“We dare not substitute or deviate one grain from this barbaric norm that surrounds us. And yes, it is a depraved, vile savagery we emulate. Miaso and I feel our struggle keenly as we remember who we are. Always.
“But Mikoa . . . Doînyío, such is the power we have witnessed that we dare not so much as consider using the basest of our sorceries here. Nor do dare not assimilate in every way. Every god’s blackened way, may my spirit find peace someday. As repugnant as it is, we know not whether the lack of some thing, some essence, some . . . some ash, would not mark us and so draw deadly attention to our work here. And I truly, with complete surety, warn all my sisters to follow in this caution. I have no doubt that the quietest whispered spell of most insignificance will bring down such destruction upon us, and our mission, as cannot be imagined until one has witnessed the Witches in their dark puissance.
“This,” Toyö said, spreading her arms wide, then dropping her hands to include the sandy ground, “is of the most primal of evils that once walked our world.”
Silence
Somewhere to the south, in the still dark, a great sand owl’s claws snatched a gray hopper up into the night. The small fox’s death cry split the quiet with a high-pitched wail that followed it into the distance until the silence settled once again over the seven Shadow Warriors.
Mikao bowed first to Miaso, then Toyö. “Your advice, as well as your actions speak of sacrifice and duty. Both have honor.”
Turning to the four who had journeyed with her to this ill land, Mikao continued. “Let us accept the new realities into which we are cast. We know our duty. Now we must learn the ways of this evil in order to fulfill our oaths. The experience and wisdom of Miaso and Toyö will guide us.
Dawn broke over the encampment with the suddenness of this bleak land. A brief blurring across the flat horizon, stars fading, and suddenly the sun claws its way into the sky as if reluctant to bring light to what lies below.
Two mounted patrols approached the camp’s outer verge, dust clouds marking their progress. Of the four riders, one broke off and cantered to the west. The others continued their way, the three warriors passing into a sprawling mass of hutments and tents, their way lined with the blood splashed horned-skull standards of the Red Skull Clan.
Mikoa, riding at Miaso’s side, tore her eyes from the unfolding city of the Witches to meet Miaso’s regard. Miaso pitched her voice so that both Iaôdo and Háda, riding abreast but to the outside, would hear.
“Small groupings of warriors are always forming and reforming within their companies and legions. Command is fluid at the lower levels. The strongest lead. The weaker submit or die. Leaders are challenged and either prevail or die. There is no returning to the ranks once one has risen to lead a squad. A squad is close to our blade of twenty-one warriors. It can range from as few as a dozen to as many as a score and some. When they get that size a captain will take notice and draft them into her company. And so up the line.
“Toyö and I have remained unattached which has been the cause of some bloodshed. And hampers our access to the higher councils, but leaves us our freedom and lack of notice which we’ve deemed critical to our success.
“Recently Toyö left the Skull Talkers enclave for another clan’s, the Red Skulls. I still shelter with the Skull Talkers which is where we go now, through here.”
The three newcomers each regarded the massed standards with renewed interest.
“I would have guessed Horned Skulls,” Háda said.
“Everything gets painted in blood sooner or later,” Miaso said. “My guess is that once all the skulls started sporting blood, the horns were added later to set their skulls apart. I’ve not seen any with a true matching set of skull and horns.”
“There appears to be a general fetish with creating bizarre and horrid appearances.” Mikoa licked her lips and spat dust.
“Aye.” Miaso nodded. “There is that.”
The small group rode in silence until they came upon a standard much like the rest except for feathers that hung along a cross bar beneath the horned skull.
“This way.” Miaso led them into a narrower side avenue.
“I have a tent, three slaves. None men. And a string of three ponies. I’ve killed half a dozen who have challenged my right to them. When Toyö departed, I spent the next day fending off four fresh challengers. By rights I could have claimed their ponies, slaves, and kits. But that would have left me as an even more tempting target so I used them to build several minor alliances.
“Expect to be watched closely and challenged often at first. And know that warriors do not become slaves in defeat. They become corpses. You must kill in order to remain free of suspicion and questions. Any weakness, any compassion, any mercy draws the attention of the commanders, and possibly . . . eventually, the higher witches.”
Mikoa, who had been following her words closely, asked, “Doesn’t your refusal to join a squad put you under question?”
Miaso grunted, a wry gleam lit her eyes. “Possibly. But with the addition of you, Háda, and Iaôdo any questioners will now assume I’m building my own squad.
“It will give the dead challengers’ squad leaders pause. They must now wonder if I’m building a base from which to challenge their leadership.
“I’ve only been challenged once by one such leader. I always win, but only by what appears as much as luck as skill. In that case the squad leader called out her challenge and lay headless before she took two steps towards me. None have followed her lead since. But then, neither have I made a play for any squad.”
Mikoa nodded. “A good strategy in this savage place. Take note, Iaôdo . . . Háda. Win, but just win. Show only the necessary skill to survive.”
“Here,” said Miaso, guiding her pony into a wide avenue of hard packed dirt and sand. “The Skull Talkers enclave.”
The way ran straight for what must have been a league. A vast plain of tents, hutments, pens, stockades, and humanity spilled away into the smoke choked distance to each side. Like an arrow the roadway shot straight into the encampment’s heart where a black pavilion of immense size to be so visible rose up like some dark cloud. A cloud that yet strove to catch and twist the eye in unnatural ways; ways that left the mind fogged and the body weak.
Lining the avenue, at irregular intervals but stretching as far as the eye could see, skulls of every imaginable form of life hung from, were pierced by, and secured to standards sunk fast into the hard ground. Regardless the ostial species displayed, each standard stood crowned with a human skull, its jaws gaped wide as if in the act of releasing one final howl of despair.
An impulse of pure self-preservation caused Mikoa, Iaôdo, and Háda to reign in their mounts. Only their training allowed them to quickly recover and close up around Miaso as she continued down the way, passing warriors in singles and small groups on their way out of the encampment. When there were none near, Mikoa whispered, “That monstrous black pavilion ahead, it reeks of the vilest corruption. And gods below, that ebony pole rising above it. Nothing but power given form. It must be a score paces thick to be seen from this distance.”
Miaso held her eyes straight ahead. A harsh snarl settled across her face. “If hate, fear, and every form of corrupted puissance took shape and form, it would appear as that ebony standard. That is the standard of Empress and High Witch of the Mârgrôllic Empire; Divine Soul of the Black Septs; Dark Sister to the Demons of Gorish, Hon Dröl Wi.”
They rode on in silence. Confronted, finally, with a full awakening to Toyö’s warning given but a few glasses before in the desert.
