Ecdysis

Mushaf Kishava Davlat

She approached the tent with gritted teeth, a hand on her tail, and weak legs. She knew that this was the fault of Lita’af. The secret she shared with her was nearly unthinkable to be true, how she shared it with her made it almost a certainty. And now she was approaching the tent of an Ulastai Manipular like she was a young girl, eager yet scared to name her secret fancy as her first for the Entrance Feast.

What if Lita’af was wrong? What if Azhar Hatay Mesud was nothing more but a Hatay wermage of dubious origins? Mushaf would put an end to this courtship, she was a high-standing Pillar wermage after all, but she would never forgive her shame. The memory of her walking to this tent on her shaking legs would haunt her until her Spark was no more.

Pausing at the entrance, Mushaf glared at the passing warrior and stilled her heart once more. Her eyes glanced around her clothes, checking for faults and making sure that every item she wished to wear was on her. Her embroidered sashes, her kattar in the gold and gemstone scabbard, the silks of her kaftan and the Creature plates of her armour. She even took her favourite bird arusak along, but Jana was hidden away in her pouch, not to be seen by anyone.

Azhar Mesud left no guards outside to ogle her, but she didn’t wish to dally either — Mushaf felt his Spark inside and that meant he knew she was here as well. Clenching her fingers into fists, she pushed the flap to the side and stepped inside…

A howl of Flow passed through her and Mushaf froze in the middle of an enormous hall, thrumming with magic. Countless artefacts everywhere she looked — feathers danced on the scrolls, writing missives or even entire codices, birds of pure Arksite trilled a quiet melody that Mushaf never heard before, and giant statues of steel and carapace judged her every move, ready to strike her down if she ever meant harm to the owner of this place. She also had a vague feeling that a farshat hanging on the wall to her side looked like a bird’s-eye view of the two arms clashing in battle with the enemy — the barbarians had no idea they had a Divine with them! Tens of glowing orbs floated through the room, casting white light onto every surface. And surfaces shone back in kind, for the entire room was an artefact. No, the entire Divine Castle was.

And in the middle of this room, God was sitting on his throne.

Mushaf quietly lowered herself to her knee, cursing Anaise in her mind. This wasn’t just any Divine, nor was he just a Divine Heurisk Lita’af had warned her about. The God in front of her was one of the relatives of the Goddess herself! It was no wonder that even the daughter of Aikerim Adal wouldn’t dare to think about choosing him as her next husband.

“Or she simply did not know herself,” his voice thundered in her ears, “Be at ease, Mushaf Kishava Davlat — I invited you here as a guest. Do you not trust my word? Or does fear have that much power over you?”

Mushaf shook her head, she was no coward, and raised her eyes, finally looking at the God in front of her. Her House had plenty of records by those who’d met the Gods themselves so she wasn’t frightened by his large stature, but there was a difference between reading muted words on parchment and standing in the presence of someone who could humble with his size alone not just the tallest Enoch but barbarian sheydayan. He had no veil on him, and Mushaf could witness the fabled Arksite skin, the wispy, glowing flames of his blue eyes — capable of seeing her past, present, and future — and the gentle movements of his soft horns framing his chin and face. It was said they were capable of sensing the slightest whirl of Flow… and sending the largest waves through it. Above it all, like a crown of his Divinity, the three legendary horns screamed with magical power.

Mushaf licked her dry lips, unable to take her gaze away — the swept-back horns were long, curving slightly from their hefty roots just above his eyes to the sharp tips, adorned with artefact jewellery, past the back of his head. They were big. Very big.

“Beautiful…” she heard herself whisper and immediately slapped her mouth shut.

His hand gestured at a table and a couch that suddenly appeared in front of him. “Would you like to have a game of chatrang with me?”

“It would be my honour.” Mushaf quickly gathered herself. She knew the game well, but she couldn’t call herself the strongest. Not that it mattered in the slightest here — no wermage could dream of beating a Heurisk. Mushaf wouldn’t be surprised if he was aware of this meeting before she was born, let alone her every move in this game. The thought was frightening and yet brought a surprising sense of relief — he invited her here while knowing the future. “How should I address you, my lord?”

“Azhar Mesud is a good name,” with his flick, the chatrang pieces rushed onto the board and took their starting positions, “and I have no desire to cause you undue difficulties from knowing my true name. Wine?”

Mushaf glanced at the jar floating in the air. “You are a very generous guest, Azhar Mesud. If I knew what I know now, I wouldn’t have stalled for so long.”

He shook his head, making her rub her thighs with the sway of his horns. “Life can be seen as a game of chatrang — while you can choose from a plenitude of moves at any point, an even greater number is forbidden. And even the previous plenitude is riddled with moves that make no sense or are outright disastrous for you to take. Your foreknowledge of this meeting would’ve done you no good.”

“Forgive my impudence, my lord. Countless tales are shared throughout my House about meetings with the Divines — they exalt your power and presence, yet often fail to relay your generosity and kindness in its entirety. It was for that reason I was quite apprehensive to approach you despite my sincere want.”

One of his spear pieces marched across the board and glared at her nearby chariot. “They do it for a reason, Mushaf Davlat. Divine generosity is often a heavy burden to bear.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “M-my lord?”

“Azhar Mesud, if you please. Your House is dying, Mushaf Davlat.”

Mushaf froze in place, the game forgotten, frantically searching in her mind for any hints of rot within her House. And finding none — her House, while not as renowned as Kamshad, Kosenya, or Shebet, was one of the richest and the most stable across Emanai. They owned swathes of fertile lands and enough slaves to plough them all even if murk farmers grew scarce. If they were to fall, the rest of the Emanai would quickly follow. And if Emanai itself was collapsing…

He twirled a small piece of parchment in his fingers. “Not tomorrow or within a year — centuries, perhaps — since your House is currently at the peak of its might — but definitely less than a handful of them. The poison is already in the air and your House is the most susceptible to it.”

She slowly let go of the chatrang piece she was gripping all this time and reached for a wine goblet. Both to wet her dry throat and to calm her heart. Heavy burden, indeed. This wasn’t something Mushaf expected, or wanted to hear but… Mushaf Davlat wasn’t meek and cautious like Lita’af Hikmat or Anaise Hilal. She dared to seek him out while they cowered in fright. Or maybe Anaise was lying when she said she wanted nothing to do with Azhar Mesud. The Divine Heurisk had spent too much time too close to her for Anaise Hilal not to try and it was easy to declare disinterest once she was rebuffed.

Neither was she a dimwitted barbarian or an uneducated murk. Mushaf had spent years studying rhetorics, strategy, and Flow and didn’t miss the hidden meanings, hidden within the seemingly grim declaration. The God in front of her did not say that her House ‘will die’, merely that it was ‘dying’. Moreover, while Divines perceived time in their own way and a span of five hundred years was but a trifling moment for them, she knew without a doubt that the Divine ‘Azhar Mesud’ deliberately chose this evening to issue his warning. And his listener. He could’ve stormed into her mother’s private rooms and the Kishava Matriarch herself would’ve listened to the advice of the Divine Heurisk just as intently if not even more so. Since he chose to speak to her… It might not be Mushaf’s niece or grand-niece who would be facing this crisis in the future, but her daughter or granddaughter.

“While it pains me to hear such words about my House, I am immensely grateful for your warning, my lord. Know that, as a filial daughter, I will do anything to keep my House prosperous and healthy, so please tell me — what is the poison that you speak of and why is Kishava so weak against it?”

Maybe it would be a crisis for his daughter too.

Azhar nodded, “I will not lie; Kishava isn’t just a Pillar of Emanai but a veritable mountain. Strong, resilient, immovable. It weathered many storms and repelled numerous attacks. But can it outrun a swift hare? Or an agile fox that is chasing that hare?”

Mushaf looked at him again — the Divine Heurisk was sitting in a leisurely manner with a soft, genial smile on his face, his fingers tapping on the flesh of his enormous tail. There was more than a single game of chatrang being played.

“I am certain that your word alone will move any mountain, including our House. But can Emanai only rely on foxes and hares? Our chariots are swift but without the slow-moving maniples and arusak-at they would be easy prey for our enemies. And even the swiftest hare wouldn’t survive without a burrow.” Seeing him nod in approval, Mushaf sighed in relief and sipped from her goblet.

“Indeed. Which is why my mother,” Mushaf choked on her wine, “would loath to see your House disappear. Nor do I wish for her to choose between the honour and trust of the old and the promises and possibilities of the young. I seek another path.”

“If you are worried that our blood is too stagnant, just say a word!” Oh how Mushaf envied the Kiymetl right now — if she could hurry her cycle by pulling on her tail, she would’ve gladly ripped it off already. “Our child will…”

Azhar leaned forward and tapped his finger on the board. “Tell me, Mushaf Davlat, can you beat me in this game of chatrang? Hmmm? What if we play a hundred games, can you win at least once? Speak honestly.”

She cast a quick glance down, the game was just beginning but the outcome was never in question. “Only a Divine can defeat another Divine, my lord. But I will gladly play every single one of them so that I can witness your wisdom. Even if I perceive but the smallest fraction of the whole, I will leave this place stronger than I was before entering. I won’t let a mere defeat destroy my future!”

“Good answer. A strong answer.” He opened his palm and placed a new figure on the table. A vizier of swirling silver and Arksite. The meaning was obvious to Mushaf, as she was playing the silver attackers. “Would you be able to defeat me if I gave you an additional piece?”

Mushaf sighed. “My heart tells me you would win even if you had but a single golden pawn defending your golden general. But there will be other games against other opponents and that piece would benefit me greatly, would it not?”

The divine Heurisk shook his horns. “The challenge that Kamshad will face isn’t other Houses, clans, or tribes, Mushaf Davlat. Your opponent is your future. Your fate. Yourself. And that is why you are here and not inside my tent, that is why you are playing against a heurisk and not a Manipular of Ulastai.”

Mushaf gritted her teeth, unwilling to concede defeat yet finding no solution. “I refuse to believe that other Houses are less susceptible to this ‘poison’! No sane wermage of the Seven would dare to claim that they can beat you-”

“Eight.”

“Eight!?”

God nodded. “A new decree has just proclaimed the House of Gabal as the eighth Pillar of Emanai. They will care for the public mines of Emanai from now on.”

Mushaf scratched her ear. Her heart was telling her that this was somehow important but she couldn’t grasp the tail. She knew of the Samat’s branch House — their sudden blessing in the ranks of Emanai would definitely bolster their parent House but it would also upset the previous balance between them. The Shebet would be affected but they had plenty of wealth and influence. And more, considering how similar the tail of Sophia Chasya looked to the tail leisurely shifting in front of Mushaf right now. There was plenty of Divine blood in that House. The Kosenya’s smithies and armouries needed significant quantities of metal so they would need to forge new connections and agreements. Kamshad, Kiymetl, and Enoch? They wouldn’t be affected as much but they were embroiled in personal affairs…

A cold chill ran down her spine and fluffed her tail. There was an unseen dance happening across Emanai and every Pillar was pulled into it. Every Pillar except for one. The ‘unmovable mountain’ of Kishava.

His genial smile grew into a grin. “So, you’ve noticed.”

“Was… everything that is happening right now… your plan all along?”

“Planned? Everything? By me? How crude.” He pulled out yet another piece of parchment with a chuckle. There was something drawn on it but Mushaf couldn’t see it well enough. Another artefact? “No, Mushaf Davlat, most of what is happening right now is nothing more than a fortuitous event. An opportunity that I’ve met on the streets of Samat some time ago. A spark that could’ve vanished without a trace or turned the entire city into a funeral pyre. So I found it a safe hearth… and fed it with proper firewood so that the heat of its flame would reawaken the slumbering Pillars.”

Mushaf wasn’t sure what kind of Spark he was talking about and his gaze drifted away from her and onto the parchment in his hands. But her teachers often taught her that the true General isn’t the one who can plan an entire battle in advance, but who could spot the path to victory in the tiniest detail. After all, what was the battle foresight if not a shadow of Divine blood still running through their veins? That was what made Heurisks into Divines rather than exceptionally powerful wermages — they didn’t even need to use their power to begin with!

Her tail swished side to side as the feeling of warmth spread through her chest; her warrior soul recognising the true General in front of her. The Houses of War didn’t simply wag their tails at the mere sight of a General’s sash — they followed those, who were worthy of the title. They entrusted their lives to those, who would bring them to victory while avoiding certain death. While Sophia Chasya was the Censor of Emanai and a well-established wermage with status and power, Kiannika and Ulastai swiftly raised her banners only due to her exemplary record of past victories. “Your words showed me the path to victory, Azhar Mesud. Not in fighting you but in following you. After all, who can defeat the Fate in the game of chatrang if not a Divine Heurisk?”

His tail scraped the marble floor as he stood up. “You know of the Accords. Heurisks have neither the need nor the intent to govern the Houses directly.”

Mushaf watched him walk around her couch. “Nor does a good General need to tell every single spear where to strike. Sometimes, a single rousing speech is the difference between a bitter defeat and a glorious victory. Or a well-timed warning.”

She paused when his palm touched her shoulder and slid along her arm. He leaned in, bringing his face closer to her burning cheek, and moved her chariot forward. “Your current stance isn’t a wrong one. Your House is in a secure position and has no imminent threats that besiege it. You have plenty of pieces at your disposal. Nor should you squander the opportunity to patiently observe and plan your future moves, since fate is neither kind nor cruel. It just is. It is the golden player in the game of chatrang, endlessly waiting for the silver general to make their move. It is more than patient… What you can’t forget, however, is that there are more games than yours being played right now. And some of the other players are neither patient nor weak.”

Mushaf wordlessly repeated his words, making sure that she would take them to heart and not forget a single one. She would write them down as soon as she was back in her tent. “I will warn my mother… But you have other plans for me, my lord, are you not?”

The Divine Heurisk pulled away and walked back to his throne. “Indeed, Mushaf Davlat. I want you to witness the upcoming battle with my words still fresh in your mind.”

“Can… Would I be able to meet with you again? To discuss my findings.”

He chuckled. “You are Mushaf Davlat, the Lady of the Kishava House. I believe you will find no trouble getting inside the tent of one of the Ulastai Manipulars.”

“What I meant was… Ah, I see.” She felt the smile returning to her lips once again. “I hope that Azhar Mesud would forgive me for coming to play another game once we give the barbarians a proper thrashing.”

She would need to carefully think about the timing of the future meetings. It would take time for her womb to get ready and Mushaf didn’t want to exhaust his goodwill too soon.

He moved his chariot across the board and gave her a wink. “If you challenge Erf and win, Azhar Mesud will forgive many other things.”

“Anaise’s husband?” Mushaf tilted her head. “May I ask about the relationship between you and him?”

A stray thought snuck into her mind but she quickly shook it away. There was no way she would dare to offend the Divine Heurisk by implying the murk was his descendant no matter how remote.

“An ungrateful bastard, that’s who he is. Hmmm? Do you wish to end the game?”

“Apologies,” Mushaf muttered as she hurriedly collected the scattered pieces off the floor. “My hand slipped.”

“I offered eleven goats to him! And a billy. He offered to stab me with a fork.”

“A fork?”

“By his words — an ancient hairpin.”

She gasped. “He threatened you!? Does he not know who you are?”

“I don’t think he cares, but it is more exciting this way.”

A bastard… so he was a daimon after all. Anaise made a shrewd choice indeed — by claiming the murk descendant as her husband in front of the Goddess, she got plenty of Divine goodwill for herself and her House. And got plenty of gifts in turn to bolster her shaken status among the Emanai Pillars for marrying a ‘murk’.

“He knows how to play?”

God scratched his chin. “After playing quite a few games against him… I am still not sure if he knows or not.”

 

 

 

Hajar Kishava

She scowled at the rows of barbarians in front of them that went past the horizon on her left. As the first maniple of Kiannika, they were standing on the far-right flank of Emanai arms. A prestigious position for any maniple but it also meant that Hajar couldn’t assign all her spears to the front rows. The enemy dismounted most of their horde but still had plenty of cavalry to engage in some quick strikes to their side or an outright flanking attack. Her spears were drilled to reinforce different sides on her command but Hajar still chose to split them between the front and the right. It was safer that way.

“First Spear.”

She turned around and saluted her superior. “Manipular.”

The scarred Kamshad warrior spat on the ground. “The greenhorns are twitchy.”

Hajar glanced around. While most of the arrivals from Samat knew their way in battle, many of them were here not as warriors but as bodyguard retinue for their ‘ladies’. They weren’t scared themselves but they were concerned for their ward. Hajar rubbed her temples with a grimace. The battle hadn’t even started yet — both forces just finished positioning themselves against each other and now were standing three hundred paces away — and morale was limping already. “My spears will hold.”

“How is your new challenger? Do you think he will crack?”

Hajar turned her eyes back to the horde in front of them. Some of them were barely above rabble, especially the light skirmishers that weren’t even nomads themselves, likely some conquered tribe. There were wermages too and even a couple of sheydayan were pacing in the rear. “No. I asked him about the scalp that he’d brought. He said he got it in a single battle against a sheyda chief. The battle wasn’t quick. Are you thinking what I am thinking?”

Manipular nodded. “Order your spears to make some noise.”

“Spears!” Hajar hollered. “I want the whores in Uureg to hear your shields rattling!”

Eighty shields struck the ground. “Ulah!”

“I want the barbarians to piss themselves hearing your chants!”

“Ula-lah!”

As the spears started to rhythmically slam their weapons on their shields adding their guttural roars to the sound, she gestured at her messenger. “Erf! Get your ass over here!”

He arrived promptly but Hajar had to suppress her eye from twitching. He was in gear but his helmet was slightly tilted to the side. Someone behind her snickered. Cursing under her nose, Hajar grabbed the cone of his helmet and yanked it into place.

“Did you kill a sheyda while dressed like that?” Manipular asked with a stony face.

Erf scratched his chin through chainmail, not realising that by doing so he pulled the helmet to the side once again. “No, I had a tunic and a hooded cloak back then.”

“With your previous feats, you have proclaimed yourself as a challenger.” Manipular decided to ignore the previous conversation. “Now is the time to prove it. When the barbarian challenger steps out of the horde, you will meet him in a single combat. Are you willing or are you afraid?”

“Wait? Can we resolve the entire battle this way? Just challenge the general and spare the soldiers?”

Hajar’s disciplinary stick slammed into his helmet, pushing it back into place at the same time. “What kind of foolish thinking is that? Do you think that this horde would just turn around and walk away? We want them to begin the battle knowing that one of our ‘murks’ just killed their… what do they call themselves? Bahaturs!”

“Ah, I see.”

“Are you willing?” Manipular repeated.

Erf gave a salute. “Yes, I will do it.” Only to start looking around as if he’d lost something. “Where would I find a sling?”

Hajar leaned in and hissed into his ear. “No jests, Erf. I want you to go out there and kill them dead. You hear me?”

“What are the rules? I assume we would both step out into the strip between the forces? How far should I walk and how soon I am allowed to start killing?”

“You stop at a hundred paces away from each other and raise your weapon in challenge,” Manipular butted in. “Once the weapon comes down, the fight begins.”

“Got it. Does someone have a ball of metal?”

“Why?”

Erf shrugged. “It will kill faster.”

“How big?”

“About the size of a fist should work.”

Manipular reached into a nearby cart and pulled out a replacement spearhead. The runes on her body flashed blue and she quickly crushed the tip into a rough ball. “Here, its cost will be deducted from your pay, messenger. If you bring dishonour to our maniple and survive, I will have you whipped.”

“I will not.” Erf gave her another salute and turned around.

“Stop.”

“Yes, Manipular?”

“You are a murk and a spear. If you step out right now, they will send some half-starved corpse to fight you. Wait until their challenger steps out.”

It didn’t take long for the spear chanting and hurled insults to summon a barbarian wermage. While Hajar wished that it would be one of sheydayan, the lion challenger looked impressive enough. He hurled a handful of fireballs at their maniple while he walked as well as plenty of insults. Especially when ‘a spear’ stepped out to challenge him back. For a moment it looked like he would turn back in disgust but the jeers by Roshan and the rest of the thumb were quick to accuse the wermage of cowardice in front of a murk. Of all her spears, that finger knew well who that murk was.

Manipular harrumphed to her side. “Why does he need an iron ball?”

“Maybe he will tie it to the tip of his whip? Your guess is as good as mine. Despite his lethality, the daimon has no grasp on warfare. I wouldn’t bat an eye if he somehow knew better how to kill someone with a pot than killing them with a sword.”

“Probably why he is still alive. If the enemy sees you coming at them with a sword, they prepare to defend against that sword and not your fart.”

Hajar glanced at her commander. “Please do not suggest that.”

Manipular smirked as much as the scar on her face would allow it. “I will think about it.”

The conversation lulled as they watched the two challengers approaching each other.

“What are your bets?”

Hajar harrumphed. “Ten heartbeats. Ten silver.”

“On him?”

“Of course, I am his First Spear.”

“First Oar?”

“Thirty.”

“First Bow?”

“He survives.”

Manipular was silent for a moment. “I will give him three heartbeats.”

Hajar blinked. “Oh?”

“Whatever he is doing, he is relying on surprise. Either it works or it doesn’t. And it would take two heartbeats for the wermage to cross the distance.”

Erf cast out his spear and shield as soon as he started walking. Hajar felt her fingers clench, as the wermage lifted his bronze sabres into the air, Erf simply raised a fist. His whips were still tucked into his sash, just like his kattar and his sword.

And then he lifted one knee.

Hajar felt the familiar pressure in her temples. “I told him — no jests!”

The wermage roared, hurled one of his sabres, and charged ahead. Erf… There was a flurry of flailing limbs, and the lion’s head burst open like an overripe pomegranate. A sharp crack like the trunk of a dried tree snapping in half and then a metallic thud as the sabre wedged itself deep into Erf’s helmet.

“If he dies from that sabre, I am going to yank it out and cleave his ass up to his shoulders,” Hajar grumbled.

As if hearing her, Erf turned toward them, an action that was now clearly visible due to the enormous weather-wane that was his head.

“Looks alive to me. One heartbeat.” Manipular quipped. She glanced around and raised her oar. “Ullah!”

The maniple was quick to pick up the cheer. The nearby maniples joined as well — whether they knew who won was unimportant — as long as it was one of ours.

“First Spear.”

Hajar sighed. “Ten silver, I know.” She would fleece Erf for it later. He had money anyway and it was his fault.

“Ask him if he knows how to kill with farts too.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s… a good idea. Yes, ask him if he can kill through fucking.” Manipular grinned. “We need to make sure his wives aren’t in danger.”

“Shi- Manipular, No!”