Dark Reflections of the Soul

All that defiles comes from within. - Menander

"Ha!" Maliq laughed, slapping his thigh in exaggerated mirth. "Do you hear this she-wolf, Kamil, she tells such fine tales!"

"What is that?" Inquired Kamil. He was a tall, handsome man, with drooping mustaches and cool, keen dark eyes. He brought his mount up to their position, and asked, "What do you say?"

"This one here," Maliq replied, pointing to his companion, Iona of Vatkya. "The stories she tells, they are insane. You would have to be drunk to believe them: drunk or stupid."

Kamil gave Iona a lengthy, probing stare, which the Northerner returned with icy disinterest. Kamil smiled and said, "This one does not lie Maliq: you must be mistaken."

"Mistaken? Mistaken indeed! Why don't you try telling Kamil some of your stories, she-wolf, and see how well he believes you then."

"You seem to think it matters to me whether you believe my words or not. It doesn't. The only person in this caravan whose opinion matters is that fat slug Idris, and then only until we reach Kazadaad."

Kamil's smiled revealed gleaming teeth a striking contrast to his dark, sun-baked flesh. "You are a fiery woman, are you not? For me, would you speak on? I should like to hear what has so troubled my friend here."

"That," Iona said, baring her teeth in a feral grin, "is precisely what bothers your friend: the thought that there's a land where women are not just the property of their husbands or fathers; the thought that there's a land where women are free and capable of thinking for themselves; the thought that there's a land where it's not unusual to see women in mail and helm, hefting a sword alongside their brothers; the thought that there's a land where your El's influence has never been felt."

"See what I mean, Kamil: nonsense. And ask her what her land is like. She says it's covered in snow and ice which she says are like rain, only solid. Nonsense!"

"Not so, my brother. I have heard of this ... snow in the highlands of Aberstan. It is just rare this far south."

Maliq grunted, and then continued indignantly. "That may well be, but surely she lies when she says that there are giants in her land, and dragons, and great cats with white fur and fangs like swords. Are we to believe these stories, Kamil, well are we?"

"I do not know, Maliq: El's world is wide and mysterious. Who is to say what is possible, and what is not?"

"Yes, but she does not even believe in El. She claims to worship a Grey God of Death and a demon she calls 'Valla'."

"Valla is no demon, you sanctimonious shit."

"Do you challenge me?" Maliq snarled, his hand flying to the hilt of his curved tulwar.

Iona's hand was already wrapped around her sword. "Any time." She spat, drawing it free.

Kamil urged his mount between the straining warriors and shouted, "Away with your swords, by El, away with your swords! In this caravan you are comrades, and comrade does not draw steel against comrade. If he does," and his cool black eyes took in both Maliq and Iona, "that man shall be put to death. Do you understand?"

Though phrased as such, it was not a question. Kalim was the leader of the caravan's defense, second only to the merchant Idris. Idris cared nothing about the daily affairs of the caravan, preferring the lilting songs and spiced drinks of his eunuch servant, so that left Kalim as the headman of the caravan in all but title. To go against an order that he gave, in particular an order that concerned the safety of the caravan, was to take one's life in their hands.

Iona's sword slid back into its sheath and a moment later Maliq's did the same. Iona and Maliq's eyes met, and if a mere glance could have been lethal, it would have been that one. Kalim continued to speak, but this time in a dialect that Iona did not recognize.

Maliq replied vehemently to something that Kalim said, but then made the Bedun hand-sign that means "I concede" and the fuming warrior urged his desert pony to the head of the caravan where he tried to engage a tall, white-robed warrior in conversation. Iona thought that the white-robed man's name was Ruza, and in the week or so that she had been riding with the caravan she had heard Ruza speak not more than a handful of words, and none of them to her. Iona watched Maliq for a while, and then she turned back to Kalim.

"I must apologize. I should not have let him get to me like that. It's just that you can only be called a liar so often, and then, well," Iona shrugged, "you snap."

"I do understand," Kalim explained, "But see that it does not happen again, for my threats are not idle ones."

After that, Iona fell into a lengthy stretch of silence broken only by the creak of her pony's saddle and the echo of its hooves on the parched earth of the desert floor. Occasionally, furtive snatches of conversation floated her way, and the keening sound of the eunuch's song, but these only served to heighten her sense of alienation. But what did she expect? She was an alien to them. Her pale skin (though this was changing under the desert sun) and her blond hair set her apart, but not merely as much as the fact that she was a woman. They could have forgiven the first, and let her into their circle, included her in their stories and ribald humor, but her gender, that was unforgivable. It kept them ill at ease, with her on the outside. She should have counted herself lucky that Idris had hired on in the first place, and that Kalim had not objected to her presence too strenuously, but somehow it was hard to consider herself lucky when she was a constant object of derision and only Maliq and Kalim had spoken to her since they'd left Al-Amon - and now she doubted even they would deign to speak with her. Iona thanked Valla that they had less than a fortnight left on the journey. Perhaps once she got to the port city of Kazadaad she'd be able to find passage on some merchanter headed to Omar, Tyrna, Yanua, or if the Gods were truly with her, points west.

How appealing that thought was. To be away from the eternity of shifting sound dunes and gravel planes, that desolate, unending flatness, everywhere flatness, and the scorching, blistering heat that made her feel like her eyeballs were melting in her head at times. What would she give to escape the warring bands of white-clad Sumites, the prejudice and fanaticism, the golden cities and crippling poverty, the haunted ruins whose people's songs could still be heard on the desert winds at night. To be free of the crushing weight of centuries that colored everything here - no price would be too high to escape that.

Gods, how she longed to return home ... if only she had a home to return to.

* * *

As Iona looked towards the sun to gauge the hour, she spied a queer, though not entirely unexpected sight upon the horizon. Iona's hand went to shield her eyes so that she could see better, and several moments later a chill of excitement traced through her limbs as a predatory smile curved her lips. The odd shapes were riders - and not men in a caravan such as the one in which she rode. They were bandits. Such desert rats made their coin by ransacking unsuspecting caravans along their migratory treks between the various walled cities the skirted the trackless wastes of the Kadur. With such men, there could be only one outcome: Iona drew her sword and gave a silent prayer of thanks to Valla, that the hellish tedium was finally over, then she gave a warning call to the rest of the caravan.

Kalim reined in his pony, and barked tersely, "What's this noise about, woman? I see nothing."

"There, "Iona grinned, pointing to the distant specks of white that dotted the horizon. Kalim squinted, stared, squinted again and finally swore, drawing his heavy tulwar.

"You've got the eyes of an eagle, woman. By El, I swear it's uncanny." He waved his sword over his head, getting the caravan's attention, and then pointed in the direction of the bandits. "We've company men, to arms!"

There were seventeen men in the caravan, not counting the bloated slug Idris and his pasty eunuch. Iona placed the number of the desert rats at two, perhaps even three score, judging by the clouds of dust that their mounts created. Sorry odds, but Iona had faced worse.

As the tiny white blurbs resolved themselves into rough man-shaped forms, Kalim decided to bring the caravan to a halt and circle the main wagon to protect the merchant who, red faced in rage, was demanding to know what was going on. Despite the finality of it, it was a sound maneuver as the caravan with its bulky wagons and heavy cargo could never hope to outrun the fleet bandits, and would most likely be cut down in the open with only a minimum of effort if they tried.

But if the caravan's guards rushed to meet the desert rats head on ... well, at least Iona could die a warrior's death, which was about as much as one could ask for and hope to receive from the Gods.

Iona tightened her grip on her blade and urged her desert pony forward to intercept the white-clad bandits, followed shortly by Kalim, Maliq, and a handful of Bedun of indeterminate description. Those remaining would keep the bandits from the merchant as long as they could - which probably wouldn't be long, should the wedge of armed riders fail. Of course, it wouldn't matter much to Iona then, but until the frenzy of battle began to take hold of her limbs, such thoughts would continue to beset her mind. It was during actual combat that the mind must be cleared of all thoughts but for the blade, the blood, and the Beast that lived within. As her pony carried her towards her opponents, she began to feel her mind clear and her hands tingle in anticipation of the blood-madness of battle.

"You ride to you deaths, sons of jackals, for you face the riders of Haidar, the Bringer of Shadows!" A desert rat cried, his deep voice ringing in Iona's battle-heightened ears. Fearing she might fall from her mount should she flash the rider an obscene gesture, Iona settled upon a quaint Bedun curse that made question of the desert rat's affinity for small animals.

Barely a moment later she met the enraged Bedun across a border of drawn steel. The force behind the blow almost unhorsed her, and as she blocked his return, she knew she owed more to luck than her own skill in staying astride her mount.

Iona's desert pony carried her past the charging Bedun and by the time they had both turned their ponies around and faced each other yet again, the riders of Haidar and the men of the caravan were about them, swords aclangor.

Iona's Bedun opponent struck hard again but his sword did not meet the expected resistance of Iona's Northern steel. The Bedun toppled forward and moments later, Iona's desert pony lifted its shod hooves from the red, pulpy ruin of the desert rat. Iona hardly had time to take in the grim tableau as a second Bedun rushed to take his fallen comrade's place. Their swords crossed and sang and crossed again, and then Iona's sword snaked past the Bedun's guard and tore through the white of his burnoose. The Bedun cried out and Northern steel silenced him for good, opening his swarthy throat from ear to ear. Before Iona's sword had fully torn free from the Bedun, a third attacked her from behind. Iona heard the all-too human scream of her desert pony as it was cut down by her opponent and the next thing she knew there was nothing beneath her and she had the distinct feeling of flying/falling.

With unnatural slowness the sand passed before her eyes, and then it was the sky, and then the sand again, and when she hit the ground - hard - the sky was before her eyes once more. The breath was knocked out of her upon landing and only by twisting as she fell was she able to save herself from severe injury. Red memories of the Bedun's head being crushed by her desert pony - whose squeals of pain seemed the loudest thing in the desert - urged her to get up, though her body urged otherwise.

Iona stood, thanking Valla that she'd been thrown clear of the fray, picked up her sword which had fallen free as she'd been thrown, then charged towards the fighting Bedun warriors.

As she drew nigh, she admired the skill of the hawk-like Kalim, leader of the caravan's defense. His sword struck fast and often and she watched him cleave down two of the desert rats before he was cut down himself and swallowed beneath a mass of white-clad forms.

Iona gave a great yell and rushed forward. Her sword cut down the Bedun whose blow had felled Kalim and she only narrowly missed getting trampled beneath the dying Bedun's horse, which reared up in fear, dashing another bandit to the ground. Iona dispatched him, turned and met another. He tried to run her down with his mount, and would have succeeded had one of the caravan-men not rammed the desert rat from the side, knocking him from his mount. Iona opened the Bedun's throat and then felt the odd sensation of time warping and then she was no longer in her body in the middle of a fray, staring into the wide, open eyes of a dying Bedun. She was ....

Elsewhere?

Her body was glimmering, and naked, and not wholly tangible. Iona looked about and saw only darkness surrounding her.

Then she was not alone.

At first Iona was aware of eyes. Large, angry eyes. Red eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness with a terrible, inhuman intelligence. And then a face and body began to resolve themselves around those eyes. Several moments passed - at least Iona reckoned that time had passed, though she could not be entirely sure as the formless chaos that she found herself in existed beyond the limiting notions of time and space - and then the Bedun whom she had just slain stood completely formed before her, yet naked and intangible as she. A ragged wound, like a demoniacal second mouth, grinned where his neck should have been.

All in her that was sane and belonged to the rational world should have reeled at the spectral sight, but her dreams were still plagued by memories of the horrid creatures who had destroyed all that she loved, inhuman creatures that her people called snow-wraiths. Compared to them and that black night, the not-dead Bedun was nothing. But she still tried to look away, if only to free herself from the grip of those evil red eyes.

"What, you do not admire your handy-work, butcherer?" The dead man said, his voice sounding hollow, tiny, lifeless.

"No, by Valla, this cannot be. You are dead."

"Oh, you are quite right, my dear. But then I've died countless times already."

"Who are you?"

"My names are legion, for I have existed for centuries."

"Answer me straight, demon: what do you want with me?" Iona screamed, her voice echoing into the vast eternity.

"Ah, but I am no demon."

"If you're not a demon, then what are you?"

"I am a Devourer of Souls, a djinn. I do not have a corporeal body of my own, so to dwell in the land of mortals I must have possession of another's. You slew the one I wore, so I shall take yours. And enjoy doing so, for it is a lovely body to look upon. I shall have such fun desecrating it."

"By Valla, you'll do no such thing!"

"Ah, there is a fire in your soul. It is the flames of defiance, tainted with the mark of the Beast. Oh, how I have hungered for one such as you. The strength, the unwavering, brutal purity. Oh, what a feast lies before me." The abomination laughed, its teeth a gash of white amid the black of its beard and mustache.

"I won't give up my body without a fight."

"I should hope! Your struggle will only add to my pleasure."

"Enough! Return me to my body, or I swear by Valla's wounds, I'll gut you with my bare hands!"

"Yes, yes! More struggle, more defiance! Your rage and pain, they are so sweet." He chuckled.

"You would not laugh so, if I had decent steel within my grasp."

"Ah, but here in A'lakoult a soul may have whatever it can imagine, for in the spirit nothing is real, and everything permitted."

"You are mad."

"Oh yes! Quite mad indeed." Agreed the dead Bedun, as it's laughter rose around them, no longer seeming to come just from him. Laughter that was a malignant sound, born of madness and depravity. Shrill and piercing, it stabbed at her ears and began to sap her strength, swallowing up her near-indomitable will to survive. Caught in the throes of that evil laugh, the Bedun's head fell back and then the gaping wound of it's neck split even wider. A dark, oily shadow crawled from the ruin of its body, letting the dead husk fall into the abyss. The shadow set its flaming red eyes, the eyes of an immortal predator, upon Iona and she knew that even though this thing lacked a mouth, here was where the awful laughter came from.

With the speed of though, the shadow was upon her, stabbing its claw-like shadow hands into her head. Agony seared her flesh at its contact, waves of red and black pain crashed against her mental defenses, and Iona screamed as she had never screamed before. The shadow-form of the Devourer of Souls laughed in manic delight.

"Oooh, you have such exquisite pain." It cooed inside her head, and then everything was gone.

* * *

Resting off the grey, rocky coast of Mjhöln waited a Vatkyan dragonship, ready to come home after long months of viking and plunder in the south. They had sounded the call of their return . . .

And received no answer from the village.

This shouldn't be. At all times the Great Horn of the village was to be manned, and if by some odd chance it hadn't been, then certainly the village had heard the ship's resounding call. Yet no one rushed on to the shores to greet them, no one had lit a bonfire on the beach to celebrate the return of their loved ones or to mourn the passing of the dead, and in fact, the whole of the village lay in a terrible darkness, as if there wasn't a single candle lit in all of the village.

This gave the men of the ship cause for worry. Had some horrible evil befallen Mjhöln in their absence? Had vikings from up the coast sacked the village ... or worse?

The North was a cold, dangerous land where dark things stalked the snow and ice under the dark of the night, things that killed with mercy or remorse. Man was not the only killer here, nor the most vicious.

"By Valla, we can't just sit here like cowards." Muttered Erik Greybeard, a grizzled old veteran of the seas. "Better to go ashore and discover the worst then to wait here without knowing anything at all."

"And what if enemies still lie in wait for us?" Declared Ströld Grimhand, who nervously caressed the haft of his war-axe.

"The we shall show the dogs what good Northern steel can do!" Iona said, coming upon the gathered sea wolves.

"Well, girl, are you volunteering then?" Grimhand sneered.

"Aye, I'd sooner face a pack of snow-wraiths without my sword than live a long life as a coward." She who was called the Wolf said defiantly, placing her hands on her hips, the gesture almost a threat for the nearness of her sword and dirk.

Grimhand tightened his grip on his axe and glared menacingly at the haughty wench, but before much more could be done, Wulfskill stepped between the two. Frayed tempers could easily lead to spilled blood, and right now no one needed that. At least not until they found out what was going on shore-side.

"Only fools and berserks would wish to face the snow-wraiths unarmed, and dear Iona, you've not the sign of the berserk about you." Wulfskill smiled, and had another said such words, Iona's sword would have been buried in their gullet a moment later. But she respected the old sea wolf and so returned his wide grin.

"Nonetheless," he continued evenly, "I believe you speak the truth girl, so you, and you - " Wulfskill pointed to Brak One-Eye, "And Hawksfell also shall go ashore and see what is afoot. Perhaps everyone just drank too much mead in preparation for Eostair."

Wulfskill sounded as if he didn't believe the words he spoke himself, but Iona grunted her assent and set about readying for her departure. Once the trio had rowed the little skiff ashore, they drew steel and prepared for the worst, never guessing that that would be exactly what they'd find.

The first house that they came upon belonged to the widow Elke Goldhair and her daughter, Brifuld. Upon opening the door a rancid stench wafted out and the sound of flies filled their ears. Stalwart Hawksfell turned and vomited, for he had known Elke Goldhair as a friend. Iona pushed the door completely open with the tip of her sword and entered the darkness.

From the stench she could guess at what she would find, but a thick blackness, like death's final shroud, clung over everything, obscuring her sight. Elke Goldhair's body lay in pieces, as if mauled by some terrible beast. Brifuld her daughter was slumped against the wall, her head lying in her lap. That single was enough. Iona, who alone of the three had entered, rushed out.

"Oh Gods, oh Valla," she muttered, trying to wipe the feel of what she had seen from her body, knowing that she would never be able to wipe the sight from her eyes and brain.

"Is it ...." Brak One-Eye began, but did not finish.

"Who did this do you think? Vatkyans? Kurgan dogs?"

"Oh no, Hawksfell, this is much worse than that, much worse than even the Kurgans are capable of I fear."

For a time the three Vatkyans stood there, staring at the darkened house.

None spoke, for the words did not exist to describe the emotions they felt. Hatred, rage, fear, guilt. All at once all of these, and yet more. What monstrosity had done this? Was it still here, hiding in the dark somewhere, waiting for them? Would steel do any good against their foe? How many more were there like Elke?

Finally red-bearded Hawksfell threw off the weight of those plaguing questions and impotent emotions, and said, "We need to see if there are any survivors."

Without speaking the other two agreed, and they began the search. All through the village the Vatkyans searched, each house containing another example of gruesome death, each desiccated body once a friend or neighbor. Finally they came to the jarl's skalli where they found one who still clung to life.

She was Anna Gretasdaughter. Iona's sister.

The young girl was stretched out on the floor, her blood spilling in a black puddle before her. When Iona saw that Anna still lived, she rushed to her side, and grabbed the young girl up in her arms. "Anna, dear Anna, by Valla's wounds, what happened here?"

Anna, though she still drew breaths, was not long for this world. She tried several times to speak, but she choked on her own blood. Finally, she gasped out, "F-from the north, they came .... evil .... not human .... we tried ... tried to fight them .... oh, I'm so sorry ...."

And then she was dead.

Iona held her, rocking gently, her tears falling without heed. Blood stained her clothes, the blood of her sister, but Iona didn't notice, and wouldn't have cared if she had. As the warmth of Anna's body fled, Iona felt the warmth of her own soul turn cold. The people of Mjhöln had all died in pain, but it was nothing compared to the pain that gnaws at her chest, tearing her heart. Soon the silent tears gave way to a keen, the warrior's lament. Her throat grew ragged with the keen, her soul weak with pain, yet still she continued. The Vatkyans knew better than to interfere, for the sheen of the berserk's madness crept up behind the blue-grey of her eyes, a sheen that could almost be seen to glow in the darkness.

For an unknown length of time she sat there, wrapped in an invisible cloak of agony. Then her keen ended and with a gentleness that belied her warrior's nature, Iona put the body down.

She stood, turned, and faced her companions. Men who had faced the bloodthirsty Kurgan horsemen in battle without flinching turned away, a cold chill tracing their spine at what they saw within her eyes.

"They will be avenged." She said, though never had her voice sounded so.

"Such pain. Such beautiful madness. Do you remember what happened next, how you gave yourself over completely to the darkness of your soul, how you became blinded by rage?"

Iona was no longer in the lands of the Vatkyan North, but in formless A'lakoult once more, did not respond.

She knew all too well what she had become in the succeeding months, how she had given up life for death and vengeance. Never could she forget what she had become. Never would she allow herself to become like that again.

"Do you think so?" The Devourer of Souls inquired, reading her thoughts. "This is not the only darkness in your heart, nor your only shame, is it, dear warrior?"

The scene before her eyes changed again, and even before the dirty street of Guilded Pleasures, just off the docks of Panjia, had fully formed about her, a painful, familiar emptiness returned to her heart.

"No," she whispered, and then she was no longer in A'lakoult, no longer in charge of her body, but an unwilling captive made to relive her past.

* * *

The salt tang of the sea was something she could still taste in the air, even though she had called Panjia her home for these past three months. Staggering along the slippery cobbles, she cursed the stink and the sea because they reminded her too much of a different ocean and another place that she'd called home so long ago.

Iona killed the bottle of watered down wine and tossed it against the wall of her apartment, smiling at the crash and broken glass that resulted. A large, grey scavenger bird was startled by the sound and screamed defiantly, but refused to give up its hard-won prize of discarded rubbage.

"Ah, bugger you," she called after the thing, pulling open the apartment's broken door. It slammed shut after her and Iona swaggered down the hall, breaking into a raucous chorus from "the Parting Cup" as she stomped up the flight of stairs, caring little for the sleep of her neighbors.

The room that she shared with her lover was situated at the end of a long, dark hallway. Iona searched through the pockets of her breeches for the key until she tried the door and found that Rheanna had left it unlocked.

Fumbling around in the darkness, she finally found the lamp and tinder box. Lighting it against the night, Iona set the lamp on the back counter before dropping down on the edge of their bed. The noise she made as she wrestled off her knee-length boot and tossed it across the room when done roused her love.

Propping her head on her elbow, Rheanne smiled tiredly and said, "Ah, good, you've returned."

Iona merely grunted in response and pulled off the other boot, The long-boot joined its brother and Iona shucked her bloody tunic. In the shadows Rheanne saw the dark stain and sat up quickly.

"Oh, Nony, what've you done this time?"

Likely not all of the blood on the tunic belonged to the warrior, but she could see that some of it most definitely did. Iona's left eye was swollen, and it looked like her nose might have been broken too.

Rheanne reached forward to offer comfort, but Iona just pushed aside the hand, saying, "'Tis nothin,"

"Goddess help me, you come staggering in here drunk off your arse in the middle of the night, covered in blood and looking like you took on the whole of the Finnian Guard, and lost, and you tell me 'tis nothin'?"

"You should see them." Iona smiled, then winced as it parted her split lip.

"I have been worried sick about you. For all I knew you could have been dead somewhere in a ditch."

"I wasn't, all right?"

"That's not the point."

"Look, why don't you just back off. I need to get some sleep."

"What you need to do is talk to me. You're killing yourself with all this reckless drinking and brawling."

"Leave me alone." Iona growled again, pushing Rheanne back.

"I'll do no such thing. I love you. I don't want you to end up dead, Nony, choking on your own vomit in some dirty back-alley, or knifed in the back over some stupid argument. Keep going on like this and that's where you'll end up; a washed up, broken sword, useless and - "

Iona slapped her then. Not with her full force, for at the last moment she managed to pull all of the lethal fury from the blow, but it was hard enough to knock Rheanne backwards and off the bed nonetheless.

Iona leapt forward, trying to catch Rheanne, but grasping only air. as the busker hit the ground she cried out and that sound was the worst thing Iona ever heard for all the rest of her days.

Rheanne leapt to her feet and a dangerous fury glowed in her jade green eyes. Feebly the warrior reached out to comfort, but Rheanne slapped aside the hand, touching her reddening cheek with the other.

"Oh Rain, please forgi-"

"Get out, damn you."

"I-I didn't mean ...."

"Get out of here. Now." She didn't scream the words at her, but Iona would have preferred that to the dangerously emotionless shell that the singer's voice had become. "For three years I lived with a husband who beat me, Iona. When I finally left him I vowed I'd never be treated that way again. Even though you drank like he did, and brawled like he did, I thought you were different. I thought ... if you won't leave, I will. Don't try to stop me ... I don't want to forget why I loved you."

Rheanne grabbed a few things - some clothes, a pair of boots, some coin and her guitar - and threw the things that would fit in one of Iona's old travel sacks.

Iona didn't try to stop her. She watched as the busker gathered her things, and watched as the busker left, gently closing the door behind her.

For ten thousand years Iona stood watching the door, her hand tingling from her terrible act of violence, her eyes burning from the look of fear and betrayal in Rheanne's eyes, and a hurt that went much deeper than the physical. After ten thousand years she knew that gentle, loving Rheanne was not coming back, that she had lost her for good. This realization brought tears that would not go away, and with the tears came an aching emptiness where her heart had once been.

"All that had been good, all that had been light in you, died with Anna. For years you wandered, cold and empty, a merciless killing beast who cared for nothing and hated the world and all those whom you encountered. But then you met Rheanne, didn't you? She rekindled the light of your soul, brought love and life back into your existence, as well as happiness and peace. But you drove her away, didn't you? Allowed yourself to fall back into the darkness."

"No." Iona said, turning to face the shadow. About them the tiny apartment near the docks of Panjia began to dissolve, replaced by the formless void of A'lakoult. "Never again was I like I was after Anna's death. I never forgot Rain's influence."

"A candle in the dark, and you call it a sun!"

Iona didn't respond. Instead she tried to forget the pain of the past, tried to ignore the emptiness of her heart, newly roused by the Devourer of Souls.

"If you knew life so well, then why do you fear it? Why do you crave death so?"

"What you speak is lies."

"Is it? I speak only what I see dwells in your soul. Shall I show you?"

Before Iona could respond, the blackness of A'lakoult melted away to be replaced by a thousand mirrors, each of a different shape and size, each reflecting back to her the Devourer of Souls' perception of her.

Her naked form was lithe, but athletic, hardened by a lifetime of battle. Her ice-blonde hair fell across her shoulders in a smooth spill, accentuating the cool pallor of her flesh. Dark, blue-grey eyes burned fiercely in the highboned beauty of her face, they eyes of a killer: remorseless, untamed, the eyes of a Vatkyan, a wolf of the North.

She was not unfamiliar with her reflection, but there was a difference in how she had seem herself before and how the Devourer of Souls saw her now. There was a sharpness, even a starkness about her features that had never been there before. She didn't look entirely human. She looked more than human. A cold, icy valkyrie, inhumanly beautiful, unimaginably lethal.

The reflection that faced her was who she was, but it also wasn't. The reflection was of someone who had never found the simple comforts of a father's lap; had never gotten drunk round a camp fire listening to exaggerated tales of glory while consuming large amounts of mead; had never felt the gentle warmth of an Eirish busker - the warmth of a woman who had never had to kill, who had been born only of peace and creativity. This reflection had never felt the warmth of the sun beating down on her, the salt spray of the ocean and the wind dancing through her hair. These and countless other meaningless sensations, experiences, hopes, habits, and dreams were what made Iona who and what she was. Aye, she was a killer, but she was also a lover, a friend, someone's daughter, a human being with all that that implied - its strengths, and its weaknesses. Iona rejected the Devourer of Souls' perception of her, and lunged at the mirrors. They shattered before her fury, a thousand becoming ten thousand.

She turned to face the Devourer of Souls, her body bleeding and sore, and the vision that rose up in the mirrors would have made her breath catch - had she been breathing.

The mirrors did not show her as she was, or even as the Devourer of Souls saw her, but as she would inevitably become. Her supple form was bent and twisted with age. Her ivory flesh scored by a lifetime of wrinkles, blotched with age spots and bruises. Her firm breasts were firm no longer, but hung sagging over her distended belly. The calluses were gone from her hands, which were soft and weak and contorted in the grips of arthritis.

"No!" She screamed and the scream was echoed back by a thousand aged crones, a thousand toothless mouths misshapen in the effort to scream. Iron-willed Iona reeled at the sight.

To live like that was no life. A crone could not lift a sword, could not man the oars of a dragonship. Even the farming and domestic work of those who remained behind when the men and women of a village went a viking was denied to such people. Helpless, impotent, enfeebled - never!

Iona was a wolf of the North and would sooner fall upon her sword than live as such a worthless creature. Making fists of her bloodied hands, Iona focused all of her rage, all of the Beast that lived within, and threw it at the mirrors and the hideous truth that they held, but to no avail. She ran forward and slammed against their shining surfaces, and still nothing happened. The Devourer came up behind her and said, "Do you see now? You claim to love life, yet it is an illusion that you love. Youth is a dream, fleeting and insubstantial. It passes away quickly: no one can hold onto it. Life goes through many forms: the babe, the youth, the adult, the old crone. Yet you reject this truth and hold to death, because life is indeed weak."

Before her eyes the thousand and more mirrors, each reflecting the twisted form that she was destined to bear, coalesced into a single, massive mirror, which glared at her and showed her weakness and failure. Now matter how great a warrior she was, this was her ultimate end.

"What I offer you is an escape from your fears, an escape from your fate. You will never have to worry about growing old, never have to ..."

Iona spun around then, her arm a blinding sword of flame. It stabbed into the Devourer and the creature screamed in agony. Its scream, where all of Iona's fury had failed, shattered the great mirror, and echoed into the eternity of A'lakoult which rose up to replace it. Iona who, remembering its words - "In A'lakoult nothing existed, and everything was permitted" - had willed her arm to become a weapon, rammed it in further, and the shadow's blood-red eyes shot wide in terrible agony.

"I may well be married to death, but that doesn't mean that I am willing to give up my life so easily. Begone, Devourer of Souls, and return me to my body!" With her last word the flaming sword burst outward, shattering the terrible black form into countless pieces.

A'lakoult vanished.

* * *

"I think she's dead," replied Ali, the merchant's eunuch companion.

"Get out of here, you half-man." Growled Maliq, who had taken over the caravan's defense after Kalim's fall. "Can you not see that her chest still rises and falls with the breath of life?"

Ali got up and walked away without offering response.

Maliq watched him go and then turned back to the pale Northerner, whose eyes fluttered as if agitated butterflies hid beneath her lids.

A moment later her eyes shot open and her body tensed.

Then she relaxed and dazedly stared at the handsome Bedun who knelt over her. After several long moments had passed, she managed to asked, "Where am I?"

Maliq looked at her oddly and wondered silently if she had hit her head in the fall, addling her brains. "You are here. In the desert. Are you ... are you all right ...?"

"I am alive." The Northerner said, sitting. The way she spoke the words made them sound like a question, so Maliq gently gave her answer.

"You are."

"I ... I .... how fared we in the battle? We won, I assume, since you're kneeling over me like this, but ...."

Maliq adjusted his position and Iona got to her feet before he answered her unspoken question.

"We did not manage to stop the desert rats from reaching the merchant's wagon, but, with their leader slain and most of their number decimated, we were able to drive them off before they had done too much damage. Unfortunately many good men went to join El this day."

Maliq performed a quick gesture of benediction for the dead, and Iona glanced about the carnage. She spotted Kalim, who was no longer poking through a mass of white-clad bodies as he had been when last she'd seen him. Damn, she swore, truly he had been a good warrior.

Just then a scream tore through the desert quiet.

Ali was crouched over the pile of dead bodies that had been the desert rats not more than an hour before. In fear, the tiny man backed away, staring intently at a single body. A chill of dread fear went through her as Iona realized that the body belonged to Haidar, who had been the Devourer of Souls, the bringer of shadows.

"What's this about?" Demanded Maliq, coming upon them.

The eunuch turned and stared at the Bedun for a moment before answering.

"His head ...." he replied slowly, as if unaccustomed to speech. "It ..... it fell off." True enough, the grisly faced stared unseeing into the heavens, its beard coated in thick black blood and sand.

"Curse of El, what squeamishness!" Maliq grunted, turning away in disgust.

Iona turned and started to follow the Bedun when she was bolted in place by a feeling of disquiet.

Ali had never had red eyes before. He was of Bedun stock, and they all had eyes of dark brown or black. Yet, when she had glanced at the man, his eyes had been as red as blood, as red as .... those of the Devourer of Souls.

She turned back and Ali smiled.

It was his smile or eyes that met her.

He laughed.