The city of the dead had well and truly died.

  Every street and building was bathed in an eternal twilight. Not even the shadows moved. The houses had been designed like the top half of a skull—two circular doors at the front of a bulbous oval, a sharp line of a chimney bisecting the roof like a sagittal crest, and the twin bulges of bedrooms at the back looking for all the world like elongated parietal plates. Every architectural design in the city was an imitation of bone, in some way. There were market stalls shaped like shoulder sockets, signposts shaped like femurs, watchtowers shaped like columns of vertebrae, and dried up water mills that spun with the wings of a pelvis. It clearly wasn’t enough that the undead people of this city had built their lives on the bodies of living people—they had to build their houses that way, too.

  Now, it all laid fallow and still. The air seemed just as lifeless as the masonry around it. They had been making their way through the city for at least an hour, and there had been no sign that anything had walked these streets for centuries. Everywhere Isaac looked, he received the impression of piles of bone, all covered in dust and specks of dirt from the body cavity ceiling. Like scattered skeletons bathed in the pale yellow light of fool’s gold.

  He saw history everywhere. All the publicly owned building they passed had murals and reliefs carved into the walls—depictions of mythologies and gods, gesturing figures and supplicating worshippers. Walking along the streets of the necropolis seemed to be the perfect opportunity to learn about creation myths and ancient tales of conquest. He made an effort to study each of the murals as they continued on, trying to use his ciphers to decode the language.

  He was trying, anyway. He kept getting distracted.

  “Sure wish I’d known my cunt had magic properties,” Zaria said, her voice echoing loudly down the streets. “Could’ve been a bloody saint by now, if I’d had a notion of its power.”

  Isaac had to cross out and rewrite some of his notes.

  “Imagine, squire. It made you rethink your entire life, didn’t it? Got you forsakin’ all you’ve ever known and loved?”

  He noted the presence of the stripes and stars symbol again—he was seeing it much more frequently now. It seemed to be some key component of this society’s creation myth.

  “Imagine me smashing my way to some king’s bedchambers, aye? Some tyrant or other that’s actin’ like a spoiled brat, running his fiefdom like a personal toy collection. He gets his bishop bashed like I done to you, and, real sudden-like, there’s no more persecution. Peace everlasting. I could save the world just by parting my legs.”

  “I deeply regret sharing my feelings with you,” Isaac said.

  “You’re right, love. Gotta think smaller. Perhaps I could travel the land, aiding the poor folk on my path by charging for licks. Maybe bottle my juices as life-saving elixirs.”

  He stopped walking, pausing at a particularly large mural. There seemed to be some deity figure resurrecting different species from oddly-shaped coffins.

  “Come one, come all!” she proclaimed to the empty street. “Meet the nethers that makes you better! They’ll cure your woes! Absolve your sins! They’ll heal the sick! They’ll feed the hungry! They’ll save your soul!”

  Isaac brushed away some etchings with his sleeve, hefting his sketch pad to a one-handed position at his waist.

  Her voice came to his ear. “Not going too far, am I?”

  He aligned his cipher with the mural. “You never needed my permission before.”

  “Just respectin’ our new boundaries.”

  “Are you? Are you sure that’s what you’re doing?”

  “Giving you the option, at least. Wouldn’t want my squire to blush too fiercely. Might be he burns his skin off.”

  “Well,” Isaac said, “maybe I find your crassness to be amusing, at times. The same way a king laughs at a jester.”

  “Is that so?” She leaned in closer. “Then what did you like about me fucking you? Which part blew your mind out through your cock? Was it my teeth on your throat? Was it me pounding you down to a moaning puddle of meat and fluid?” She blew some hot breath in his ear. “Do you like knowing everyone’s gonna smell my scent on you like you’re my favored bouncing rod?”

  “You realize,” Isaac said, “that we’re in a long lost city of necromancers?”

  “Aye. Bone buildings give it away some.”

  “No one’s been down here for millennia.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “There’s untold amounts of history here. Rich architecture. Magical technology lost to the ages.”

  “Surely so.”

  “And you just want to talk about your genitals.”

  Her laugh echoed down the empty street. “‘Genitals?’ That the book term for a twat?”

  “Have you really never heard the word—”

  “Squire, I’m attempting to break you from your shell. Free your mind from study. Stop you from being so squeamish whenever someone mentions their leaky bits. Talk of my nethers is for your own good, really.”

  “Oh. Of course. You’re trying to help me. Why did I think otherwise?”

  “Isaac, as the goddess who fucked you to enlightenment, I command you to start cussin’ like a proper lad. None of this ‘genitals’ nonsense, you hear? It’s a cunt. Say it.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She leaned down towards his ear. “Cunt. Twat. Minge. Snatch. Cock trap. Tinder box. Axe wound. Winking—”

  “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m about to take notes that will likely spur millions of gold in expeditionary funds. Hundreds of people will be combing this city because of my scribblings. They’ll write treatises about this discovery for centuries to come. So, if you’d be so kind, would you please—please—just let me concentrate for a moment while I sketch this.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  Isaac began to draw the mural on his pad. Zaria glanced around the desolate intersection they were standing in—a neighborhood of skull-shaped houses, squatting behind courtyard fences that curved like ribs. The cartilage light was coloring her spotted fur the same shade of fool’s gold as the rest of the stones.

  They hadn’t seen a single sign of life in the city of the dead so far. Nothing stirred on the streets—not even a gust of wind to spur the dust. Even still, there was an unshakeable feeling of being watched. Even though the shadows never moved, they still seemed to retreat when he turned his head to look at them.

  “Probably shouldn’t stand in the open like this,” she said. “Best stick to the alleys.”

  “It really doesn’t matter.”

  “Isaac, I won’t question you about your book learning so long as you don’t question me on thievin’ craft. Heed my advice.”

  He continued to stencil figures and notes. “We’re in the sorceress’ domain now. She can sense our lifeforce the same way a shark smells blood. She’ll always know where we are, no matter what.”

  “Oh,” Zaria said. “Well. Fuck me, then.”

  It was hard to draw. The cartilage light coming from above was dim and just the right color for his stencil markings to fade into the parchment. He kept trying. His uncle had insisted on this point.

  “So, what’s all these drawings supposed to mean, anyway?”

  “It’s a creation myth,” Isaac said. “How the society was founded, its origins and heritage, that sort of thing. This one’s about livestock.”

  “Livestock?”

  “Sure. You know how there’s two types of certain species? As in, two types of pigs, two types of cows, chickens, ox, all the rest? The only difference being the level of intelligence and walking on two legs?” He gestured with his stylus. “If I’m interpreting this right, their explanation for that is the intervention of their gods. As in, their deities made one version in the style of humans, built as equals, and the other version as a subservient race to sustain their society.”

  She scoffed. “All about humans, is it? You’re the mold for all of us?”

  “That’s what their gods are saying.”

  “You telling me there used to be hyenas walking on four legs? Some primitive animal like that lion statue up in the skull?”

  “Apparently so.” He placed his finger under the carved words, above a relief of quadruped animals limping into the oddly-shaped coffins, and began to read aloud the words of the unnamed god. “‘Let the beasts of burden become one, let the supplicating flesh be your bounty, let those without divinity be abandoned, and may your creations bare honor to those who created you.’”

  She blew a raspberry. “Sounds like their excuse for eating souls. Divine right to cannibalism.”

  “I’m not a linguist,” he said. “Can’t really translate the language too well in this dim lighting, either. Just my best guess.” He snapped his sketch pad shut, noting that the specific god in the mural had the stripes and stars symbol patched on his shoulder like a battle standard. “Let’s keep moving.”

  They continued on down the street. Above, the giant rib cage continued to spread out above a black ceiling of dirt—the position of the bones was their only real way of determining their progress through the body cavity. Building an entire city in the style of human bones was certainly an inspired architectural decision, and the stonework was admittedly impressive, but it made everything look the same. It felt like he was passing the same pelvis-shaped apothecary over and over.

  “Squire,” Zaria said, poleaxe held loose in hand. “Question for you.”

  “If you must.”

  “You thought more about what you’ll do with your half of the treasure?”

  “I have, actually.”

  “Don’t leave us in suspense, then.”

  “I want to travel the world,” Isaac said. “I’ll use it to pay for passage on ships, charter caravans, hire local guides and interpreters. Just keep going until the coin runs out. I’ll settle somewhere exotic, ply my trade as a journeyman, and move on again.”

  “Somewhere specific catch your interest?”

  He almost spoke, but stopped, glancing away.

  “Oh, I know that look. You’re sharing this now.”

  “I, uh—” He scratched his neck. “I don’t have anywhere specific in mind. Plenty of places to scratch off a list, but the idea—well, my idea was that I just pack as much coin and supplies in my pack as I can, choose a random direction, and start walking towards the horizon. Go where the wind takes me, more or less.” He shrugged, still looking away. “I don’t know. Just a fantasy of mine. I’ve probably read too many adventure novels.”

  “It is rather like begging to be robbed,” she said. “Nonetheless, it’s got a charming whimsy to it. Almost romantic, even.”

  “Well, I am a very romantic person.”

  She snorted. “Are you, now? Forgive me if I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Never had the chance to be one before. I’m probably not very good at it yet.” He managed to glance at her. “And maybe you should’ve asked.”

  She met his gaze. “Maybe I will.”

  Slowly, the streets seemed to shift around them. They were entering the deeper reaches of the city, towards the midsection of the torso, and this seemed to be the district for craftsmen and life extending casters. He was beginning to see more mortuaries, higher class homes that could afford to look like mausoleums, smaller catacombs next to hospitals where citizens could go to replenish their stolen soul energy.

  “Squire,” Zaria said. “Another question for you.”

  “I suppose we can’t just silently contemplate the fall of civilization.”

  “Got several questions, to tell the truth, and I’m starting to suspect it’s critical I ask them.”

  He gestured her to continue while studying a mural they were passing.

  “‘Fore we begin,” she said, “I’d like to state my satisfaction that you’re no longer bristling when I call you squire.”

  “I’m just picking my battles.”

  “Check your war plan, then. It’s starting to seem like surrender.”

  “Maybe I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

  She laughed. “Sure, squire. As you say.”

  He made another gesture for her to continue while looking over his shoulder at the retreating mural.

  “Firstly. When we met, you said some jumble about there being these fancy machines that can locate soul energy, right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They’re prototypes, currently, but developing rapidly. That’s how we know my father is still alive. His soul’s been stationary at the bottom of this tomb for decades.”

  “Right, well—” She gestured vaguely, searching for the words. “If they can locate souls real precise-like, can they do anything else? Tell you what state he’s in?”

  “It can’t detect the body. We don’t know the condition of his health. You can use them to talk to the person, though.”

  “Talk—” She glanced at him in surprise. “Talk to them? Like they’re not thousands of leagues away?”

  “Sure. The soul’s the essence of a person. It’s instant communication, as well. They’re experimenting with using them for diplomatic channels.”

  “Slag my first question, then. Does that mean you’ve actually spoken to your father?”

  “No,” Isaac said. “Of course not.”

  Zaria did a double take. “What’s that mean, course not? He’s your bleeding sire, and you’re risking life and limb to rescue him.”

  “It’s not that simple. It’s like—” It was his turn to gesture vaguely. “It’s like telescopes. Something you use to study the heavens.”

  “Like a sextant?”

  “More like a strong spyglass. Imagine if you built this machine to study the stars that was one of the few of its kind in existence. Imagine if it was difficult to actually use this machine because the stars are so vast and the machine itself takes much technical work to operate properly. Now imagine that there’s a lot of other people that want to use this machine, and the formal appointments made to operate it can take years to arrive. That’s how it is with soul triangulation, more or less.”

  “Still,” she said, “he’s your father. You never asked?”

  “I asked plenty of times,” he replied. “The answer was always no.”

  “Should’ve asked harder, then.”

  “Zaria, if you were a child, and you got hit with a cane every time you said something that wasn’t yes or no, how long would you keep asking questions?”

  “Point taken.” She looked down at him for a long moment. “Still, it raises another. Your uncle’s high ranking in the mage world, isn’t he? Has he spoken to your father?”

  He paused. “Yes. Twice, actually. When I was first placed in his care, and not too long before I left on this journey.”

  “And that seemed fair to you? You being denied words with your sole parent all your life?”

  “Like I said, speaking to my uncle about fairness was never good for my health.”

  She nodded, glancing down a softly shadowed alley. “Second question, then. Do all mages go through such strict training as you?”

  “I was always told this journey was my sole purpose in life,” Isaac said. “My training needed to be extremely strict to meet the task. Magic is difficult to learn normally, but I was being trained to face an ancient sorceress who could rival armies. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I am much more powerful than another transmutation student would be at my age.”

  “I’ll take that as no—what you went through ain’t normal.”

  He looked down at his feet as they walked. “You have to understand that I had no reference for much of anything. I never once left my uncle’s tower except to train in the yard. My only understanding of the world came from books. For example, I used to think some horses were blue because a single textbook I read had a translation error. When my flame instructor arrived on horseback for a lesson, I asked her if she wouldn’t prefer a turquoise stallion instead.”

  She snickered. He glared at her. She cleared her throat, gesturing him on.

  “I did eventually realize my experience wasn’t normal because my bedroom was at the top of the tower, and I could see Khador’s elemental college in the distance. Most days, there’d be students coming back from classes together, talking and laughing. I’d watch from the window, make up stories in my head about their lives, and I’d always wonder why I couldn’t be down there with them.”

  Zaria nodded like certain pieces were fitting together. “Third question. Sorcerers have specialties, aye? Not everyone can throw a fireball, cast bone melting light, so on, so forth?”

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  “Yes. You have to specialize if you want to be respected in any one discipline. That’s another reason why I had to train so fiercely—I’m proficient in both elements and anti-necrotics, which is very rare.”

  “What’s your uncle’s discipline, then?”

  “Necromancy.”

  It took her a moment to respond. “Like the ancient bitch we’re questing after? Same type of evil magic?”

  “Not exactly,” Isaac said. “Necromancy isn’t all evil. It’s controversial, definitely, but it has many practical applications, and it’s allowed to be practiced in certain guilds as long there’s strict Diet oversight.”

  “Still—”

  “My uncle’s specialty is anti-necromancy, to be precise. He’s written treatises on expunging necrotic hexes from inanimate objects, subduing undead thralls without damaging their souls, things like that. He’s also a little famous for tracking down and arresting rogue necromancers when they break Diet mandates and try to raise undead armies. His colleagues refer to him as ‘the Bone Hunter’. I mean, behind his back, of course.”

  “‘Bone Hunter’, huh? That’s an ominous moniker.”

  “If you met him, you’d agree with it.”

  “So,” Zaria said, “you’re saying he has experience crawling through ruins and fighting horrible monsters?”

  “Yes. He gave me much counsel about what I should expect down here.”

  “Got a new question, then. Why the hell isn’t he here with you? Sounds perfect for the task.”

  “He’s tenured now,” Isaac replied. “He teaches at Khador’s elemental college, assists Diet agents with their expeditions, performs alchemical research. He’s a very busy sorcerer.”

  “Too busy to rescue his brother from a tomb?”

  “They, uh . . . they never liked each other. Listen to my uncle, and he’d tell you my father was a glory hound with no respect for procedure. He’d always say my father rather deserved to get trapped down here. Paid the price for his arrogance.” Isaac glanced at a shadowy library glowing faintly like gold. “I’ve always thought it’s why he hated having to raise me.”

  There was no response. When Isaac glanced at her, she was watching him with a careful expression. Putting everything together.

  “That satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “That was all in service of my final question.”

  He gestured for her to continue while looking at another mural. This one seemed to depict a necrotic god giving magical powers to his worshippers. He was summoning swarms of very small flies, making them burrow into their skin.

  “Why you?” Zaria asked. “Why was the burden of rescuing your father placed only on your shoulders?”

  Isaac sighed, rubbing his face. “It was politics, mostly. The Diet of Nine likes to appear as a monolithic force for magic practice, but there’s an embarrassing amount of internal strife. Competing factions, blackmail, jockeying for influence. My uncle was right—my father made many enemies with his lack of patience. Every time a proposal was made to assemble a rescue party for him, it’d be voted down in committee. Many times, the motion would be killed before even getting that far.” He shrugged. “You also have to consider that this tomb is at the edge of the map, in the middle of an empty desert, and surrounded by pirates and sandwyrms. Risking that many lives just for my father was never seen as . . . as politically expedient enough.”

  “That’s not what I asked, love,” Zaria said. “I asked why you were made to do all this. Rather sounds like it got forced on you by someone else.”

  Isaac didn’t respond. He gazed up at the giant rib cage.

  “Forced on you by your uncle, actually.”

  “I suppose—”

  She grabbed him by the shoulder, not ungently, and forced him to stop walking. “Isaac, I’m gonna say my piece now, and I’d appreciate it dearly if there were no interruptions until I’m done.”

  He blinked up at her, not saying anything.

  “Here’s how I understand this,” Zaria said. “Your father comes down to this dead city and gets captured. Fair enough—evil sorceress and all—but you’re still growing in your mother’s belly when he does. After your mom passes, you’re tossed off to your uncle, who by no means wants a sniveling reminder of his brother to care for. Except, he has a soul chat with your father himself, which somehow sways his opinion. You spend your entire life training in magic, treated like a caged bird and spit on whenever possible, thinking it’s your sole responsibility to rescue your parent when your uncle is downright perfect for the task. Then, when you’ve come of age, your uncle speaks to your father again just before you leave on this quest. As you’re out the door, your uncle sabotages the mission—”

  “He did not sabotage—”

  “Silence, squire. He told you to walk through a spawning ground for sandwyrms, and, for good measure, gave you too little water to survive in the desert. That’s fact, ain’t it?”

  “It’s not that—”

  “Isaac,” Zaria said. “That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  He gazed off into the mouth of a skull mausoleum, thinking.

  “Now,” the hyena said, “you told me that some other sorcerer arrived here before you did. Using spells to turn people into puppets. Wielding illegal magic, to be specific-like.”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Now, you’re a smart lad. Bet you’re educated on the science of rotting bodies. These corpses we’ve been seeing in the tomb—how old were they?”

  “About a day or so.”

  She nodded her head slowly, like the final piece had slid together. “Final question. Did your uncle send you off on your journey? Hug you tightly, wish you luck?”

  “No. He—” Isaac shook his head. “He had some urgent business come up before I left. Something about taming loose thralls that were attacking a village.”

  “Be specific, now. When was the last time you saw him?”

  He blinked. The air of the dead city seemed to rub against him.

  “About a day before you left, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” Isaac said. “No, no, he wouldn’t—”

  “Isaac—”

  “No! Parasite magic was not his specialty! It’s a different sorcerer! He—he left the tower frequently. It was not unusual for him to be called away like that. He—he wouldn’t—”

  “Listen, love—”

  “No!” His shout echoed down the empty streets. “My uncle would not do such things! He wouldn’t try to kill me! He wouldn’t—there’s no way he could’ve gone ahead of me. He wouldn’t do that. He cared about me! I—I—I know he did! It wasn’t constant whipping—he would chat with me, tell jokes, give me books, he tried very hard to play the stern instructor, but I could always tell he cared, he wouldn’t have bothered with me if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have spent hours every day giving me mnemonics training, he wouldn’t—”

  Her hand squeezed his shoulder. “To be fair—this is all above me. I won’t pretend to know the faintest twit about mage politics, and, obviously, you’d know your mentor better than I. If you say he wouldn’t do something nefarious, then I’ll take you at your word.” She squeezed again. “But I know my business. All my life, I’ve had to watch for people trying to take advantage, cheating me out of coin, giving me a sweet smile so I don’t see them robbing me blind. I’ve had to look for treachery since I could walk. And, ‘cause of that, I’m now positive someone’s being treacherous to you. How or why, I don’t know, but that’s my conclusion, all the same.”

  Isaac’s mind raced in his head. Every thought made his heart flutter and twist.

  “Whatever deal is being arranged here,” Zaria said, “you’re getting the raw end of it, love. That’s the only way I can make sense of things.”

  He gazed out over the empty street, past murals of mythology and long vacant houses, losing himself in memory. The cane. The shouting. The books and gifts and lessons. The warm meals shared together, the promises of a future.

  “Isaac,” she said. “I trust you won’t get offended by my saying so, but you don’t know how the world works. If you want to live your fantasy of travel and wandering, then you need to be mindful of those who only wish you harm. There’s bad sorts out there, and they won’t always look that way on first glance. Everyone’s got motives and meanness to them—it’s just a matter of whether they’re showing it to you.” She took her hand off his shoulder. “Consider what I’ve said. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “It’s not—” Isaac took a deep breath, worried his voice would tremble. “This isn’t something I haven’t thought of before. It’s not as if I could ask about my fate, but . . . but it’s never seemed right that—”

  An explosion ripped through the street.

  The shockwave slapped him hard enough to reopen several of his punctures. Dust spurted in grid-like gusts from the knuckled pavement. They both stumbled back, ears ringing and organs quivering, barely hearing the sound echo and slam its way further down the dead city.

  “Oh, shite,” Zaria said. “Not again.”

  Another explosion came. He saw a brief sliver of fire and smoke over the roofs of several mausoleums before the shockwave ripped through him. It felt like half his guts had flipped over each other. Next to them, a library buttressed with ulnas and radii had several of its support beams snap, the ancient building crumbling down to shattered skeletons.

  Isaac rubbed his aching teeth, trying to breathe through pained lungs. He remembered his studies on air pressure tolerances as he began to feel nauseous. Zaria slapped him roughly on the back, forcing him back upright.

  “That’s blackpowder,” she said. “Soren’s down here.”

  Once the overlapping echoes stopped bouncing through the necropolis, he began to hear the sounds of fighting. Screams and shouts, mostly. Smaller explosions.

  “Sounds like a full bloody war,” Zaria said, clutching her poleaxe. “What in the name of peace and fuck does she think she’s doing?”

  They both looked at each other. The sounds of battle grew louder in the dead air. They ran down the street.

  It did not take long to see the signs of conflict. There were broken crossbow bolts lying across stone tiles, deep gouges in the masonry that could’ve only been inflicted with swords and maces. They saw the bodies soon after. Pirates lying in twisted heaps, splayed across streets paved with knuckles and toes, draped over rib shaped fences. Lions and hyenas and foxes, all of them wearing patchwork leather armor and filthy, unwashed fur. Many of them sported burns and frostbite from elemental magic.

  There were human bodies, too. Some of them lying in pieces from the strength of their pirate adversaries. Severed limbs, spilled organs. All of the empty faces had the sigil of parasite magic carved into their foreheads.

  Isaac felt a chill rush up his spine, despite the chill of the necropolis. The puppeteer sorcerer that had arrived ahead of them must have a very large legion of thralls at their command, much more than he had anticipated. This would make them extremely dangerous, and there would be two possibilities for how that danger could manifest. First, the sorcerer could simply drain all their thralls of their energy in order to power their own magic, becoming able to unleash blizzards of frost, hurricanes of wind, roaring suns of fire. Second—if the thralls themselves were trained in magic, then the sorcerer could selectively imbue them with energy stolen from the others, becoming able to directly manipulate their bodies to shoot their spells upon command. They would have an entire army of magic-capable slaves.

  Judging by the burns and frostbite on the pirate bodies, the latter option seemed to be the case. And that was by far the worst scenario.

  They raced through streets of bone, their feet slapping past stone and twisted bodies alike. Rivers of blood flowed over a pavement bathed in the soft color of fool’s gold. Ahead, the fighting only seemed to grow more intense.

  Finally, the rows of houses and shops ended in a wide open plaza, the ground paved and studded with knuckles, leading up to the high-walled courtyard of a palace. This must’ve been where the city’s government once presided. Like most of the public buildings before it, the courtyard walls were carved with murals and reliefs, figures of gods and warriors. Over the wall, the palace itself looked like an overflowing mound of giant skulls.

  Hasty fortifications had been built around the palace walls, makeshift ramparts slapped together with whatever odd bits of wood could be scavenged and nailed into place. The rib-shaped bars of the gates had been barricaded with furniture that had obviously been looted from the surrounding homes. And, in the center of the courtyard wall, someone had draped a black pirate standard across the pelvis-shaped parapets, something that was obviously meant to be displayed on a ship. It was far too big to be properly hoisted on the wall—Isaac could barely make out the crumpled symbol of a canine skull and crossbones.

  The fighting was taking place just on the other side of the courtyard. It didn’t sound like clashing steel and flying crossbow bolts. It sounded like crackling ice and fire, explosions and screams and shouts of pain.

  Zaria nudged him, gesturing to a nearby two-story building. “This way. Vantage point.”

  They ran over to the building. He expected her to just kick in the eye socket door, but, instead, she hauled herself onto the zygomatic arch and began to climb up the edifice, using the various grooves and sockets for hand and footholds. Isaac followed at a much slower pace, tentatively identifying every plate and bone of the skull as he pulled himself up. When he’d just managed to reach the start of the frontal plate, Zaria reached down, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him bodily up onto the roof. They crawled on their hands and knees over to the sagittal crest, using the thin lip of bone as cover.

  Over the walls, the palace courtyard was a scene of carnage. It looked like the sorcerer’s thralls had mounted a full assault. Robed human figures were slowly advancing across the open space of the interior plaza, shooting spears of ice and fire in coordinated salvos. At the palace itself, crouched behind the jaw bones of massive skulls, the pirates were returning fire with crossbows, flinging satchels of blackpowder that exploded like grenades. None of the human thralls tried to reach cover—they just kept marching forward, heedless of the bolts and explosives flying at them. The pirates themselves were receiving an overwhelming amount of fire, much of which was literally fire, and the thralls were steadily advancing despite their losses. The puppeteer sorcerer was winning.

  “Fuck me,” Zaria said. “It really is Soren. Knew she had a cactus up her cunt about me, but she’s plain gone mad if she thinks she can hold up down here.”

  Isaac scanned the firing lines of the pirates. “Where is she? I don’t see her.”

  “Check the side. She’s doing a pincer.”

  Twin streams of pirates were crouch running behind the walls of furniture barricades, circling around the horizontal line of advancing thralls. He squinted through the dim yellow cartilage light, unable to identify the pirates by anything other than general species—lions and hyenas and foxes, glints of steel and fur.

  “Still don’t see her.”

  “Humans are just worthless in the dark. She’s on the left, leading the charge.”

  On the left, the pirates were massing, readying their weapons. Waiting for the thralls to advance just a little further up the plaza so they could rush out and envelop them from all sides. Isaac studied the shadowy figures until one came out in front of the rest. It was not what he was expecting.

  Captain Black Eye Soren stood a full head and a half shorter than the brawny hyenas and lions around her. She had light grey fur, stubby whiskers, and pink, floppy ears. Her outfit was a patchy collection of tan leather and loose white fabric, leaving her digitigrade feet bare and her fuzzy mid-rift exposed. Knives and daggers covered her entire body, pointed sheaths lining her thighs and arms like most would wear plates of armor. There was a gnarled patch of bare skin around her left eye, but the distance was too great for him to see any more details about her face. Still, he felt he had seen enough.

  “That’s Soren?” Isaac asked. “The Black Eye, captain of the Silent Saber?”

  “One and only,” Zaria replied. “Think I’m spotting several of my mates decorating the floor, too. That’s going on her conscience.”

  “Zaria, she’s a bunny.”

  “Aye. Fiercest one of the desert.”

  He looked at Soren again, just to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. “She’s a bunny. She’s half your height! That’s the woman you’ve been terrified of?”

  “Just watch. You’ll see.”

  The thralls had arrived at the palace steps, still shooting ice and fire. Soren put two fingers through the side of her snout and gave a piercing whistle. All at once, the pirates struck.

  From the palace, a salvo of crossbow bolts erupted like a swarm of birds. Soren raced out from the furniture barricade with a horde of pirates behind her. Isaac could not believe that such a tiny creature could yell so loudly. She flung several throwing knives as fast as arrows, skewering multiple thralls through the neck. Moving with incredible speed, she impaled a human thrall with her cutlass at a sprinting pace, hard enough to send them flying across the pavement, and she used the body as a springboard to launch herself into the air, powerful bunny legs letting her reach a wide falling arc onto the next thrall, who was smashed into the ground with her curving sword stabbed all the way from shoulder to hip.

  The thralls did not panic. They began flinging elemental spells at their flankers, not even trying to run. Soren dodged around a crackling lance of ice and chopped off both arms of a thrall with a single strike, kicking him into another caster before impaling a third. Her grey fur was soaked a shining red, her floppy ears flying with every flail of her curved sword. She cut the last remaining thrall in half with two vicious strokes, and, suddenly, the palace courtyard was silent. The only sound left was the faint crackle of barricaded furniture that had been set alight by fireballs.

  “Tend the wounded!” Soren yelled, her voice echoing down the necropolis, most of her fur covered in blood. “Man the perimeter! I want double watches! Blackpowder bombs rigged at every entrance! Not a single human gets through those walls again, or you’ll be sucking maggots for grub!”

  “Okay,” Isaac said. “That was pretty horrifying.”

  “Told ya so.” Zaria watched the pirates begin to drag the dead humans away, leaving long red trails in the knuckled pavement. “How the hell did she even get down here, anyway? She buried the only entrance.”

  “Well,” he said, “she probably dug through the rubble to make sure you were dead, saw that we left the door to the catacombs open, and just followed through the hole we punched in the sorceress’ forces. Probably wasn’t even that hard for her.”

  “I’m holding you accountable for that, Isaac.”

  “Oh, right, sorry. I’ll try not to keep us alive next time.”

  “Get your rest!” Soren yelled, strutting her bare feet over rivers of blood. “Get your grog! Tomorrow, we hunt a traitor! I promise half the treasure to whoever brings her in alive!”

  The skull building shook beneath them—over to the distant sides of the body cavity, Isaac could see boulders of dirt break off from the walls, big enough to smash through several houses. There were powerful tremors running beneath the city, almost like localized earthquakes.

  Zaria’s ears flattened. “You feel that?”

  “Yeah. That’s a sandwyrm.” Another tremor came, rumbling through his body. “Probably heard those explosions from miles away.”

  He could imagine the creature circling below the body cavity, a massive limbless dragon bristling with teeth and scales, tearing its way through tons of earth like a shark circling below its prey. It definitely knew there were people above it. It could sense the tiniest vibration through leagues of rock and sand. The only question now was whether it was feeling territorial, or maybe just hungry enough to close in for a probing bite.

  “She’s gone mad.” Zaria gripped the sagittal crest. “Throwin’ away lives in pursuit of vengeance and treasure. Thought she was decent, before. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Well,” Isaac said, “you did kill ten of her crew, and then blow up an entire ship.”

  “That last bit’s my doing now, is it?”

  “That’s what they think. So, yes, actually.”

  She huffed. “What the hell’s this necromancer waiting for? Soren’s down there blowing up all her furniture, and she hasn’t sent a single skeleton in response.”

  “She’s probably smart enough to let the intruders kill each other before stepping in. On the other hand, she’s probably also terrified of your old captain summoning a horde of sandwyrms in her domain. If she attacks, it might destroy what’s left of her home.” He watched the pirates begin to establish patrols. “We’ll have to deal with this ourselves.”

  She looked back at him. “You’re not seriously suggesting—”

  “I am,” Isaac replied. “We should attack now, before they have a chance to reorganize. If Soren throws anymore blackpowder around, we’re going to be swimming in angry sandwyrms. More importantly, she’s going to start hunting us soon. We need to go on the offensive.”

  “You giving me tactical advice now?”

  “I do believe I’ve read more books on the subject.”

  She scoffed, looking back at the fortified courtyard. “They’re dug in tight. They’ve got ramparts, crossbows, a wide open killing ground, and nearly a dozen times our number. It’s suicide.”

  “Maybe for you. I’ve got something better than a poleaxe.” He spun through some quick mnemonics, holding a small ball of fire in his hands. “She won’t stand a chance.”

  “Isaac, I’m rather liking this new boldness on you, but you need to temper it with prudence. Assaulting them head-on is madness. We should skirt around, let the sorceress do her own bloody house-cleaning.”

  He looked at her for a moment. “Is that cowardice I’m hearing?”

  “Consider it wisdom beyond my years.” She went back to watching Soren, who was busy supervising the fortification repairs. “It’s the only reason you’re not getting smacked upside the head for saying that.”

  “Hey,” Isaac said. “Pirates have the right of parley, don’t they? If we ask for it, she has to hear us out. Let us get in close.”

  “You truly have read too many adventure novels, squire. Try that on most pirates and they’ll just use the chance to flank you.”

  “Not Soren, though, right? You said it yourself. She likes to make a spectacle. She wanted to challenge you to a duel, back up in the chapel.” Isaac placed a hand on his chest. “I believe you’ve found your champion.”

  Zaria looked at him with something less than approval. “You? My champion?”

  “That is what I said. Thanks for listening.”

  “Oh, I heard you well. Just giving you a chance to think better.”

  “Who said I was going to fight fair?”

  She glanced down at the small ball of fire still spinning in his palm. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, let the fire reflect in her eyes for a moment, then began to look contemplative.

  Down in the palace courtyard, Black Eye Soren decapitated a human corpse with a single stroke of her saber. She lifted the severed head by the hair and rubbed the carved sigil on its forehead like it was an etching on paper. She dipped a finger through the neck hole, tasted the blood, spat it out on the knuckled pavement, and tossed the head into the air, kicking it out past the palace walls. Over to the side, foxes and lions were adding the rest of the human corpses to their furniture barricades.

  More rumbling shook through the ground, punctuated with a far deeper, more melodic note. It was the warning call of a sandwyrm. Isaac had heard it many times on his trek across the desert. The creature had probably mistaken Soren’s bombs as the approach of a rival on its territory. That was even worse than being considered prey. Hungry sandwyrms were usually only curious and nibbling—a territorial sandwyrm was an unstoppable juggernaut of teeth and fury.

  Zaria turned her attention back to the palace. She wasn’t looking at Soren anymore—she was tracking the crewmembers racing across the courtyard, the ones repairing the fortifications, treating the wounded, rationing out bricks of hardtack and rum. She likely knew most of them. She also knew the ones that were now lying dead on the pavement. They might’ve worked as deckhands besides each other, shared meals together, shared the same bunks and battles.

  “Hey,” Isaac said. “You think Soren’s crew wants to be stuck down here in this tomb?”

  The hyena snorted. “Pirates are more superstitious than old crones. Most of them would be swimming in piss if she wasn’t barking orders at them.”

  “So, if we just kill Soren, they’ll probably run away. Right?”

  Zaria looked back at him.

  “You could probably even say we’d be saving their lives. It’d be the right thing to do, really. Kill the person who wants you dead while sparing her crew.” He shrugged. “Everyone wins.”

  “Isaac,” she said. “I won’t ask you to do this. This is my business. My concern. You got your mission to worry about—don’t start feeling obligated for me.”

  “I am worried about my mission. Soren’s getting in the way of it. In terms of duty to my guild, and the general interest of archaeology, I’d say I’m compelled to end her life.” He shrugged. “Might be I just want to take out a murderous pirate captain, too. Do a good deed for the rest of the world. You know, help a few people.”

  She gave him an expression somewhere between shock and laughter. “You realize they outnumber us more than ten to one?”

  “Sure.”

  “She has crossbows. Blackpowder. Veteran thugs at her back. All of them risking blackness and evil to have a shot at killing me.”

  “Looks that way, yeah.”

  “And you’re asking me to just stroll up to her fortress, ask for parley, and then anoint you as my champion, all so you can fight a duel with the best swordswoman this side of the continent?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You know how foolhardy this whole plan is, aye?”

  “Of course,” Isaac said. “I think that’s why I like it.”

  “Squire, I’m beginning to worry I’ve been a bad influence on you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve always been this way—I just feel ready to follow through on it now.” He looked down at the palace courtyard, counting all the defenses and thugs, watching Soren bark orders at her crew while covered in blood and knives. He felt fear, though not the fear he always felt around his uncle. This fear made him feel alive. “Are you with me?”

  She glanced down at her old captain and crew, probably remembering their names and voices, all the times they’d spent together. She was probably also remembering all the tortures they’d inflicted upon her. The crew were twitchy, most of them wounded and tired, constantly looking over their shoulders. Only Soren’s yelling was keeping them in line.

  Off in the distance, through the earth and rock, a sandwyrm bellowed its warning call. If another blackpowder bomb exploded, it would almost definitely attack.

  “Fuck it,” Zaria said. “Let’s slag the cunt.”