to stare out of the window. "Till it is dark. Then we will leave."
"Ashtorath," she muttered quietly as she dug her nail into the soft, mushy wood of the floorboard. "I'm... hungry." She didn't want to sound pleading or petulant. But she was hungry. It had almost been a day and a half since she had eaten. And he would forget, she knew, until she fainted. Even then, she doubted if he would realize what was wrong with her.
A jolt of fear looped through her stomach when she was met with silence. Was he going to lash out at her? Be upset with her? Did she overstep again? Cruelly tell her – too bad. Deal with the hunger pains.
No, he said none of those things. Instead, he turned and thundered towards the door, sweeping his black cape behind him. "Wait here." This time, it wasn't a command, and there was no rage to be found in his voice.
Strangely, he almost sounded apologetic. He gave no explanations of where he was going or how he was going to get her food. He simply slammed the door behind him and left.
She did as he requested and waited. Then waited more. Soon, the daylight was gone.
Llara curled up on the floor.
Her stomach felt like it was folding in on itself. She considered sneaking out and finding her own meal, somehow. Though she didn't have any money and she was not an expert thief. She would probably resort to begging.
But the moment she'd leave would be the moment he'd return, she knew. It always worked out that way. The last thing she wanted to do was upset him, her new owner. She wasn't entirely sure what he'd do, she just knew that she didn't want the consequences.
Maybe a mob stopped him, the Quarter guards... or even the royal guards.
As she closed her eyes to sleep, she imagined the possibilities of where he was. What he was doing. It was all unpleasant, so she tried to dream of something else.
As Llara fell asleep and nighttime dragged across the sky in smears of purple and black, she dreamed of Ashtorath alive. She tucked her bruised lips inward and shivered. She stretched her cloak around her arms and over her legs.
He was strongest and bravest. His wife was bright and airy, with a child in the crux of her arm. His wife's hair was a dusty yellow, and flapped in the warm breeze. A second child was pulling at her fingertips. Ashtorath threw a flower to his wife as he steadily walked away, leading his white horse towards the castle. He was a knight, and the sun glinted off his armor. He looked heroic and beautiful.
It was soothing, and she continued to dream until the door snapped open. Blearily, she lifted her head to see. It was hard to focus her eyes in the dim light. Suddenly, she was splashed awake from her warm dream and was dipped into the icy air.
"Wake up," he commanded in a hollow voice. Something heavy thumped to the floor.
She smelt it before she saw it. The stench of sweet meat and iron blood. It coated the back of her tongue and throat when she breathed.
Llara found bread rolls scattering across the floor. The huge basket he dropped for her was laden with cheeses, sausages, bread, fruit, nuts, and an assortment of fish and vegetables.
She made a mad grab for the rolls, fruits, and the cheeses, the quickest and easiest things to eat. Gods, she thought with an arid headache, she was hungry.
Then she felt the heavy press of him staring down at her.
While on her knees, she slowly lifted her head to look up at him. He was covered in blood. Pieces of brain, skin, bone, and entrails dangled from his armor.
She nearly lost her appetite.
It was the smell. He smelled like a butcher's shop. She knew it was elf, not livestock. He was clearly gone so long because he, too, needed to feast. She had to look away to not gag.
Llara dropped the cheese and stuck to the bread and fruit. She couldn't stomach the scent of cheese after the onslaught of odor that clung to Ashtorath's armor.
"Eat quickly, Llara," he stated in his empty voice. "We must get going. Now is a good time. The shops have closed and the revelers are leaving. We can't spare another day here."
She packed her mouth full and tried to stomp out the hunger pain as fast as possible. There was a canteen of water in the basket, which she was grateful for. Once she was done, she took every bit of food she could and tied it in a small bundle to carry with her. She pulled herself to her feet, ready to leave. She made her way towards the door and pulled the handle.
"Stop," he said as he approached her. She froze in place.
Ashtorath swept down and kissed her. It was gentler this time. Her chin and jaw were still tender and bruised from his past affections, but he was learning not to press so hard. "I will carry you. I am faster, and do not tire," he said in a softer tone.
Before she could say anything, she was swept into his arms.
She was a tall, long-limbed woman. Yet Ashtorath was so large that she looked like a tiny child. The blood and gore on his armor smeared and caught on her cloak. She ducked her head down, hiding her face into her hood. She kept her bundle of food and canteen of water close to her chest.
He was right. He was walking, but his pace was swift. His legs were able to lap up the ground beneath them. She felt as if she were riding on the swiftest steed, the buildings passing her in a blur. They dashed past the broken, run-down buildings and the burned down wreckage near the Gilded Lily.
"Do you know," she asked quietly, looking up at him with an arm looped around his chilly neck, "how to navigate the Underground?" She asked, jostling in his arms.
"We are going to the Necropolis," he said steadily, furtively glancing down.
She was silent for a beat. Llara's lips thinned. That was the heart of Seralah's world. It was the city beneath the city, where many of the Unquenched lived. There were the living, too, both humans and elves. As far as she knew, they lived under Seralah's rule in relative peace. Yet that was the extent of her knowledge.
She knew the Necropolis was a dark place. She trusted Ashtorath would keep her safe, yet she could not help but feel an icy chill drag up her spine.
Llara pressed her head to the hard-as-stone breastplate. She looked out into the world as it ran her by.
She wished she knew more, had more experience to draw upon. She wished that she had seen and heard more about the world, outside the gilded, protective cage. She was aware of her naivete, due to the sheltered life of living as a courtesan.
They soon reached one of the main entrances to the Underground. It was a massive stone archway decorated in gargoyles and nymphs. They were symbols and charms of protection, but they looked weathered, old, and leering. Normally, the entrance to the Underground was relatively deserted at night. Only shady merchants and prostitutes were milling around.
Tonight, it was bustling with guards. There were royal guards, in shining, sharp silver armor and violet capes, and Quarter guards from the Flesh Quarter, baring Shadowglade's sigil, and guards from the Military and Industrial Quarters.
Ashtorath slowed his pace to a halt. Something was amiss. Slowly, he eased Llara down to her feet. Then he grabbed her arm and possessively yanked her along. She jolted, he was too rough, but it made her feel secure. He wanted to keep her close.
Ashtorath approached the largest, most official looking person in the brightest plate. He was older, dripping head to toe with gilded, gold and red armor. He doggedly directed and barked out orders like a traffic warden. Ashtorath unceremoniously shoved everyone else aside, even in mid-sentence, to speak to the man.
"What is happening?" Ashtorath asked. It was a question, but he snarled out the words like a demand.
The old man in the shining armor dispassionately turned to Ashtorath. Llara could tell that he was about to argue, about to scold Ashtorath for abruptly interrupting. Then he stopped.
"General Sunmourne," the older man said coolly. "I wasn't aware that you were called down here."
Ashtorath didn't respond. His grip tightened on Llara's arm. She tried not to wince or cry out. The old man in the shining armor looked at her quizzically. Who was she? he probably thought. Why was Ashtorath toting her around? Llara wished she could make herself invisible.
"What is happening?" Ashtorath repeated impatiently with a snarl. His plated fingers continued to constrict around her arm. Llara made a small noise in fear and pain.
He hoisted her up again without warning. Llara made a small noise of shock and surprise as the ground swept out from under her. She looped her arms around his neck for security. Then she buried her face in his throat for comfort. For better or worse, Ashtorath was all she had in the world. Whatever hellish consequence they were about to face, they were doing so together.
They sloshed through the tunnels and blanketed darkness in silence. Then he spoke.
"I've hurt you," he uttered, his voice lurching in the echoing, brick tunnels.
"What...? No you didn't."
"Your arm," he grumbled. She pulled her grip away from his neck and looked at her arm, where he squeezed and bruised her. Oh, yes.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly as he carried her, passing by pockets of light from the torch sconces lining the walls.
He didn't stop walking, and for a long while, he didn't speak either. He just marched forward, his jaw tight. He held her more tenderly, however, as though he believed she was made of glass and he would break her.
"I don't mean to hurt you," he said, stopping in an alcove that was untouched by light.
"I..." she halted, her voice sounding small in her throat. "Know," she ended, her eyes dropping down to the trickle of dirty water threading through the sewer. She could smell it in the distance, the stench of burned wood. They were near the Marketplace, but not heading towards it. She lifted her eyes to look up at him again. She cupped his cool chin and kissed him lightly. "Thank you," she said again. "For saving me. For giving me a chance."
He sat her down and stared at her as though she were a creature from a strange land. His cold fingers trailed over her cheek, her lips, and her throat. Then, like the sun melting away the ice, a gradual smile curled his bloodless lips.
"How could I not?" he asked, dipping his head down to look at her levelly. "How could I abandon the woman who has saved me?"
"Well," Llara said as she allowed a steady smile to pull onto her face. She adjusted her back against the greasy wall and made herself comfortable. They had a moment to rest. Her mind felt jumbled and jostled. It was good to just sit. His fingers were icicles, but she had ceased to mind. Cold was becoming more comforting and familiar than warmth. "We can agree that we saved each other, then," she said quietly. She allowed a moment of blessed silence to settle. She heard a continuous wet percussion from the ceiling dripping.
What an unexpected, precarious turn her life had taken. A month ago, she would never have fathomed ending up here. In the Underworld. With the General of the Unquenched, brother to her boss, the Marquis of the Flesh Quarter. Life was just funny that way.
She lifted her arms, silently asking for him to take her again. He bent as he snatched her, a bird of prey gracefully striking down to capture her. Only she did so willingly. She kept her arms around his neck as he carried her further into the abyss.
They traveled for miles. Every twist and turn looked the same. She drifted in and out of sleep. He never tired, never slowed down. She talked in a hushed voice and told him about her life.
She told him that she had been a courtesan nearly all her life. She scarcely remembered her sisters or her mother. A lot of those memories had been pushed down, or out of her mind completely. She tried, she told him. She tried to remember. But courtesans were not to be attached. To anyone, or anything. She told him about the prince she fell in love with once. He sold her and she exchanged hands. She worked in a poorer whore house, and serviced pirates, drug dealers, and cruel men.
Ashtorath promised that she never needed to service another man again.
Llara told him about her friend, Nina. She was gone now, but she missed her. Then she fell quiet again. She didn't want to ask about him, or his family. He would tell her if he liked, but it must be hard, she knew. He was dead. Obviously, his life, love, and passion were all lost. No man could possibly lose more than the dead.
Suddenly, Ashtorath stopped.
"What is it?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. She adjusted in his arms and looked around, alarmed.
"Shh," he tersely hissed through his teeth. She was silent. Then she heard it too.
There was a loud clattering and rustling. It was the sound of pots and pans clanking together. Wooden wheels. He set her down and unsheathed his sword with a metallic scrape. He guarded her, lightly pushing her behind. He faced the black tunnel towards the direction of the clattering sound.
From the black maw of the sewer drain emerged a strange sight. A small cart pulled by two black goats.
The cart was jingling and jerking, filled with potions, baubles, and salvaged items from the Marketplace. The woman on the cart was made up of rags and shapes. Her body didn't even look elvish; it was bulbous and round. It had no defined placement of breasts or hips. Her arms and legs were flabby and gelatinous. A straw hat hid her wiry, hay-colored hair. A metal spring with a stuffed pigeon bobbed out of the top.
With a tug of her leather reins, the cart slid to a halt in front of Ashtorath. The strange old woman with the warty face and flat nose looked at him dispassionately. She was not intimidated or afraid of him.
"What?!" she barked menacingly through her broken teeth. "Aren't you going to strike me down?"
Ashtorath looked vaguely disarmed by her abrasive demeanor. Then he lifted his sword. Yes, he was going to strike her down.
"Wait!" Llara cried out before he charged forward, "Wait," she repeated again, quietly.
"Nnnnh?" the odd, pudgy woman grunted. She snapped her small, black eyes to Llara, as if she just noticed her standing against the wall behind Ashtorath. She cackled, "Ahahahaha... there you are – my little hare."
Llara didn't recognize her. Dumbfounded and frightened, she froze.
"Oh, stop looking so startled. You don't know me, it's true. But I – I know you. In fact, I know the both of you." She bumbled and clambered down off her cart. The cart was small, but she was smaller, and rounder. "I won't shake hands because I know neither of you probably don't want to touch me. Well, the feeling is mutual... Stand down!" she snapped, looking at Ashtorath. "I mean it. Llara, tell your guard dog to stand down, dammit."
Llara didn't tell him to stand down. She remained where she was, pressed against the wall and watching the odd witch with distrust.
"Doesn't matter," she decided with a wave of her fat, hairy hand. "Doesn't matter. You're a hard woman to track down, Llara Lily. Not that I was really trying all that hard, mind you." She sighed as she began rifling through her cart, completely ignoring Ashtorath as he brandished the sword and snarled at her.
"Who are you?" Llara asked softly, trying to keep as much distance between herself and the witch as much as possible.
"Well, now. That's a good question," answered the woman as her head vanished into the disheveled contents of her cart. Random items crashed and toppled as she dug. "Some call me Lillyna. Lily. Other things. The Mad One. Magda. Magda the Mad – ah!" she declared as she found what she was looking for. It was a small, leather bag closed by a drawstring. "I've been looking for a couple of people. Mostly, to confirm what I have already seen," she snorted as she marched past Ashtorath as if he and his oversized sword didn't even exist. "Now!" the unpleasant woman said. She lifted her doughy face and stared up at Llara. "I ain't going to hurt you. Or touch you. But I want you to do something for me. This isn't exactly the ideal method for me to do this. But unfortunately, I lost damn near everything in that fire, including my potions and spell components," she sniffed, "You can thank Anryn Stormcrow for that mess."
Llara stared down at Magda the Mad expectantly. She didn't say anything, but was clearly listening, and curious.
Magda grimaced, "Good! Now that I have your attention, I want you to lick your finger, like this..." She demonstrated, dragging a long, gray, ugly tongue across her index finger. "And then, dip it into the sand," she said as she opened the small pouch.
"Llara..." Ashtorath growled, "Don't..."
"Oh, pipe down, General Snarling-pants. You will get your turn!"
Llara looked between Magda, the pouch, and Ashtorath. She was unsure what to do, but clearly, Ashtorath was probably right. She should run, or let Ashtorath dispatch her. Maybe both.
Despite her better judgment, she was drawn to do as the witch asked. She licked her finger and dipped it into the sand. Ashtorath's teeth barred menacingly, his grip tightening on the leather hilt of the sword with a groan, ready to strike.
To her surprise, the purple sand did not cling to her finger as she expected. It came out clean.
"Hrrnnn hrnnn," Magda laughed with her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth. "Stand back," she commanded.
Llara stepped away and stood beside Ashtorath. Magda's big hand cupped into the sand pouch. She grabbed a handful and threw it against the wall with a splash.
There was a violet cloud of dust and vapor. Once the puff dissipated, runes appeared on the sewer wall. The sand had the consistency of purple chalk where it landed. Magda dragged her finger along the lettering, as if deciphering what it said.
There was a strange electricity in the air after the sandy fog settled. Magic. Llara thought she saw sparkles or sprites flickering in the corner of her eyes, as if she had stared too long at the sun. There was a strange, ashy taste in the back of her tongue. Slowly, Ashtorath's guard lowered. He did not sheath his sword, but instead leaned on it. The tip of the blade dug into the ground. His eyes remained fixed on Magda the Mad.
"Well, it's worse than I thought," Magda said as she peeled away from the blocky, alien purple letters on the wall.
Magda sighed in dramatic exasperation, her scraggly hair dancing in the breeze. "You are, unfortunately, who I thought you were, and that means it's all coming down."
Llara's brow furrowed as she tightened her cloak around her shoulders. Ashtorath lifted his sword again, ill at ease.
"It's quite simple, really," Magda replied impatiently. "But I'm not a bloody messenger. I don't do the gods' work. Goddesses, either, for that matter. I want as far away from this city as the rivers will take me. You most of all are most dangerous. If you want more answers? I suggest speaking to the goddess that has them. And that certainly isn't your precious Baellith that you have been paying homage to with your legs spread all the time, or your pretty little Eryss."
"That's enough," Ashtorath rumbled. "Llara, I will kill her."
Llara didn't stop him this time. She wasn't offended by the witch's words. Magda didn't say anything that wasn't accurate. Llara spent her life on her back, and wasn't going to pretend that it wasn't true. But Ashtorath felt compelled to defend her honor.
She was grateful; no one had ever done that for her before. And Magda didn't seem the type that anyone would particularly miss.
"Oho, boy-o, I may be old, but I am more difficult to kill than just the slip of a sword!" Magda jeered as she rolled ungracefully back onto the wooden driver's seat of her cart. She tsk-tsked and waggled her fleshy finger at him. "Stand back or I will slap you with so many spells that Nehmain himself will scarcely recognize you among the dead! Stand back, I say! I am warning you, Sunmourne!" After her plump behind bounced in her seat, she zapped a small lightning bolt from her finger. Ashtorath halted from advancing on her. A small, black smoldering crater was left where her warning shot had struck.
"Now," Magda triumphantly smirked once he ceased. Her tongue lashed around her mouth as she gripped the goats' reins. "Llara. You seem to be the reasonable type. Speak to Herith, when you get a chance. She will have more to say on the matter than I. Oh, and Ashtorath?"
Ashtorath's eyes snapped at her menacingly.
"I could curse you. I could wreck you. I could destroy you. But? You're doing a fine job of that yourself. Your future is very bleak, sweet little servant of Nehmain. Very bleak indeed. My curses aren't nearly as effective as the one that you, and all the Unquenched suffer. Still, I don't feel the least bit sorry for you. At least you're serving out your madness with..." She looked to Llara again, and paused, "with a herald of what is to come. Hmm." She paused in thought, "Hmm. The irony. So sweet and so... tragic. Llara?"
The redheaded woman looked up expectantly.
"For future reference, there is an exit right around the corner." She pointed with her long, twisted fingernail. "Follow the sewer grates leading west, always west. Till you see a red brick opening that slopes gradually towards the surface."
Llara was silent, unsure why Magda was telling her this. She stood speechless. Herith, she thought. The goddess of justice? Was that who she meant to speak with?
"And watch out for the dog," Magda continued. "Ysimul can be fickle."
Magda smacked the reins of the goats. With a sharp, agonizing jerk, the animals lurched forward to carry her and her banging cart down the damp sewer tunnel.