I am his teeth
I am his tongue
I am his heart
I am His lungs
I am his hunger
I am his hate
I am his thirst
That never slakes
- Traditional Winnower hymn, translated from the Old Tongue Slowly, languidly, the sun rose over the horizon. It was not the burning yellow orb of days past; rather it glowed a sickly, burnished orange. The ruined atmosphere had poisoned and refracted even the daylight itself. Strange clouds swirled overhead, moving ceaselessly in bizarre, nonsensical rhythm. Those who stared long enough would invariably swear that there was a pattern to these movements - as such, most chose to avoid looking at the sky altogether.
As the sun climbed higher and higher, the darkness peeled back, unveiling a grisly scene. Dozens of men and women lay in a heap, dead or dying, some crawling away in a desperate attempt at survival while others simply curled up, eyes shut, accepting their fate.
Forty-odd hulking figures strode across a ruined battlefield of their own making, bathed in the hellish orange glow of the rising sun. They wore savage, angular bone-plate, their faces obscured by ritual death-masks and their armor adorned with streaks of vivid yellow paint. They were the Winnowers, those who separated wheat from chaff - the warriors who served the Cult of the Worm.
One of the dying men struggled to pull himself forward with his one remaining arm, the stump of the other trailing a river of blood behind him. Then, a shadow fell over him, and he slumped, resigned. It was already over.
"M'ei a tek," he muttered under his breath as an armored fist grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking him to his feet amid cries of pain. The man found himself face-to-face with a pair of cold, grey, piercing eyes. There was no mercy, no respite to be found in those eyes. Not even the faintest chance.
"Was that a prayer?" the Winnower asked, cocking her head to the side. "Don't you think it's a little later for that?"
The man simply stared, trembling, eyes wide and unblinking. He had made his peace. Without another word, the Winnower rammed her sword through his stomach, jerking it to the side and yanking it free in one smooth motion. The man's steaming entrails landed upon her shoes and, a moment later, his desiccated corpse hit the ground beside them. She turned away, disinterested, sheathing her sword.
Unlike her fellow Winnowers, she was unmasked, exposing a sharp-featured face marred with dozens of small, thin scars. Her arms, too, bore countless such marks - the byproduct of a lifetime of fighting. Her long, red hair hung in a ponytail behind her, reaching almost down to her knees, and her armor was adorned not in yellow but in blue - signifying her rank as Eltok, one of three warrior-generals.
Another Winnower approached, his own armor painted in streaks of green - marking him as an Eltok's Second. He removed his mask, hitching it to his belt, then slammed his fist against his chestplate in salute.
"The Black Hearts are done, Arha," he rumbled. His name was Grakke, and he was gargantuan - towering even over his peers. His once-handsome features had been laid to ruin by a wicked scar that ran from his chin to his forehead, stretching his upper lip into a permanent scowl. Now, however, his mouth was twisted into a wry half-smile.
"What's the count?" Arha asked, her voice measured and even. Grakke's smile disappeared.
"Zekval's still going through it all," he said, folding his muscular arms. "But he says we lost at least ten." Arha clicked her tongue.
"This should not have happened," she declared, shaking her head. "The Outriders were to have swept this valley." The Outriders were the elite scouts and spies of the Second Host - the longtime rivals of Arha's group, the Third Host. Each Host comprised roughly four-hundred men - the Third, the youngest and newly inducted Winnowers, the Second, the neophytes hand-picked from the Third, and the First, the time-honored veterans.
"You don't think...?" the Grakke trailed off. His nostrils flared, and his hand clenched tight around the colossal battleaxe resting on his shoulder. It didn't take much to rile Grakke up, especially after blood had been shed.
"Kagen set us up," Arha confirmed. If she was angry, she didn't show it. "I'm certain of it. His Outriders scouted this valley to prevent this sort of ambush."
"That treacherous old gve'ka," Grakke growled, seething through gritted teeth. "This means war." Arha shook her head.
"No," she said firmly. "Forget the Second Host. There's only one man who needs to be taken to task for this." At that, Grakke's beady eyes widened, if only incrementally.
"You're going to kill Kagen?" he rumbled, his voice dropping low.
"I'm going to talk to him," Arha replied. "And if I don't like what I hear..." Grakke hesitated - then gave a firm nod.
"This has been a long time coming," he agreed, stepping back. "I'm with you, Arha." Arha, too, took a step back - then turned to her warriors and let loose a piercing whistle.
"Winnowers of the Third!" she barked. At once, her people sprang into action, coming to stand at attention in a rigid row before their Eltok. They were a grim legion indeed, their armor crossed with streaks of garish yellow and dripping with fresh blood. They were also hers, and even after five years as Eltok it still made Arha's heart swell with pride so see them assembled so.
"This," she said, gesturing at the carnage behind her, "was yet another victory. The cowardly Black Hearts thought they could ambush us - but cunning is nothing in the face of overwhelming power. The weak die, the strong survive, and the Worm is well pleased. Aik'at!"
"Aik'at!" the Winnowers thundered in unison, fists thumping against their chests. Arha turned sharply on her heel, stepping away without another word, and the Winnowers followed, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Their blood was still hot; their hearts were still beating fast from the adrenaline of battle.
"How do we want to do this?" Grakke asked, falling in step beside his Eltok. Arha tossed her hair over her shoulder, continuing forward without looking back.
"Quietly," she replied. "You, me, and maybe one or two others. There hasn't been war between the Hosts in a hundred years - I don't intend to start one now. Kagen and I will fix this - or one of us will die."
"He'll die," Grakke corrected, flashing a twisted grin. "That old man doesn't stand a chance against the Terror of the Dunes herself."
"No doubt," Arha agreed, reaching up and wiping a streak of blood from her cheek. "Kagen shouldn't be any trouble. Still - just in case..."
"We've got your back, Arha," Grakke reassured her.
One hundred Winnowers marched across the ash-dunes like a vivid parade of death, the sun burning a hole in the orchid sky behind them.
The Third Host stood at the maw of a great, long-dead beast, waiting patiently as a colossal gate rose up before them. This vast, limbless, black-bodied creature was the Lifegiver, the Terminus, the Maw that Ever-Hungered. The Great Worm Himself. Centuries ago, the first Cultists had settled inside the creature's decaying corpse, taking advantage of the generous resources it offered - walls for protection, meat for sustenance, and bone to build with. The Worm gave and gave and gave, enough to sustain an entire city for generations - and, so, they worshiped it like a god. The gate itself had been crafted from the Worm's own teeth - gigantic, fifty-foot-long things that interlocked and barred access to the uninvited. Arha had passed through this gate countless times. Even still, however, she found herself awed at the size of the creature before her. One could only imagine what that monstrosity had been like in life.
Finally, the gate was lifted, and the Winnowers marched into the open courtyard. Twenty bone-armored warriors of various Hosts lined the walls, watching their peers carefully as they filtered inside. When the last Winnower was in, one of them barked a sharp command.
At once, a dozen slaves released the chain they had been holding. The gate slammed shut, kicking up an enormous cloud of dust as the teeth bit into the Earth once more.
Before them now loomed a vast city, encircled by pitch-black flesh and gleaming white bone on all sides. Rows and rows of Worm-bone houses lined the streets, punctuated regularly by tall, winding spires. The Worm's ribs extended even above its own open back, reaching for the heavens and piercing the clouds above. Thousands of citizens milled about in the streets - some merchants, some miners, some slaves, and some priests.
Arha turned to her Host, hands clasped behind her back.
"You're dismissed," she ordered. "Eat and rest. Tomorrow, we fight again."
At once, the Winnowers dispersed. Grakke stepped forward, snapping his fingers."Nageth! Zekval!" he barked. A pair of Winnowers parted the throng, saluting and standing at attention. Nageth was a stout, dark-skinned man, a scar running across the side of his close-shaved skull. His jaw was dotted with patchy stubble. Zekval was quite the opposite - bald, pale, and skinny, his eyes darted nervously as he awaited his orders. Both were, despite their relative youth at twenty-something years of age, respected veterans of the Third Host.
"I have a meeting," Arha said simply. Nageth raised an eyebrow.
"With?" he asked.
"Kagen," Grakke rumbled in reply.
"Oh, no..." Zekval muttered, staring down at his shoes.
"Oh, yes," Grakke countered. "If things get out of hand, you're gonna back us up - understand? Show some muscle, show some teeth." Nageth gave a curt nod. Zekval sighed, meeting Grakke's eyes.
"You want me to take Kagen out, then?" he mumbled. Grakke nodded - only for Arha to put a hand on his shoulder and shake her head.
"Kagen's mine," she said firmly. Zekval shrugged.
"Fair enough," he said. "I'll just kill his son, I guess."
"That's the spirit," Arha commended, turning on her heel. The others followed in close formation as she made her way to the Second Host barracks - a long, winding building that ran along the Worm's left side. As they approached the door, a pair of Winnowers moved to block their path - each bearing the purple stripes of the Second Host. They looked at her with derision in their eyes, and Arha stared back with complete disinterest.
"We have business," she said flatly. "Move." The Winnowers shared a glance and then, slowly, they parted, allowing Arha's party through. Grakke shoulder-checked one as he passed, while Nageth hawked and spat on the other's shoe. Neither dared protest.
The four of them strode through the winding halls of the Second Host barracks, ignoring the glares and scowls from those around them. Once again, none of them dared question her presence - Arha had a reputation as a duelist without peer, and Grakke was known to kill over even a mild annoyance.
They stopped outside the doors to Kagen's chambers - a pair of gaudy, ornate slabs of embellished bronze. Again, a pair of Winnowers stood outside. This time, however, they refused to part. One of them stepped forward, removing his death-mask and revealing a mess of stringy brown hair.
"He's not expecting you," the Winnower said, his voice a hoarse rasp. Arha watched in silence as Grakke stepped forward, coming to a stop just centimeters away from the other man's face. The Second Host Winnower was tall - but Grakke stood nearly a full head taller.
"Good," Grakke growled. "Now open that door, or I'll kick it down."
"Threats won't-" the man started. Grakke drew in a breath, and the Winnower's resolve shattered at once. Without further ado he stepped back, turning to his companion and giving a hurried nod. Dutifully, the two of them shoved the doors open, straining from the exertion as the metal slabs creaked across the floor. The moment they were open, Arha stormed inside, the others moving quickly to join her.
It was a garish, opulent chamber; very different from the rest of the barracks. The walls were painted a brilliant purple, and the center of the area was punctuated by eight pillars of clay. Each was adorned with dozens of trophies - weapons, scraps of cloth, bones, and objects that could hardly be identified. They were the remnants of a hundred campaigns, all proudly on display. Kagen loved to surround himself with reminders of victories long past; Arha found it childish and sad.
At the end of the room there was an ornate, luxurious throne, and in that throne was a man clad only in a purple robe, a bone circlet on his head and a goblet in his hand. He was an older man, his hair graying fast, and he looked Arha over with a pair of pale blue eyes as she approached.
"Arha!" he called, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. A dozen guards stood by his side, all at rigid attention. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
Arha stormed forward, feeling her anger rising with every step. She had planned to do this carefully, to resolve this insult with words rather than blades - but now, she found that her patience had finally run out. She decided then and there that this feud - one years in the making - would come to a head today, one way or another. She stopped a mere foot from Kagen's throne, her eyes enveloped in shadow. Eight guards moved at once, swords in hand, but Arha was undeterred as they surrounded her.
"We were attacked," she said, her voice clipped and controlled. Kagen raised his eyebrows.
"Oh no," he said, his tone flat. "By whom?"
"The Black Hearts," Arha growled, control giving way to rising ire at once. At her sudden change in tone, of the guards took another step forward - but Arha just shot the man a cold-eyed glare, and immediately he took a step back. Kagen hardly seemed to notice as he reclined further back in his chair.
"Ah," the Second Eltok said, nodding. "Those cursed marauders. I'm glad to see you made it out alive."
"Not all of us," Arha replied icily.
"Ah," Kagen said, again, his expression unsympathetic. "Well, you know the old adage: the strong survive, and the weak-"
"Your Outriders missed them," Arha interrupted. In response, Kagen leaned back, taking a long swig from his goblet - his eyes on Arha the entire time. After several seconds of gulping, he slammed the goblet down, gasping for air and wiping at his mouth.
"It was an ambush?" he asked, then belched. Arha nodded, struggling with all her might not to reach over and throttle this condescending old bastard right there in his chair. There was a certain proper order by which such things should be done. "They were hiding, then. I don't know what to tell you."
"The Outriders couldn't miss a hundred Black Hearts," Arha pressed. Kagen sighed, raising the goblet to his lips once more.
"Well, it seems that they did," he said, disinterested. He moved to take another sip, and it was at that moment that Arha's frustration boiled over from her brain to her body, and her arm was moving before she even knew it.
"At least lie with some conviction!" she snapped, slapping the goblet from the older man's hand. Time slowed to a crawl as the cup hit the floor, spilled wine arcing through the air between them. Then, time resumed, and Arha felt cold bone pressing against her throat.
"Not a muscle," a voice whispered in her ear. "Not even a twitch, or I'll cut you open and watch your life spill out." Arha knew it was Kelsen, Kagen's firstborn son, who now held a dagger to her neck. Grakke, Nageth, and Zekval surged forward, weapons in hand, and Kagen's guards rushed to meet them.
"Easy now," Arha muttered, feeling a trickle of blood run down her neck as the two groups prepared to clash around them. "No need for this to get violent." Then, without warning, she jerked both elbows back and caught Kelsen hard in the stomach. The dagger fell away and Arha spun around, delivering a kick to the face that sent Kelsen staggering back, clutching his broken nose and swearing profusely. He was a young man - only eighteen, his pale face shrouded in raven-black hair, and he stared at Arha now with murder in his eyes.
"Enough!" Kagen bellowed, rising to his feet. Everyone froze - Second and Third Host alike - save for Arha, who turned to face her longtime rival. Finally, the mask of calm was gone from his face - replaced instead with one of twisted, snarling fury.
"You barge into my grounds uninvited," Kagen growled, his hands quivering with rage. "You accuse me, you try to intimidate me. You strike my son right before my very eyes! Right now, Arha, your life is balanced on a knife's edge and I am very, very close to having my men flay you alive and display your ruined corpse at the center of this very chamber - so I strongly, strongly recommend that you cease your useless jabbering and make. Your. Point."
"You set us up," Arha hissed back, unbowed. "Your Outriders spotted the Black Hearts and you kept it a secret, hoping that their ambush would actually succeed in wiping my people out. What a pathetic gambit - and one so very characteristic of you, Kagen."
"So what if I did?" Kagen barked. He was livid, his face flushed with red. "This is the law of strength, Arha-"
"This was trickery!" Arha shouted back. "Cowardice!" She hesitated for a moment - then, her hand dropped to the sword on her belt.
"You know what your problem is, Kagen?" she asked. The Second Eltok only spat in reply.
"You're far too brave," Arha replied, answering her own question. She pulled her sword partly free, and the exposed bone glinted in the light. "You don't believe there will ever be consequences for your actions. You aren't scared of me like you should be, old man."
"What are you going to do about it?" Kagen growled. Arha paused - then smirked.
"Consequences," she repeated, jerking her head towards the dueling circle in the center of the chamber. Such a thing was customary in any high-ranking Winnower's chamber - a challenge for succession could be issued at any time, and at all times an Eltok. "Get in the circle, or I'll gut you in that chair.
"Kagen's eyes widened, flicking from Arha to the circle, and there upon his face was a sudden flash of naked fear. He was a man long past his prime, a general who led from the back - while Arha was a prodigy duelist and the youngest Eltok in recorded history. This would be no fight but an execution. Arha expected him to beg, then, or to try and weasel his way out of it.
Instead, to her surprise, the corners of the old man's mouth twisted upwards.
"Took you long enough," he sneered.
The two stood at opposite ends of the circle, each surrounded by dozens of onlookers. With Grakke's help, Arha had unfastened her armor-plates, leaving only the black Worm-leather bodysuit underneath. In a duel between Eltoks, armor would not be the deciding factor. Kagen himself wore a similar bodysuit - his purple, and adorned in all manner of gilded finery. Arha's, by contrast, was relatively plain - the only modification was the sleeves, cut off at the shoulders.
Now, Arha was pacing back and forth, watching her opponent like some predatory cat as he prepared. She, by contrast, needed no preparation whatsoever, for the Third Eltok was always ready to fight.
Kagen was speaking to his son and another, hulking Winnower, his eyes flicking periodically to his prowling opponent. His men were crowded around their Eltok, silently offering their support.
Finally, the doors swung open once more. Every Winnower snapped to attention as a portly mountain of a man stepped into the room, his bare chest painted with long streaks of gray. He was Bartok, Grand Lord - the only man alive that every Winnower respected and feared. He and two others served as The Triumvirate directly beneath The Master, the enigmatic figure who ruled the Cult in its entirety. Wordlessly, he strode to the edge of the circle, his footsteps heavy and plodding in that near-silent chamber. He folded his massive arms - and then he spoke.
"Kagen," he thundered. "Eltok of the Second Host. Arha, Eltok of the Third Host." He paused, letting his words sink in. "You have both been faithful, skilled generals; you both carry a long record of exceptional bravery and sacrifice. It pains me to see you at such an impasse." Again, he paused.
"The hell it does," Zekval muttered, and Nageth elbowed him hard in the side.
"Nevertheless!" Bartok boomed. "This impasse shall be resolved in the ways decreed by the Master, and by the Great Worm. Theirs shall be an argument of blades, and of teeth, and of fists, and of the hatred that can only blossom forth from raw and boundless ambition. By Kagen's decree, it is Kelsen who shall succeed him as Second Eltok. By Arha's decree, it is Grakke who shall succeed her as Third Eltok." Grakke fidgeted uncomfortably but did not speak.
Arha and Kagen locked eyes. Her countenance was deadly serious - but his was smug, sneering, and self-assured. She could hardly wait to wipe the smile from his face.
"Let the slaughter commence!" Bartok shouted, stomping his foot to punctuate his words. Immediately, Arha drew her leg back, raising her sword and bracing it against her forearm. She watched Kagen carefully, calculating as he drew his own weapon - an ornate, heavily embellished short-sword. He stood casually, weapon at his side, and actually yawned. Arha furrowed her brow, confused - then discarded her doubts at once. She had always preferred the offensive.
Arha wound back, coiling like a spring - then leapt forward, crossing the distance between them in moments. The point of her blade was but a fraction of an inch from the old man's eye - then, his arm was a blur, and Arha's sword was battered aside. Immediately, she leapt back, dropping to a crouch as Kagen swung in retaliation and hit only empty air.
Arha rose to her full height, eyes narrow and calculating. That was far, far too fast from the old man. Something was wrong - there was something she wasn't seeing. And then, after a moment, she did see it.
Kagen's eyes were bloodshot, his pupils were dilated, and his face was drenched in sweat. Even now, his hands were trembling as they held his sword out in front of him. These were all the telltale signs of the wa'tek - flesh harvested from the Great Worm's own brain. When ingested, it elevated one's body to incredible heights, if only for a time. Arha had never partaken; she had always been taught that wa'tek clouded the mind and made it difficult to focus. Much like armor, wa'tek was strictly forbidden in a duel between Eltoks.
Arha, however, was too prideful to even consider raising a complaint against an opponent she considered so far beneath her. That Kagen fought with an unfair advantage would only serve to sweeten her inevitable victory, after all. Even still, she allowed herself a moment to take into account the nature of the wa'tek's influence, observing Kagen closely - how we moved, how he held his weapon, where his eyes were fixing. Then, when she was confident she had him, she shot forward in the blink of an eye once more.
Their swords clashed over and over as Arha launched a relentless, wildly unpredictable onslaught designed to disorient and overwhelm her opponent. But, to her muted surprise, Kagen held firm, deftly blocking strike after strike with that smug grin still firmly plastered on his face. Arha swung once more, over-extended - and then his fist cracked against her jaw. Her head snapped back, and for a split second she was vulnerable.
That was all the time Kagen needed. He surged forward, delivering a sharp kick to Arha's shin and smashing the hilt of his sword into her face. He swung, aiming to sever her head at the neck - but at the last second Arha dropped to a crouch, feeling the blade nick a strand of hair from her head as it passed. Her own blade flashed, and Kagen grimaced in pain, blood running in thick rivets down his leg. His eyes were wild with fury.
"You spoiled bitch," he seethed, breathing heavily. "Someone would've put you down years ago if Tekarn hadn't adopted you as his little pet."
"You shut your mouth!" Arha snapped, overtaken with a surprising surge of frustration, and without thinking she lunged at the Second Eltok. He barked out a laugh, sidestepping her attack and cutting a deep gouge into her side.
Grakke watched it all unfold with increasing concern, eyes narrowed beneath a heavy brow. Sure, Arha was a prideful and emotional warrior - but she always fought as cold as the very grave. That Kagen had managed to rile her up left Grakke with a mounting sense of unease.
The two Eltoks fought furiously, Kagen calling upon countless years of knowledge and experience to match Arha's prodigious skill. While each of her moves were carefully calculated, Kagen was in a flow state, acting and reacting on pure instinct. The wa'tek pushed him farther and farther, completely exceeded his limitations. At his advanced age, the wa'tek could seriously endanger his health - but none of that mattered even half as much as finally getting the opportunity to humble this damned upstart.
The two clashed one final time, then leapt back, glowing sparks flying through the air. They eyed each other, taking ragged breaths and dripping fresh blood as they circled slowly, each silently daring the other to make a move. Grakke watched, white-knuckled, sweat beading on his forehead. She could really lose, he thought to himself, even as he chastised himself for even considering such a thought. Still, the words arrived unbidden. She could really die here.
"You...arrogant child..." Kagen panted, his eyes bloodshot and wide. "Eltok at twenty - a contemptible joke!"
"I've led my Host for five years!" Arha shot back. Dark crimson stained her left side, and her right eye was all but swollen shut.
"I led mine for thirty!" Kagen replied. "You haven't earned-"
"I have earned it!" Arha bellowed, gesticulating furiously. "I killed Tcesis - and then I killed every challenger who wanted the title for themselves! They were weak, and I am strong, and that's why I'm Eltok!" Kagen barked out a coarse, humorless laugh.
"You're Eltok because Tekarn raised you," he snarled. "Arha, the prodigy. Arha, the golden child. The only student he'd ever taken! Your precious title was handed to you on a platter the moment you set foot in this city." Arha opened her mouth to speak, to shout, to passionately defend herself. And then, suddenly, she found her focus. She drew back, rising to her full height - and smiled.
"I haven't been a student in a long time, Kagen," she said, twirling her sword in one hand. Kagen's eyes grew even wider, and his lips drew back into an animalistic snarl.
"You..." he growled, practically shuddering with rage. The wa'tek was heightening his reflexives, his strength - but it was also heightening his emotions. Even as Arha was reigning in her aggression, Kagen was finding it increasingly impossible to do so. Arha let slip a cruel, low chuckle.
"I'm the master now," Arha said, dropping into a fighting stance. "You're past your prime - but mine is just beginning. Now, come at me. I'll teach you how the new generation fights."
Kagen didn't respond, not with words - he just leapt forward, and the sound that tore from between his lips was all but the howl of a deranged, rabid animal. He darted to the side - a feint - then surged forward, blade angled right at Arha's exposed side. Grakke saw it at once.
"She has him," he grunted.
At the last second Arha twisted, letting Kagen's blade glide harmlessly under her arm, then spun around and thrust. Her sword slipped neatly between Kagen's fourth and fifth ribs - and right through his heart.
A gout of blood shot out Eltok's back, and he staggered forward, falling upon Arha as he coughed up a spray of thick, pulpy blood. She held him, for a moment, as his body jerked and shuddered - then she yanked her sword free, kicking the dying man to the ground. Dozens of Winnowers surged to meet their doomed leader as Arha turned, locking eyes with Grakke.
She grinned, and Grakke couldn't help but do the same.
"It is decided!" Bartok thundered.
Arha took one step forward, intending to give some manner of rousing speech of resounding declaration when, suddenly, her entire body simply gave out. She didn't feel a thing as she hit the ground, her vision rapidly dimming and the sounds around her grew quieter and quieter. The last thing she saw before she passed out was Kelsen kneeling by his father's side - staring not at Kagen, but at Arha, his eyes burning with hatred the likes of which she had never seen before. Then, mercifully, everything went black.