deepbeneath

[deepbeneath]

Being alone had never bothered her.

These days, there was a degree of resignation to her acceptance, the understanding that the path she'd chosen didn't lend itself to much friendly traffic.  Barely wide enough for her own footprints at times, it wasn't a path down which one would lead anyone they cared for in any case and, since she had no intention of changing course, the situation seemed to resolve itself without much gained from complaining. Nazirah had abandoned the notion of companionship when her aunt's death had left her with the realisation that caring hurt, a lot, and though there were still connections, they were kept at a distance as much as possible.  Far away from any situation where her narrow, winding path could send them tumbling to their doom.

Soraya was a slight chink in the armor, of course, but that seemed to be the girl's natural place in life.  Always just under the skin, forever insistent and yet somehow far too charming and endearing to push away.  Indulging her affection for the younger girl was risky but it wasn’t as if Zirah actually believed Soraya would take no for an answer.  She’d fought too hard for her right to determine her own fate, the older Scourge couldn’t help but empathise with her tenacity.

Moustaf, much though she raged against the recollection, had been another weakness though his eventual betrayal had been unsurprising enough for her to loathe any glimmer of hope she’d ever had that her instincts had been wrong.  Sometimes, ridiculously, she still missed him.  Mostly, she just wanted to kill him.  He was her biggest failure and, boy, did she hate failing.

So, her judgement wasn’t infallible, she’d learnt the lesson.  

Hadn’t she?

It bothered her how preoccupied she was.  Not by Soraya’s inevitable involvement, though that ought to have been cause for the greatest concern, but because it actually mattered to her that he’d left.  It was illogical to care, the situation was undoubtedly beyond his ability to contribute to and the last thing she needed was a petty thief’s self-interest getting in her way.  Every shred of information she’d gleaned from their time together made their separation the most sensible option, and yet here she was, staring into the dwindling flame of her small campfire and wondering not for the first time what would have happened had he stuck around.  

Something was missing, she had the same sense of dissatisfaction she always felt when a mystery was only half-solved, or when the pieces of a puzzle fit together too neatly to be trusted.  Five forgeries and four confirmed deaths and still the question that wouldn’t leave her alone was...

Who is he?

And why do I care?

Far away from prying eyes, the tired expression on her face as she contemplated the stars overhead betrayed a wistfulness that bordered on melancholy.  Was she lonely?  Probably.  Accepting its necessity didn’t mean she was numb to it.  And, if she was lonely, was this just an excuse to become distracted, drawn by the battle of wills and the intensity in those shrewd eyes that suggested he was far more than his little charade permitted?  Was now really the time to be chasing secrets that had nothing to do with her or the land she called home?

The world is a big place.  We’ve been locked away for so long.

Her eyes drifted once again to the embers.

So why has he found us?

Me.

What does he want?

[deepbeneath]

She didn’t care.

He has the book.  She’d read it.  

It most certainly was not meant to be taken at face value and you have no way of knowing which parts of what you read are actually relevant.  She’d worry about that once she had the other four.  

You don’t even know where they are.  No, but she knew who put them there.  It was a start.

The start of what though? A lot of people are after these books, this is definitely bigger than anticipated.  Then all the more reason to stop wasting time.

People are dead.  This is more than just another treasure hunt and you know it.  And therefore definitely not the place for sight-seeing foreigners who shoot at things they don’t understand, especially when that means they’d be shooting at practically everything.

He has the book.  That’s all he wanted anyway.  She didn’t care.

Doesn’t that technically mean he won?  She...didn’t care.

It’s going to get him killed.  She didn’t care!

You care just a bit.  You already saved him once.  

Gotcha.

So what next?

You’re sulking.

He’s definitely cute...for a foreigner.

You told Soraya not to get involved.

“Shit!”

[deepbeneath]

“Dead?”

“Very.”

“When?”

“Early hours of this morning.  They found him just before the bazaar opened.”

“Official report?”

“The usual.  Unlucky scuffle with a drunken thief who inconveniently left no trace of themselves.”

“And the unofficial report?”

“Zirah, these bodies keep turning up.  Last month, it was Shamir.  Before that, the caravan from Amnoon was razed, no survivors.  Now Taron is dead. Mansej is missing, Esther hasn’t shown up since last harvest and nobody’s giving us straight answers.  What’s going on out there?” “You mean aside from the obvious?”

“The obvious?  Someone’s killing us, Nazirah, don’t play your little word games with me!” “Exactly.  Someone is systematically wiping out your information network, which means someone compromised it.  Do you know what Taron’s been working on recently?”

“Working on?  Wha...I don’t know, the usual?  He’s only ever been a delivery point, barely even left town.”

“Something he probably should have stuck to...”

“You think he’s messed up in something?”

“I think you’re all messed up in something, whether you want to be or not.  Taron was my lead, I think he delivered something for someone who didn’t want it traced.  It’s just a hunch, but I’m starting to think Shamir may have delivered something very similar to another location, and if that’s the case, I can probably guess you’re unlikely to find Mansej and Esther unless you’re prepared to sift the entire desert.” “You think they’re dead?”

“You already know they are.  Thing is...”

“Don’t you dare walk out of here.”

“The thing is, Henri, if Taron had one, and Shamir and Mansej and Esther all deposited the others....where is the fifth?”

“The fifth what?  Zirah?  ZIRAH?  THE FIFTH WHAT?”

[deepbeneath]

Whatever that means.

What the hell does that mean?

The frown wasn’t so much directed at him as through him, a deep furrowed confusion that Zirah didn’t even try to hide.  At this point, and perhaps it said something about her pragmatic side, being obstructive wasn’t going to prove much and if they were stuck, for now, working with each other then best to get on with it.  If she spent too long sulking over all the information other people had that she needed, well...she’d spend a lot of time sulking.

It helped that his resourcefulness was becoming an increasing fascination. Her dark eyes stared back down at the book she held. “There were too many of them,” she eventually observes, “for their efforts to make sense.  I did wonder why Varasteh‘s ramblings appealed enough to warrant the risk.”  She lifted her eyes to regard him. “Mehrab Varasteh, something of a fanatic in the eyes of many.  Dedicated his life to unraveling the source of Joko’s power, though...”  Her wince spoke volumes.  “Let’s just say he took an academic’s liberties when it came to speculations about the Awakened, among other things.  Everything from them being the product of mass hypnosis to very advanced golems.”  The arch of her eyebrow was at least not wry mirth at Lewis’ expense this time and though he didn’t know it yet, he was being introduced to someone who very probably held the distinction of being even lower in Zirah’s estimations than he was.   “It’s generally accepted these days that he put about wild theories out of spite because irritating scholars took his fancy.  It’s been fourteen years or so now since he just upped and vanished.  Most people think he’s dead, fewer care.  He’s only really retained any relevance because he wrote, prolifically, and always in code.” Once again, the reflected firelight danced as mischief in her eyes. “Books like these,” she held up the one responsible for their cooperation, “have turned up in similar style in at least four other locations that I know of.  And nobody has figured out why.”  

Her gaze held his a moment longer before she conceded, tossing the book onto the ground in front of her.  “Though I guess, now that I know it’s a forgery, at least I know how.  I traced the recovery of the first four, similar parties to the one you intercepted.  And whilst it may make no sense to me that a bunch of scholars are chasing forgeries of a crazy man’s cryptic theories all over the desert, even a fool’s interest is worth investigating if there are enough fools and they are persistent enough.”

The back of her head struck the rock behind with a soft thud.

“As for what they meant by precursor, I have no idea but I intend to create a few.”

If there was such a thing as competing for cleaning duties, then Zirah had obligingly opted to cooperate for once.  One could argue that they were his belongings and interfering would be tantamount to meddling but one could also be accused, in that case, of being very selective with one’s moral code.  More likely, being aware that he’d already started clearing away their meal and probably didn’t need assistance with at least that level of challenge, the Scourge had occupied herself with the one thing that only she was likely to pull off; translating the damn book. It was proving more difficult than she’d originally assumed, not so much because of the condition of the text, which was impressively careworn for a forgery, but because the dialect was an uncommon variant and whenever she did piece together a paragraph, she couldn’t make head nor tail of its meaning.  By the time Lewis was finished, the fist propping her chin was leaving indents almost as deep as the furrow of her brow. The glance she afforded him was distracted at best. “Did you actually learn anything from the scholars before you blew them up?”  Answering a question with a question was her specialty.  “Any indication of why they were interested in the location or the book?”

[deepbeneath]

If there was such a thing as competing for cleaning duties, then Zirah had obligingly opted to cooperate for once.  One could argue that they were his belongings and interfering would be tantamount to meddling but one could also be accused, in that case, of being very selective with one’s moral code.  More likely, being aware that he’d already started clearing away their meal and probably didn’t need assistance with at least that level of challenge, the Scourge had occupied herself with the one thing that only she was likely to pull off; translating the damn book. It was proving more difficult than she’d originally assumed, not so much because of the condition of the text, which was impressively careworn for a forgery, but because the dialect was an uncommon variant and whenever she did piece together a paragraph, she couldn’t make head nor tail of its meaning.  By the time Lewis was finished, the fist propping her chin was leaving indents almost as deep as the furrow of her brow. The glance she afforded him was distracted at best. “Did you actually learn anything from the scholars before you blew them up?”  Answering a question with a question was her specialty.  “Any indication of why they were interested in the location or the book?”

[deepbeneath]

Why are you here?

How many times had she heard that before?  Enough to cement her amusement and tip her mood over the edge into a masquerade of compliance, at least.  Watching him prepare the meal had been an education in itself and she was somewhat grateful that his culinary methods were not quite as explosive as his combat preferences.  She’d watched in customary silence because you learnt more that way, even down to several innovative methods that might be worth trying to replicate later on.

So, he knew how to sleep rough.  Maybe she’d actually get some sleep after all.

The look she gave him as she took the bowl didn’t try to hide its recalculation and the hint of a smirk at his reassurances barely dented the shrewd consideration of his revised worth.  Nazirah was quite adept at changing her mind about the market value of things she found in the desert, it wasn’t beyond her capacity to extend the courtesy to an actual person.  They just had to work harder at it. They also needed an education in adequate seasoning.  Her first mouthful resulted in a lingering pause and, since she’d set her satchel down by a rock opposite where he sat, Zirah finally found motivation enough to ease herself down into a sitting position.  With the stew balanced remarkably on her knee, it took an exploratory hand only seconds to locate a bound leather pouch and, from it, several smaller packages of pre-ground spices. A combination pooled into the cup of her hand and her eyes flicked upwards, through the flame, to tempt him, alight with the hunger of mischievous challenge that served much better as a motivation than irritation in the long run.  The woman could fire up easily enough but even if she couldn’t find any ease in passing the time of day with people, she still found it far more enjoyable to match wits than tempers. Reaching out, she offered her hand, and its spicy contents, towards his bowl. “Knowledge is a given, you won’t get far without it,” she observed, tipping the blend of cumin, turmeric and chill flakes into his stew with a flutter of fingers to remove the last of it.  Adding double the amount to her own, Zirah then rolled away the rest of her supplies and leaned back against her rock, regarding him in between mouthfuls.  “In this specific case, I have suspicions about this book that warranted a closer look.” With a stretch of her arm, she grabbed the book resting against her bag. “Now that someone has taken considerable time and expense to recreate a reasonable forgery, I think I may upgrade my suspicions to an educated hunch.”

Her dark eyes flicked him a look through the smoke. “Not a very good one.”

She should have been affronted.

Perhaps the reason she wasn’t was the sheer abundance of choice that made it hard to settle on any one reason.  Having her motives and aspirations assumed, and then aligned with someone who clearly couldn’t build an adequate sand castle let alone navigate the intricacies of desert life, could have qualified.  Having her allegiances assumed, where such liberal praises betrayed a woeful ignorance of the complexities of the current political and spiritual climate of her homeland, might also have counted if only because there was something crass about stealing valuable items from a culture you couldn’t even interpret properly.

Being stared at by eyes that were far too astute, as if they had some sort of right to dredge information from her beyond her efforts to mask, definitely deserved irritation. But, though she had made the trek look effortless, marching across this terrain in the wake of magical necessities had taken it out of Nazirah and there was nothing much to disguise the genuine fatigue her slump, leaning against the rock-face a little more heavily than was warranted for a mere temper tantrum.  If her fire hadn’t exactly gone out, it had cooled to the smolder of coals that would contain the heat for now, until it was useful again.  Left behind was an introspection deep enough to match his own.

She leaned her head back, forcing him to be content with the shadows that danced across her profile as her own eyes sought the shelter of darkness, and offered a tone that, whilst not exactly conciliatory, presented itself as far more willing to indulge.

“And what does it look like, this fortune of yours?” The question hovered a moment before her eyes brought the darkness with them, fathomless black and guarded in their measure of his unspoken response, which was incidentally more interesting than what he was actually saying. “I’ve yet to meet two men who could agree on a common definition.  And whilst I would be forced to applaud your staggering proficiency should I prove incorrect, I doubt that you count providing the Awakened with target practise to be worth that much.” The sparkle of humour in her eyes matched the starry expanse overhead.

[deepbeneath]

She should have been affronted.

Perhaps the reason she wasn't was the sheer abundance of choice that made it hard to settle on any one reason.  Having her motives and aspirations assumed, and then aligned with someone who clearly couldn't build an adequate sand castle let alone navigate the intricacies of desert life, could have qualified.  Having her allegiances assumed, where such liberal praises betrayed a woeful ignorance of the complexities of the current political and spiritual climate of her homeland, might also have counted if only because there was something crass about stealing valuable items from a culture you couldn’t even interpret properly.

Being stared at by eyes that were far too astute, as if they had some sort of right to dredge information from her beyond her efforts to mask, definitely deserved irritation. But, though she had made the trek look effortless, marching across this terrain in the wake of magical necessities had taken it out of Nazirah and there was nothing much to disguise the genuine fatigue her slump, leaning against the rock-face a little more heavily than was warranted for a mere temper tantrum.  If her fire hadn’t exactly gone out, it had cooled to the smolder of coals that would contain the heat for now, until it was useful again.  Left behind was an introspection deep enough to match his own.

She leaned her head back, forcing him to be content with the shadows that danced across her profile as her own eyes sought the shelter of darkness, and offered a tone that, whilst not exactly conciliatory, presented itself as far more willing to indulge.

“And what does it look like, this fortune of yours?” The question hovered a moment before her eyes brought the darkness with them, fathomless black and guarded in their measure of his unspoken response, which was incidentally more interesting than what he was actually saying. “I’ve yet to meet two men who could agree on a common definition.  And whilst I would be forced to applaud your staggering proficiency should I prove incorrect, I doubt that you count providing the Awakened with target practise to be worth that much.” The sparkle of humour in her eyes matched the starry expanse overhead.

[deepbeneath]

Her aunt had been a ‘people person’.  If ever anyone could craft conversation out of the mundane, Nousha was champion.  It was not, as history could now reflect, a gift she’d been all that successful passing onto her young charge.  Right from birth, Nazirah’s tenacity had been more towards analysing people than interacting with them and a decade left in pursuit of her own priorities hadn’t improved matters.  Communication, whether verbal or written, should serve some sort of purpose as far as the Scourge was concerned and making pleasantries was only tolerated when it mattered whether or not the person thought kindly of you the next day.

It probably matters.

Had he been privy to her inwards sigh, and the sheer weight of the burden that came with it, Lewis may have seen something almost sympathetic about the woman’s direct stare, or the way she remained leaning against a boulder as if to deny herself any benefit from his contraband fire by way of, admittedly, childish protest.  He at least might have found it curious that someone so relatively young could harbour such resigned resentment for what most people considered to be just normal, everyday social interaction.  Defensiveness told a story, right?

She turned her head to stare back into the darkening desert.

“Nazirah Zavhan.”

Her uncomplicated willingness to just answer his question was another twist in an already convoluted web of ‘do’ and ‘do not’s.  Of course, playing hard-to-get wasn’t about to satiate her own curiosity and, though she was loathe to admit to it, its potency was considerable.  Mostly, her competition consisted of the same tired bunch of deviants whose repertoire had become so predictable, Zirah found herself craving fresh complication if only for the satisfaction of renewed creativity.  She was obliged to disapprove, of course, but Lewis’ presence heralded the only thing that had piqued her interest in months. Her dark eyes betrayed their inquisitiveness as she turned back to stare at him and, after several seconds of mandatory scrutiny, Zirah offered an olive branch in the guise of a follow-up question. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

To say that the open desert was featureless was to ascribe it too much detail. As if that weren’t enough to make travel difficult, the wind remade what detail there was into something different as soon as you turned your back.

Lewis had always made his journeys through the open desert as short as possible by going out of his way to move point to point through known camps or towns. The end result being that it took him a long time to get anywhere.

His new friend, he chuckled at that endearment, took no such caution. She set off into the desert seemingly without a qualm about becoming lost. She set a ruthless pace that he struggled (silently) to match. Sometimes he could see the trail she was following, other times he was sure she had lost it only to have a scant trace show up again. 

She showed zero interest in conversation and little tolerance for his whistling, or humming. And she displayed downright hostility to his singing. She evidently never got hungry, thirsty or tired. 

Only darkness seemed to slow her down. He assumed this failure of hers, this lack of night vision was something she was working on and would have rectified by the morrow so that henceforth they could march on, nonstop until the clever forger was found.

She wordlessly watched him collect small bits of kindling and dried brush before voicing her disapproval of starting a fire and that was the tipping point for him. 

“Just who put you in charge of…of everything?”

He sat down all at once, angry with himself for his juvenile outburst. It wasn’t really like he had a choice anymore. She had led him deep into the desert, far from any place he had traveled. He was stuck with her for the time being. Might as well make the best of it.

He pulled a stick of dried meat from pouch and chewed on it silently. After a short silence he tried again.

“Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you. Clearly, you know more about travel in this area than I do. I’m just tired, it’s been a long day.” He paused, considering his words, then continued. “If we’re going to be working together - and we are going to be working together, right? Then we should introduce ourselves.” he successfully squelched the urge to add, I can’t keep calling you bitch under my breath all day, can I?

“I’m Lewis Fisher, you might remember me from this morning. I’m the one that’s been following you all day.”

[deepbeneath]

And every once in a while, I know something you don’t.

Even in her head, replaying his words sounded petulant.  Not that there was anything particularly mature about her sullen silence or her absolute insistence in avoiding eye contact.  Every reason she worked alone sat front and centre in her mind, taunting her with recollection enough to dread every moment that passed since her pride-drenched decision to capitalise on his information.  Zirah’s seething irritation was mostly due to her own failings but, since she was clearly an unsatisfactory target, aiming it at the man wisely following several paces behind her bitter strides might eventually make her feel better.

But probably not.

It wasn’t the first time.  That was the nature of the work.  It was just that she usually much preferred to be the one duping others into believing they’d succeeded and, if that became a problem, then she certainly held preference for being the first to realise something was amiss.  Distraction, incompetence, an insatiable curiosity for impending calamity...  She could no more forgive him for providing ample entertainment than she could forgive herself for investing herself in his dramatics.  And now she was trusting his word, which she suspected wasn’t much more than ill-formed intuition, on the premise that it would buy her more time to ensure she regained the upperhand.   And the book, of course. It was a good forgery.  Whilst she might not have spotted it quite as quickly as he had, there were hints enough that she could at least attest to his accuracy.  Interestingly, as far as she had been able to deduce for the past 10 minutes, having lead them down towards are far more established path and gifted herself security enough to flick through the pages as she walked, the transferal of information was mostly complete and there was effort in the artwork that passed as competence.  It wouldn’t have passed inspection by any legitimate dealer but there were plenty of illegitimate ones willing to part with their coin these days.  Given that her original information had left her with the belief that the value of the book lay in its words and incantations, the fact that they had been so painstakingly reproduced made little sense.  Collectors of power didn’t usually like to share. She became aware of his whistling just as they approached an underpass, where an overhead bridge and enormous cliff walls made distraction inadvisable.  With a snap, she shut the book and tucked it back into her satchel, lasting all of several paces more before the incessant warble from behind brought her to an abrupt halt.  Zirah counted to roughly three and then turned, slowly, to face him.

“Is your survival instinct usually this fragile or are you trying to summon someone who actually knows where he’s going?”

[deepbeneath]

“You mean the hoard that you failed to notice despite moving downwind?” Someone really ought to do a study on the capacity for irate women to arch a single eyebrow with deadly precision.  Given the muscle control involved, the odds might be considered somewhat suspicious.  Zirah, for her part, had always found it quite a handy addition to her arsenal.  “I suppose I could have waited to see how long it took them to smell you out, or placed a wager on which of the four scouting archers would be the first to send an arrow through your empty head.” She wouldn’t admit it, but the outstretched hand that seemed to suck the sand shield towards her palm, only to be turned into a cascade that trickled through her fingers when her fist closed, was dramatic for the sake of it.  It may have been more sensible to leave the protection up but communicating through blurred lines was irritating and, besides, eventually he’d realise how much effort it took her.

Better to leave him guessing.

Her arms still folded across her chest, Zirah scoffed laughter back in his face, finding genuine amusement amidst her incredulous impatience. “I’d rather stake my money on how long it would have taken those Abominations to flatten your turrets, or perhaps on exactly how long it would have taken you to realise what you were actually dealing with.” It was becoming a common, pathetic misconception.  Foreigner arrived.  Foreigner takes one look at something that no longer resembles their understanding of intelligent lifeform and, suddenly, everything was a safari.  It ignored one basic fact about the Awakened that made all the difference.

They were all human once.

“Instead, let’s see if we can figure out just exactly what you expect to do with a book you can’t read.”

Desecration was such an ugly word…

It was not, Nazirah was forced to admit with dubious pride, the first tomb to find temporary residence under an avalanche of sand.  It was unlikely to be the last either because, despite opinion to the contrary, she saw nothing immediately objectionable to burying the occasional sacred resting place.  It kept it out of harm’s way, rendered it completely inaccessible to foreign idiots and, when you really stopped to think about it, burying the dead wasn’t exactly a modern concept.  Okay, so maybe several tonnes of the stuff was excessive.

She could at least count it amongst the day’s limited blessings that she emerged from the tussle the most ferocious, and more importantly most immediately mobile, survivor.  Somewhere beneath the freshly-arranged dunes lay several dozen Awakened and their Abominations, possibly annoyed but more likely re-deceased, and it seemed reasonable to suppose that the vicious maelstrom of several minutes ago, which had lead to such thorough redecoration of the landscape, had convinced any others within range to turn the other way.  In blistering fury, Zirah chose to believe so and didn’t wait long enough to see if fate wanted to agree.

She was angry enough that maintaining the barrier did little more than create a slight itch.

Her anger was such that she also took no pains to mask her approach.  Tracking him wasn’t hard, he didn’t seem to have a knack or care for stealth, but whilst she may have questioned his intelligence and perhaps his sanity, Zirah at least respected his desire to solve problems by exploding them.  She lingered, staring at the path littered by half-formed footprints, and spent precious seconds calculating whether or not he’d had time to deploy mines.  Or more turrets, since he was such an inept fan.  

Inelegant.

Grimacing at the necessity, the Scourge gathered a fresh layer of protection and pressed on with the decisive stride of one who was determined not to make it seem like she was being careful.  If the shift and swirl of sand surrounding her was a disconcerting presence then she’d consider it fair play but she took care to make sure she was visible enough behind her glittering shroud for him to read the expression on her face as she shimmered and drifted her way towards his convenient outcrop.  It was prudent to maintain some distance, which was exactly why she chose not to, and instead stretched the barrier of sand to form a sheet that draped between the two rock pillars.

And crossed her arms.

“You’re welcome.  Now, where’s my book?”

[deepbeneath]

Desecration was such an ugly word...

It was not, Nazirah was forced to admit with dubious pride, the first tomb to find temporary residence under an avalanche of sand.  It was unlikely to be the last either because, despite opinion to the contrary, she saw nothing immediately objectionable to burying the occasional sacred resting place.  It kept it out of harm’s way, rendered it completely inaccessible to foreign idiots and, when you really stopped to think about it, burying the dead wasn’t exactly a modern concept.  Okay, so maybe several tonnes of the stuff was excessive.

She could at least count it amongst the day’s limited blessings that she emerged from the tussle the most ferocious, and more importantly most immediately mobile, survivor.  Somewhere beneath the freshly-arranged dunes lay several dozen Awakened and their Abominations, possibly annoyed but more likely re-deceased, and it seemed reasonable to suppose that the vicious maelstrom of several minutes ago, which had lead to such thorough redecoration of the landscape, had convinced any others within range to turn the other way.  In blistering fury, Zirah chose to believe so and didn’t wait long enough to see if fate wanted to agree.

She was angry enough that maintaining the barrier did little more than create a slight itch.

Her anger was such that she also took no pains to mask her approach.  Tracking him wasn’t hard, he didn’t seem to have a knack or care for stealth, but whilst she may have questioned his intelligence and perhaps his sanity, Zirah at least respected his desire to solve problems by exploding them.  She lingered, staring at the path littered by half-formed footprints, and spent precious seconds calculating whether or not he’d had time to deploy mines.  Or more turrets, since he was such an inept fan.  

Inelegant.

Grimacing at the necessity, the Scourge gathered a fresh layer of protection and pressed on with the decisive stride of one who was determined not to make it seem like she was being careful.  If the shift and swirl of sand surrounding her was a disconcerting presence then she’d consider it fair play but she took care to make sure she was visible enough behind her glittering shroud for him to read the expression on her face as she shimmered and drifted her way towards his convenient outcrop.  It was prudent to maintain some distance, which was exactly why she chose not to, and instead stretched the barrier of sand to form a sheet that draped between the two rock pillars.

And crossed her arms.

“You’re welcome.  Now, where’s my book?”

[deepbeneath]

Zirah was having an exceptional day.

It was the best way to describe the criss-cross of events that saw the balance of her fortunes teeter between ruin and triumph.  Though it was difficult to find any alive who could claim the know the woman well, one with patience enough to gather a few of the scattered jigsaw pieces would deduce that she wasn't one to take defeat graciously.  She also held a certain disdain for what she considered to be heavy-handed tactics, and blowing up half a bedraggled convoy of wide-eyed scholars was about as heavy-handed as she'd seen in recent months.  The desert was growing accustomed to its appeal to outside interference but this daughter wasn’t in a hurry to appreciate the attention.

Being trampled to death by dolyak hadn’t been on her list of adventures for today.

It had become a trivial laziness to follow him, mostly because he didn’t seem to think it possible.  Part-way into his bold scramble towards the tomb, Zirah had been forced to recover her astonishment that one so brazen had actually forged a path through the undead without drawing just and deserving attention.  She’d dispatched several silently in her annoyance by the time he’d moved inside, out of sight, and it was for the best there remained no witness to the deep frown directed at the central chamber’s entrance as she realised the graceless idiot had actually made it all the way without incident.  

The dead archer at her feet earned another dagger-thrust.  It wasn’t really warranted but it made her feel better.

What is he doing?

Morbid fascination had taken the place of frustration for now, even though her book was tucked away in the filthy folds of this fool’s jacket.  Her own entrance had been a fluid deception, the melding of body and sand to travel behind one of the grand pillars to his left.  The ripple left in her wake moved fast enough to avoid detection, though she was starting to doubt the man had instinct enough to spare for his periphery.  Anyone, she reasoned, with half a mind that worked would have started to wonder by now why any artifact remained intact inside a building with virtually no physical security.  One door, one room.  

And he was going to blow things up again.  A disturbance.  

Right up until the point where the first mortar blast hit, she willed herself to be wrong and that in itself was an unique accolade. Her entire revamped plan had required him to make his first mistake before he removed the book, now she was obliged to consider herself involved in his plight or walk away empty-handed.

She was only prepared to live one of those things down.

Even as the closest Abomination heaved itself back to its feet, Zirah winced.

This was meant to be easy.

It was bitter laughter.

The sensation of being encased in sand was, by most standards, a little strange. Barrier magic was rampant in these parts but its reach beyond the desert was tenuous at best and so, as the floor reformed itself into a pulsing distortion, Zirah might have forgiven him a moment’s additional panic had she any sympathy at all for his situation.  As it stood, the Scourge’s axe swings were punctuated by angry epitaphs, the dispatched undead sent back to their graves with heated prayer and the lingering promise that if they came back this way in a hurry, she’d get very religious with them all over again.

She was just as gentle with her boot as she shoved him in the side and left him, face-down in undulating sand, pointed towards the exit.

“You have,” she muttered through gritted teeth, pooling the sand in three howling tempests near the demolished wall, the entrance and between them and the rapidly-approaching Abominations, “exactly two seconds before my better judgement kicks in.” Her face contorted with agonised fury as the screaming Shade in front of them spun on its vortex.

“RUN!”

Lewis was having a bad day.

It had started simply enough. The university archeological team he’d been following for several days had suffered an unfortunate turn of events just shy of their destination and were now reversing course, defeated before they reached their goal. It would be a difficult return for the scholars without their baggage carts and porters.

A few well placed mines had destroyed their carts, spooked their animals into a full fledged gallop towards who knew where and convinced most - if not all - of the porters that easier coin could be earned elsewhere. In the confusion of the explosions he had been able to sneak in and steal the map that marked the location of the book.

That was about all that had gone according to plan.

Well, except that the tomb was where the map indicated and the pathways to the artifact were drawn clearly and easily followed. The problem was the area seemed to be guarded by undead.

There was a wide, central chamber with a very high ceiling. At one end was the only entrance. In the middle there was a raised dais and upon it an ornate stand holding the book. Half way between the chamber entrance and the dais was a pile of crumbling rock where Lewis was taking refuge. Two very large creatures were patrolling back and forth, from one end of the chamber to the other. They were Undead Abominations, he was pretty sure of that. There were no more creatures that he could see from his vantage point on the ground. High up in one of the outer cliff walls behind him was what looked like a ledge. It would have been a fine place to reconnoiter the entire chamber but there was no time to search for a way up there.

Besides, he wasn’t here to look. He was here to act! With confidence born of his earlier success against the scholars, he devised a plan: He would wait until the big brutes passed his position and were on the far side of the chamber, opposite the exit. He would deploy two turrets which would remain silent until the brutes came into range. He would employ mortars against the brutes when they were at the far end of the chamber to soften them up for the turrets then jump up on the Dais, grab the book and run. The turrets would be between him and the brutes and provide covering fire if not totally distracting them while he made his escape.

He mortared the brutes and couldn’t help from smiling at the hollow, “punk, punk, punk,” sound the mortar tube made as the small explosives launched. He was just starting to feel good about the plan, the book was in his hand and the brutes were flattened, only now, struggling to regain their footing. 

Suddenly, his turrets started firing.

The look of confusion on his face was probably priceless. Why were the turrets firing if the brutes were way over there….. He turned towards the exit and saw why. Issuing from a previously unseen opening in the cavern wall was a small hoard of undead. They were already between him and the exit and the turrets were under direct assault. He jumped off the dais towards the abominations, thinking he would eliminate the large ones first. He stuffed the book into one of his coat’s inner pockets and netted the nearest brute. Switching to the flame thrower he reduced it to a pile of smoking rot just before the other bowled him over leaving him staring at the ceiling.

That view was quickly blotted out by the brute’s return as he heard his turrets go silent. Rolling quickly, he narrowly avoided the abomination’s club smash but was unable to get to his feet before he was swarmed by the rest of the mob. Cold, clammy hands pawed at his face. They pulled at his clothes, reaching in - searching. They wanted the book and seemed likely to take it.

He’d never thought much about his own death but to go like this just didn’t seem fair. Nasty creatures all over him, pawing, scratching and stinking. It was all very surreal. He couldn’t have predicted such an ignoble end.

The laughter just made it worse.

[deepbeneath]

It’s just a book.

How many times had she heard that?  By reasonable calculation, probably only half the amount of times it had actually been said given her propensity for ignoring things she didn’t want to hear.  

It’s not worth the risk.  

Another inaccuracy.  How preoccupied people became with the ideals of safety and longevity, as if it only mattered how long you could stretch your life from its inception to inevitable demise.  The notion was ridiculous, firstly because death wasn’t nearly as final as people liked to make out, and secondly because where was the fun in that?  Duration without any glimmer of passion or excitement wasn’t living, it was just really mundane way to decompose slowly.

You should learn patience.

That one was probably fair, though at this point, a little redundant.  She’d made a slight miscalculation in regards to body count but when the odds were perceived already to be 5:1, did a few extra really matter?  And, okay, two abominations instead of one was stretching it but it wasn’t as if she honestly intended to engage any of them.  Patience, right?

All she had to do was wait for that blundering idiot to attract all of them...

[deepbeneath]

[deepbeneath]

And the storm came.

The fury of sand, of grit and detritus.  A malevolent vortex, snarling in its hunger, twisted at her feet and through her mind. Somewhere, an arm’s length away, she wrapped herself in coils around their necks.

And could barely hear their screams above her own.

[deepbeneath]