Either choice

Malav sent living soldiers back to Lallareth to reinforce those Cerik had sent. They would lie in wait for anyone who might try to escape that way and keep watch for Esus. It had been a tactical error not to leave men at the tower. He was too confident with his army of the dead, underestimating the living could still cost him.

The dead could take a city with greater ease and lower cost. The living could maintain his advantages. He would remember to thank Cerik again for keeping them loyal and looked after. And he would do his part to keep them that way. Now, he needed to see to it that Esus and the ones who had stolen the shrine did not escape to Anykrocath. Taking the city and giving the spoils to his men would go a long way toward gaining back any lost appreciation.

He marched with his dead army and a small contingent of the living, the scouts Cerik had sent would be joining them as well. Malav allowed the living to stay close and he consulted with the General and Cerik as if he had never stopped doing so. He could feel things coming into balance, and his wife coming closer.

Much like Gaelel, the gates of Anykrocath were closed and Malav ordered the city surrounded. However, there were no soldiers peering over the walls and his dead priestess received no response when he sent her to the gate to request an audience with the Keam. Malav laid his hand on his sword hilt and reached into the city to find and raise the dead within the walls. He found only two.

“There should be more.” Malav frowned, glaring at the gates. Cerik looked at him oddly as he ordered the men to open the gates from within.

“My King?” Cerik asked cautiously.

“There are only two dead within the city.” Malav fixed him with a displeased scowl. “There should be more. When the gates are opened I would have our men search the city, things are not as they should be.”

Cerik turned to the General and they began to plan their search. Cerik was familiar with the city’s layout and he suggested it be searched in quarters.

The gate opened slowly, and Malav ordered more dead soldiers inside to aid the two in their labors. When the gate stood fully open, he sent in the dead to make certain it was not some sort of trap. From the silence and heavy stillness in the air, there did not seem to be anyone at all left in the city.

There was evidence of funeral pyres, the city’s dead had been hastily burned. But that would have taken days if not weeks … Charyic had sung songs given to her by Anyk. The goddess would have given others the same. They had been warned well in advance and left the city for their safety, and left him as little as possible that he could use it would seem. The thought occurred to him suddenly and he spun to shout a warning to Cerik, “Tell the men not to eat or drink anything they find!”

The warning was shouted and passed along, too late for a few who had chosen to sample some of the fresh looking confections in a market stall. The provisions left behind had been poisoned. The two soldiers must have ended their lives after sealing the gates in the hopes that he would not be able to make them talk and that he or his living men would fall victim to this trick. Malav cursed.

An army marches on its stomach. That was one of the first things he had learned. He hadn’t bothered with supply lines, nor had he allowed his men enough time to properly supply at Gaelel before he burned it.

He allowed the men to search for plunder but there was little enough of that as well. Malav pulled his men back finally and gave the order to burn the city. Burning an empty city was less satisfying, but he had no intention of leaving them something to return to when they had taken such pains to leave him nothing to use.

Outside the city he spoke with Cerik who advised a detour back to Cearazon to establish proper supply lines. It would require giving up Lallareth and the Oryr Road but he could see now how he had over extended. It could all be retaken and held properly if he pulled back and went about this in a more measured way.

Malav gave the orders, the Cearazon and Luzoron soldiers were to rejoin them. They would march back to Cearazon and resupply before marching on Isemalrocath. There was time. It would also allow him to find another thief. This time he would put them on the tip of his blade and have the shrine delivered without further annoyance.

The pace of their return was being planned when the word reached him of the priestess of Ayil and her escort riding to meet him.

Cerik cleared his throat as the soldier stepped back out of his tent. Malav gripped the hilt of his sword and scowled. “Cerik?”

“I would advise politeness, my King, and perhaps send,” the older man looked at his dead priestess with disapproval, “that one away.”

“And I would advise silence.” Malav watched as the man’s face was schooled into neutrality and he bowed leaving the King alone with the dead woman. “Go greet the priestess of Ayil.”

“Yes, Dread King.” The dead priestess bowed and moved with surprising grace for a creature that was slowly rotting. Her white, shimmering garb barely concealed the marbled, greying flesh beneath. Malav followed her with his mind’s eye, wanting to see the face of the priestess of Ayil.

The revulsion was all he had hoped for. But when she drew a knife with one of Isemal’s silver stars on the pommel and plunged it into the wound his own blade had made, it felt as though he had been struck. He shuddered and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword. The dead priestess was no longer under his sway.

Malav stormed out of his tent toward the woman. The sight of the ash pile at her feet was an unpleasant surprise. The woman had put the knife away and was pulling what looked like a woman’s hair from a peasant’s cloth bag. The long, dark hair, bound with a black leather strip, reminded him strongly of his wife’s.

He looked at the priestess with a distrustful frown. “What is this?”

“You don’t recognize it?” The priestess gave a half smile. “It was quite a surprise when Charyic cut it off with the knife. Ayil had expected her to give the knife as an offering, not her own hair.”

“My-my wife.” He came forward and pulled the hair from the woman’s hand and brought it to his face, it smelled like Charyic. “What would possess her to do such a thing?”

“Pain.” The priestess reached out to take the hair back.

“What happened? Is she well?” He pulled the hair away, not intending to give up a single piece of his wife.

She held out her hand and waited. “She gave it to Ayil. If you wish to know more you will have to at least pretend respect.”

The sword at his hip sent a wave of icy pain through him. Malav knew it immediately for what it was, a caution to be respectful to Ayil. He reluctantly offered the hair back to the woman. “I will be respectful.” The softness of his words made her blink in surprise. “I love my wife. I have blamed Ayil for parting us, and to give away even a piece of my Charyic is agony. I have missed the smell of her hair.”

“Most of the blame falls upon you, Dread King.” Malav felt a hot ball of anger forming in his belly as she spoke almost pleasantly. “But I am not here to argue. Ayil has heard Charyic’s plea, never to be made to feel such heartache again. I am here to give a gift.”

“A gift? When I have been so unkind?” Malav inquired feigning humbleness and placing his hand over his heart and giving a slight bow.

The priestess smiled. “Trouble loves the true heart.”

Malav could feel his jaw clenching.

“You will not win her back if you cannot show her your heart is true. The staff allowed you to see into her, to feel her. If you allow me to touch it, your sword will allow her to see into you. She will feel you as you felt her when her hand is upon it.” The woman’s words were as sweet as honey and his anger began to evaporate. It would give him the advantage he so desperately needed. He found himself reaching for his blade before he remembered.

“If I allow it to be taken from me, I will die upon it.” Malav measured her with his gaze.

“I will not take it, only touch it. Please.” She looked sincere and Malav stepped forward offering his blade, his hands on the hilt and the blade, keeping it tightly held.

As she touched it, moving her hand lightly over the hilt where she could, he asked, “Why has Ayil chosen to relent and give me this gift? Why is my wife in pain?”

The priestess sighed and smiled sadly, “The gift is for your wife, if she chooses you. Ayil would have her love you and be happy again.” The woman stepped back looking at Malav. “Charyic has been heartbroken thinking that Esus was lost to her. That you and Esus have both broken her heart was more than she could bear, it made her ill. Either choice she makes, Ayil will see her happy.”

Either choice. “Are you returning to Isemalrocath? Will you see my wife?” Malav’s inquiry seemed to make the woman uncomfortable.

“I am returning, but Charyic does not often visit the temple.”

He allowed himself a smile. “You lack the proper shrine.” At her annoyed look he added, “When you see her next, tell her that I am sorry for what I did, and that I would never have allowed her to come to harm.” Malav turned his head, “Cerik?”

He couldn’t help but smile when the man stepped forward holding one of the few worthwhile pieces of plunder from the city, a stiff, heavy silver necklace set with so many dark blue stones it looked like the night sky. “A gift for Ayil, in thanks. I had intended it for my wife.”