[Mkguild] FINALLY, the completed (rough) third Yvarra story

[Michael Bard]

I just want to check this for canon validity -- there are spelling/grammar
errors as this is the first draft.

Be warned, it is not a nice story...

Michael Bard

-------------------------

The Cultists Strike Back!

Yvarra had been so relieved to get off the bloody holy mountain and back
into the civilization of Euper.  Had been until, back in /The White Hind/.
She'd bolted the windows, and was fast asleep.  She'd been awoken by a bell
from the /Sword of Songs/, a slipped open window, and the hiss of a dart.
It hadn't hurt much, and whatever guck had been on it had been neutralized
by her Alicorn.  And, the attack had been so swift, that she never saw who
did it, or had a chance to react.  Her thrown dagger just went out the
window into the night, never to be seen again.

And it happened three more times.

She'd switched to a different inn, /The Lame Nobleman/.  They'd only gotten
her twice that night.  Yvarra had slept till past noon as, at least, they
left her alone during daylight.  At least they were given her a good stock
of darts.  Once she cleaned the guck off of them.

She hadn't realized what in the Nine Hells the cultists were trying, until
she'd staggered down to the common room and went through three bowls of the
porridge.  And would have had another but that was it.  She remembered when
she'd killed the first cultist, how drained she'd been.  And how drained she
felt after the darts.  It seemed that the healing took energy, her own
energy.  And, she only had so much.

It had taken her three tries, but, finally, she'd found a vegetarian
concentrated dried ration she could stomach.  Something small, portable, and
easy to keep to hand.

She'd left /The Lame Nobleman/ to find the streets almost empty.  It didn't
take long for her ears to pick up the sounds of a festival, or celebration
of some sort.  It wasn't in Euper, but in the commons outside.  The gates
were open, there were no tolls for once, and--

The /Sword of Songs/ donged a warning just in time for her to feel the dart
thump into her thigh.  She felt the warmth from her forehead as she plucked
the weapon out.  At least she hadn't wasted a throwing knife.

So much for resting in daylight.

She needed a plan, and she needed it /yesterday/.  The cultists were
winning, and she had no idea how to find them, or how to fight them.  She
needed time to /think/.  Maybe in a crowd--

Not running, but walking briskly, she hurried through the gates and off
towards the crowded commons.  She could mingle, have some piece, and figure
out what in Eli's name she could do!

Usually she liked festivals.  Perfect grounds for some simple wealth
acquisition.  But now, /now/ she was afraid to touch anything because she
had no clue who was a damn cultist!  Snorting she adjusted her fedora.  And
she still needed to get a proper scabbard for the damn sword.  Hopefully
here...

The sword donged a warning.

Great, just great.  At least this time there was no immediate dart.  She
looked around, getting a bit frantic, and then saw where the booths were.
She pushed her way through, blessing her height.  Stopping, she stared.  It
was!  It /was/ that damn monster tiger.  From the keep.  The lack of attacks
she'd suffer on the mountain suggested that the cult wasn't there, and that
suggested he was safe.  And, Kelpnos thank, he looked to be selling weapons.
She pushed her way towards him.

It wasn't far, and she watched him watching her from the counter he was
behind.  What was it with Metamorans and counters?  What happened to the
good old wagon and tent?  Anyway, either he was a very poor merchant, or
he'd been quite successful so far.  Hopefully the later.  Still, if he'd
been in the keep, he likely wasn't a cultist.

She relaxed a bit, though she could feel her ears still flicking and she
kept sniffing at the air.  They were here.  And they knew that she knew.
And she knew that they knew that she knew.  And--  She shook her head to
clear it.  If they got to her this easily, she was just dead.

Why was she here again?  Oh right, the scabbard.

The sword plucked a note of agreement.

She stopped in front of his-- stall?  Counter?  "Hello, sorry, busy.  I need
a scabbard for this.  There was an accident--"  She unbuckled the strap from
over her shoulder and pulled the heavy thing off.  "You got anything that'll
do?"

He stared at her with a neutral position.  But then, did cats ever have
anything else?  At least his tail bent, unlike that bloody Brennar.  The
tiger's voice was deep and measured, full of barely restrained strength, and
threat.  "I might have something that would fit that weapon, but that would
mean pulling apart an existing set of weapons in order to furnish you with
the needed item."

She rolled her eyes.  Damn smiths, always trying to raise the price.  At
least she only had to keep turning her head a little to see what was going
on around her.  "You have anything with throwing knives?  I've been going
through quite a lot recently--"  If only he knew.

She watched him frown.  Of course, she could hear him thinking, /warriors/
/never/ used throwing knives!  Well, she hadn’t cared what others thought of
her for a long time, and she didn't care now.

Still, he said nothing.  Instead he asked, "Why are you carrying that large
sword ma'am? Even I can see that you don't really know how to use it, and I
have seen a lot in my life."

Stupid!  Stupid stupid /stupid/!  Of course warrior would notice that kind
of thing, just like she'd notice the same with knives or a sling.  For a
second she through of playing the arrogant noble given a toy, but the /Sword
of Songs/ was just too distinctive.  When in doubt, mix the truth with the
lie.  "It's kind of an heirloom.  It," the sword played the sound of a
discordant cymbal, "-- she and I are still working things out.  Learning to
use it is on my list when I have the time."  If I survive till the new year.

She watched him cock his head and wiggle an ear as the /Sword of Songs/
commented.  "I see," he said.  He placed on the hilt of one of his swords.

Great.  Damn finicky warriors.  What had she done wrong /this/ time?

Thank Eli he just continued.  "Can I please take a closer look at your
weapon so that I can get a good idea of what would fit it?"

Closer look?  She clenched the hilt tightly.  But then, what harm was he
going to do?  Especially here.  She just prayed the cultists kept their
distance.  She could feel power here through her alicorn, hopefully the
thing wasn't glowing.  She needed more /time/!  With an act of will she
loosened her grip.  "Sure.  I do apologize for the scabbard -- it was what I
had or nothing."

"It's a hack job if I ever saw one."

She snorted.  If only he knew.

"You must've been in a hurry when you did it."  He pulled the sword from the
cut off scabbard and examined it.  It made a low tone, like the long draw of
a bow on a string.

She watched him, heart pumping, as he examined it.  Her ears were flicking
all over the place, and she began feeling a bit light headed she was sucking
air into her nostrils so fast.  Clenching her fists, she forced herself to
calm a little.

The hilt had an elegant downward pointed cross-tree on it and there were
subtle engravings on both the cross-tree, the pommel, and the first two
inches of the blade.  Yvarra had never really taken the time to look at it.
Swords were just tools.  But this--  When she stole stuff she looked for the
ornate, the fancy, this--  No runes, no heavy detail, no sculpting, no gems.
Just clean smooth lines.  In its own way, it was more beautiful than the
gold and gem covered monstrosities she'd seen so many times.

He stepped back, and she stepped forward.  Then he pulled on hiw own swords
from its scabbard and slid the /Sword of Songs/ into it.  It fit perfectly,
and the two side thongs slipped over the cross-trees to reach their studs
without a problem.

"How does this look?" he asked.

"It looks fine.  Appearance isn't that big a thing compared to
functionality.  May I?"  She reached to take it back--

"Wait a second miss!  You are forgetting something. This costs money, and
you did mention that you wanted throwing knives."  He pulled down a baldric
that contained four sheathes with throwing knives contained therein. "If you
want both that will cost fifty suns."

"No I hadn't forgotten!  Though I trust you, if I need this thing and my
life is at stake, I have to know /now/ how easily it draws.  If you want,
hold the scabbard whilst I draw my sword.  Then we can talk."

He reversed the scabbard and undid the two peace thongs before pointing the
hilt of her weapon towards her.  He obviously had no intention of letting go
of this scabbard until it was properly paid for.  Merchant or warrior, she
couldn't tell anymore.  Not that it really mattered.

"Sorry -- I've just learned the bitter hard way that looks don't mean shit
when somebody's trying to run you through."  She reached up, such an
experience -- she hadn't had to do /that/ in a while -- and the /Sword of
Songs/ easily slid out and into her grip.  She slid it back in, and out and
in.  "Good."  She nodded in satisfaction.

"Well now do want the scabbard and these four knives?" he asked her, as he
did, he flipped his cloak open a little to reveal the hilt of a monstrous
sword and the heart shaped ruby set into its pommel.

She looked at the knives--  looked like good craftsman ship but no way to
tell.  And he was touchy.  Better safe than sorry.  "May I handle one, and
do you have a target?"

He pointed to a post that he'd dug in for that very purpose two days before.
"You can throw it at that post there.  I personally guarantee that they will
never fail you in combat."

As if /he/ knew!  With all the gods that seemed to be crowding into her life
recently, she didn't trust anything to perform as advertised anymore.  She
drew one of the daggers and held it by the hilt.  Good grip.  She balanced
it vertically on her palm -- easy.  Good balance.

"Looks like you know your way around a throwing knife Ma'am."

  Grasping it by the handle, letting the leather warm to her touch, she
squinted, cocked her head, and found a knothole in the post.  That'll do for
a start--  A swift straight movement back, snap forward, and the dagger was
wobbling by its blade, centred in the knothole.  "Good balance.  You need a
smaller target," she continued dryly.

Chuckling, he reached behind his back and whipped out another knife at the
target. It stuck into the wood right beside her own weapon quivering
slightly.  "That's always what I tell the guys at the Deaf Mule."

"May I try a second one?"  Without waiting for an answer she threw it and it
thunked between the two existing daggers, quivering not at all.

"At least you have some skill with knives ma'am. That makes up for your lack
of skill with that sword.  Why do you carry it anyway if you can't even use
it properly?"

"Like I said, she's kind of an heirloom."  She looked around nervously,
licked her nose, and sniffed the air.  Too damn many food odours.  Some
grain mush shoved its way up and she hurriedly chewed before swallowing
again.  "Fifty suns is enough to beggar my sick grandmother, make my poor
lonely grandfather turn in his grave, and my eighteen children to die of
starvation.  Thirty."

"Ma'am unless you are not aware I make the highest quality weapons this side
of the Western Sea. If you want my stuff you will have to be willing to pay
my prices. But right now I can tell you that you will find no better
hardware in all of the Midlands. My price stays unless you can make me a
better offer."

Somebody was sure full of themselves, and no sense of humour.  She'd been
hoping to kill a few minutes.  Crap.  She had it in gold, barely, but she'd
have next to no coin left.  "Fine.  Rules are yours.  I'd offer a knife game
with winner gets their way, but that's liable to take us all day.  How about
an equivalent gem in trade?"

She hadn't wanted to dig into this so soon, but things rarely went as
planned.  She reached into the pouch and felt around -- she'd have been
happier if they hadn't been cut, or she'd had been able to find somebody she
trusted to recut them.  She had no need to go to the keep again, and
anything that kept the /Sword of Songs/ happy, and thus kept her alive, was
good in her book.  She felt a smaller one, felt the facets-- should be.
Pulling it out she saw it was a brilliant star sapphire cut in twelve edges.
Looked like it'd been pried out of a setting-- what to say--?  Heirloom?
Bad family times?  No sense showing the rest of the wealth she'd taken from
the cultists.

She put it on the counter.  "Here.  Should more than cover it, and your
transaction fee to sell it.  Old family setting, ring was fake -- no clue
how that trick happened."

He picked up the gem and scratched at it with one of his claws before he
held it up to his eye.  "This is a very nice stone ma'am, but it will more
than pay for what you are purchasing.  Then again I do have to sell it."

"It's got bad memories.  Ten gold from your end to cover the difference?"

He nodded slowly looking at the way she moved and her posture, her scent.
Why did she always have to get the careful ones?  For a long moment he just
watched her, and then he pulled out five gold and dropped them on the
counter.  "Something isn't right about this, I can smell it. So I'm only
going to give you half of what you want for it."

Damn!  This was going to come back and bite her, she knew it.  Be non
chalant--  Where was some cud when she could use the distraction?  "It's not
worth the memories.  Five is fine."

He shook his head at the lady and frowned. "Now you had best be on your way
ma'am before you attract too much attention.  I've been around long enough
to know that something isn't quite right here."

If only he knew.  She could scent his suspicion.  She had a choice, either
stay and try and reduce it, but that didn’t' seem likely, or get the hell
out.  Of course, if the cultists did try for her here, he'd have far greater
things to worry about than a bit of lost money.  Of course, they'd strike by
a poison dart in the eye, or a toxined sharpened coin slid against your
palm.  She didn't even want to think of how many times her alicorn had saved
her so far.

She felt something nick her leg and felt a wash of heat pour down from her
forehead.

And again.

"I'd better be going.  You're going to think the wrong thing when I say
this, but just forget I was ever here.  Sword, scabbard and daggers please?"
She slipped the dart out, wiped the poison off on her pocket, and let it
slip to the ground.

Taking her purchases, she pushed her way out into the crowd, chewing on the
cud that finally chose to come up.

***

For whatever reason, it took a good chunk of the afternoon for the cultists
to find her.  Yvarra had almost relaxed, especially after getting both her
stomachs full of delicious apples.  How could a food taste /so/ good?  The
only thing that was able to distract her from the wondrous taste was what
appeared to be a /muffin/ tossing game of some sort.

She just shook her head.  Yvarra would never understand this place--

Just as she was turning away, the /Sword of Songs/ gonged a warning.
Without thought she dove for the ground, managing to keep her muzzle up this
time to keep her Alicorn from getting stuck, in the grassy dirt.  Something
hissed just overtop of her and /thunked/ into--

Klepnos!  Not her, /somebody else/!

She'd started to turn her head when there was a scream, and she watched what
appeared to be a child collapsing.

She blinked.

She couldn't go on like this.  Sure, she enjoyed challenges, enjoyed winning
her victories, enjoyed tweaking the rich and the slow.  But nothing she'd
/ever/ done had hurt an innocent.  /Nothing/!  And now, now the Eli damned
cult--

The boy vanished behind a crowd as she forced herself to her hoof and began
to slink away.  She shouldn't be here, she couldn’t be here any longer.
And, as to the cult, well, fine!

If they wanted to play the game, /that/ way, she'd play it /that/ way.
They'd taught her to kill.  And, now, for the first time in her life, she
/wanted/ to kill.

Her ears flicked as the /Sword of Songs/ played a mournful oboe note--

"He's alive!"

/What/?  Yvarra spun around, trying to see past the crowd.

"She's just sleeping."  "Stupid pranksters, playing with sleeping drugs."

Yvarra stopped, blinking.

/Sleeping/ drugs?

How'd they know?  Did it really matter?  Assume that statement was true.
There were people who could know.  Find the dart, carefully taste what was
on its tip.

But, if it was a sleeping poison, then /why/?

Either they had /known/ that dart would hit an innocent.  Or--

Or, they wanted her alive.

She shuddered.

Yvarra stood up straighter.

In the scheme of things, it didn't matter.  The child was alive, or the
adult, or whatever, and that was what counted.  And yet, and yet it proved
that the cult had crossed the line, and was willing to cross the line.

She wouldn't be safe in crowds.  She'd never be.

Her heart steeled itself with a new resolve.

They wanted death, she would /give/ them death.

And there was one place she could start.  The /only/ place she could start.

The bathhouse.  There had been an entrance to the catacombs there.  And,
once she got there, got to where she knew how to move in silence, then she
would make them /pay/.

But, first she had to prepare.  A quick preparation.  She couldn't go as she
was now.  She couldn't go until tonight.

She pushed her way through the crowd that was starting to disperse.  There
was a tanners district, by the river.  It was impossible to miss -- 
especially with her newly enhanced nostrils.  She'd pick a building at
random, pay to be dyed black.  Buy some clothes to wrap around her hooves
for silence.

And then, tonight, /tonight/ she'd go back to the bathhouse.

Nodding to herself, she made her way off the commons.

***

The dye was cold, and dark.  But then it was black.  Or it had better be.
Yvarra kept a small stream of bubbles gurgling from her nostrils.  The
longer she crouched there, the darker the colouration.  She hadn't told the
dyer, but she was holding a knife, letting it move from hand to hand, though
she had told her to leave her in her privacy.  She didn't know the dyer,
didn't trust him.  Eli, she didn't trust /anybody/ anymore.  She'd picked
this dyer at random, literally by flipping a coin.  Hopefully he'd be safe,
and she'd be safe.

But she wasn't taking chances anymore.

She couldn't afford to.  The white /had/ to go.  Absolutely.  Before she'd
just worn dark clothes, blackened wax on her face and hands.  Now--  Now
she'd do whatever she had too.

Yvarra'd known that most of her alicorn would be above the surface, but she
planned to dip it later.

It was odd.  She'd have sworn, hell she'd have put good coin down, that she
could feel air movment along it.  In fact-- was that the door she heard
opening?  The /dyer/?  She could see-- dagger--  /Nine fucking hells/!

Acting more on instinct than reason, she burst out of the barrel of dye and
whipped the knife from between two fingers.  Even as she blinked, even as
the black oily dye dripped from her hears, she heard the gurgling and
whimpering of pain.  In the few moments it took her to clear her burning
eyes, the room fell silent.  The dyer was lying there in a pool of blood, a
knife stuck I his throat.  Or, the dyer who was male now and--  Argh!  She
hated the damn curse!

Climbing the rest of the way out, she let the thick liquid roll off her
naked body to pool beneath her hooves, mixing with the dyer's blood.  It was
cold, cold as ice.  Cold as her blood felt now that she felt no remorse at
the death.  Stepping carefully from the liquid, carefully across the body,
she pushed the door he'd open the rest of the way.  It didn't matter that
she was leaving a trail of black, she needed to know /now/.

It didn't take her long to explore the small place, sniff around the stored
skins to be tanned and dyed, to find -- nothing.  Some coins, some fruits
that must have been just bought that she wolfed down.  But-- nothing!  No
sign of him being a cultist, no secret passage, no entrance to the
catacombs--

She hadn't expected the rest, but where was the robe?  If the cultists
stopped kindly identifying themselves, then how would she /know/?

A cold chill swept through her soul.  Was she going to be reduced to killing
innocents now?  But then, he /had/ come after her with a knife.  Even if
what she'd seen, or thought she'd seen, was a trap, he had /still/ been
holding the damn knife!  And, why else would he have disturbed her?

It made no sense!  It made-- unless-- something she'd heard-- something when
she'd been on the holy mountain-- what was it--?  She scratched the base of
her alicorn as she chewed on the last of the melon.  That mouse-- she
couldn't remember the name-- he'd said something about her alicorn being
valuable, especially in Euper.

Could that be all it was?

This was great, /just great/!  Not only did she have the Klepnos-damned cult
after her, she /also/ had random fortune hunters out to kill her for /her/
alicorn!  Well-- they wouldn't have it!  She'd survived in the streets,
survived adulthood and city guard and assaults and imprisonment.

She /would/ survive this!

Spinning on a black hoof, she clicked her way back to the dye.  Holding the
sides of the barrel, she held her alicorn down and under.  It was odd-- she
could feel the coldness of the dye.  It felt-- it felt /wrong/, repulsive.
Still, it had to be done.

Standing up, she pulled her alicorn out of the black liquid.

Her alicorn that was white.  Glimmering, shining white.  She could see the
last of the dye flowing off it like oil from water and pooling in a cold
darkness in the fur of her muzzle.

Nine hells!

Fine!

Looking around, ignoring the cold, dead body, she saw a dirty cloth and
stalked over and started wrapping it around her--

It felt /wrong/!  A burning itching filled her, pouring down her alicorn.
It grew and grew, becoming unbearable as she ripped the cloth off and threw
it away.  The silver-white horn glimmered between her eyes and a feeling of
comfort and relief filled her.

Hmph!  So much for /that/!  She'd learned long ago /not/ to try and changes
things she had no control over.

The sun had set by now, she unswallowed and chewed some cud as she grabbed
the cloth, and found a few more in another room.  There were some things she
could do something about, and high on that list was the sound her hooves
would make on the wooden floor of the bathhouse.

Then she left the small shop in the blackness of the narrow streets of
Euper.  Her alicorn glowed gently, enough so that she could see where she
was going when the towering buildings closing in the narrow muddy streets
let in a few driblets of the shining moon far overhead.

The door hung open behind her.

***

Euper was quiet.  In the distance she could hear the crackle and /boom/ of
fireworks as they exploded above the commons.  The soft rustle of the river,
the honking of a few geese, a flag flapping in the wind.  In the distance, a
voice called out, it's meaning unintelligible.  There was just enough
moonlight to see by, and when there wasn't, the soft warm glow of her
alicorn sufficed.

The cold mood oozed between her hooflobes.  She really should have kept the
boots on, but she didn't know how much time she'd have when she got to the
bathhouse.  It was likely abandoned, but she didn't have any ideas.  All she
could do was stay quiet, take a look and improvise.

A lot of her life seemed to be like that these days.

She ducked into an ally as a squad of the town watch squelched by.  She
could hear them grumbling at not being able to go to the festival.  Yvarra
hoped the cultists were there.  /All/ the cultists.  Then she'd have some
peace and quiet for her investigations.

/And if you find the passage still there, what then?/

She had some provisions, her pack, her weapons, and her skill.  It was a
start.  /What else am I supposed to do?/

Only silence echoed through her brain.

They passed, and she resumed her walk.

***

She ducked into an ally a short distance away from the bathhouse.  Spitting
on her hands, she eyed the worn brick wall, and swiftly climbed up it.  Far
easier than that wall in the keep.  Damn that keep!  /Damn it to the Nine
Hells/!  She was /never/ going anywhere near the place again.

No time to think about it.

The roof was worn wooden tiles.  She stayed at the peak, not so much for
silence, but to ensure her weight was on a support beam.  Keeping her
balance was easy, and her hooves stretched and gripped the wood with
surprising ease.  Maybe she'd gotten something useful out of the curse after
all.  As she reached the edge, she crouched down, eventually laying on her
chest to look over the edge at the bathhouse.

The bathhouse was a separate building.  That had seemed odd, but maybe it
made it easier to hide tunnels.  And strange sounds.  She lay there and
watched, looking around, hoping that the moonlight washed out her alicorn
from anybody looking up.  Normally she wouldn't have worried -- people
almost never looked up -- but she expected that the cultists were more used
to the idea.

The bathhouse looked abandoned.  The door hung open, still in the windless
night.  Licking her nostrils she sniffed.  Mud.  Fresh wood.  Leather.  Many
animals.  Had the watch investigated already?  Scratching a flicking ear,
she tried to remember is she'd closed the door -- she'd have sworn she'd
closed the door.

The building was two stories, slightly higher than the one she was on now.
There was a window almost opposite where she was, shuttered and closed.  It
wouldn't work though -- no easy way to get to it without making noise.
Unswallowing some cud, she chewed and thought--  The roof sloped downward on
either side.  Leaping would be easy, but she'd slam against the wall making
sure anybody inside would hear.  Leaping onto the roof wouldn't be hard
either, and also noisy.  Maybe--

Cocking her head, she looked at the edge of the roof, the bottom of the
slope.  It /could/ be doable.  She could leap, grab the edge and then swing
into the opening at the side until her momentum stopped.  Then go hand over
hand up the slope to the window, pry it open, and get in that way.  It would
be a bit of a climb, but it had the advantage of a number of abort points -- 
swing to the ground and run, drop from in front of the window to the ground
and roll.

She crawled back from the edge of the roof and sat down, pulling the rags
from her pack and tying them snugly around her hooves.  They were /not/
comfortable.  She stood up, carefully, and still almost slid off as they
gave her almost no traction.  But, balance was one of the things she was
good at, and this body seemed to have a very strong natural sense.

She walked to the edge of the roof, each hoof making a thudshush as they
slipped a bit before the cloth stretched enough to provide a stable grip.
At least they made almost no sound, which was the objective of the exercise.
On her back, the /Sword of Songs/ let out a nearly inaudible flute-like
tweet, a warning, but Yvarra ignored it.  She had no other idea what to do,
and if she could find the thrice cursed entrance, /maybe/ she could go on
the offensive.

Yvarra crouched, gauging distances in the dark night.  Her ears wiggling and
shaping sound to give hints of what she couldn't see.  She stretched her
legs a bit, crouched, stretching and clenching fingers.  Relaxation, that
was the key.  Then, hooves splaying, skittering, the cloth wrapping pinching
painfully against the soft flesh between the cloves, she leapt.  The sound
was loud in her ears, and her heart thumped a bit faster, even though she
knew it was almost silent.  Just as she leapt, a tile jerked loose, skidding
down and down the roof, the /clinkclinkclink/ screaming in her ears.
Stretching out her arms, she grabbed the edge of the roof, long thin fingers
clenching tight as her weight swung around.  Her fingers slid, but hell as
her ears focused on the /splut/ of the tile into the mud deep below.

Then she swung, each swing less than the one before, hanging in the
darkness, listening, hearing only the normal sounds.  An owl hooted.
Somebody called out the hour away on the walls.

Then she stopped.

Fingers straining, she pulled herself higher and higher up the sloped roof,
her breathing easy and steady even as she hung higher and higher above the
alley below.  Then, glinting in the dim moonlight, she saw the window.  Just
a bit higher--  There!  She swung a bit, pulling herself higher, until her
hooves scrabbled against the window sill.

Klepnos but this would have been /so/ much easier without the cloths.  She
almost had it, almost had it-- had it!  Crouching down she balanced on the
ledge, pressing against one side of the shuttered window.  A second to draw
a thin dagger, to work it between the shutters, and pry the other open.  It
resisted, then there was a /pop/ and the catch gave.  The cutter whipped
open but she easily caught it.

Sheathing her dagger she edged along the sill, and then wiggled in through
the window.  Her hooves thudded on the floor, sliding a bit as the cloth
pulled and stretched, and then she was in.

Grabbing the handle, she pulled the shutter thought.  Her head warmed, her
alicorn glowed, and she saw that the catch was unusable -- one end of it was
in the room somewhere.  Pulling out a copper, she opened the shutter a bit,
wedged the copper between the two, and worked the shutter close until it was
wedged tight.

She was in.

The room was old, dusty.  It was just a space in the attic, though finished.
Dust settled from her passage, and furniture and crap was piled haphazardly
around, some covered in cloth and canvas.  There was no door, instead a
trapdoor.  She sniffed, smelled dust, dirt-- something rotting overwhelming
almost everything else.  And-- and--  Licking her nostrils she inhaled,
but--

The /Sword of Songs/ gave a faint tone, a rising shrill just loud enough for
her ears to hear.  But, she heard nothing, saw nothing.  Smelled--

Moving slowly, she walked step by step over top the trapdoor.  Her entire
body quivered with tension.  Something--

The /Sword of Songs/ made the sound of clanging bells the pierced her ears
and she was halfway around as she saw the trapdoor slam open and black
cloaked figures throwing off tarpaulins, and screaming as they ran towards
her.

/Klepnos/!

The dagger was in the air and the throat of one cultist as her horn burst
into eyesearing brightness that should have hurt her but didn't.  The
attackers staggered, suddenly blinded, and she found she'd drawn the /Sword
of Songs/.  Though she had no skill, it was the act of a butcher, not an
artist, to swing its gleaming length and slam it through the chest of a
woman right in front of her.  Her screaming changed to a gurgle as the sword
got pinned between her ribs.  The light of her alicorn dimmed and the
cultists moved towards the sound.  Daggers hissed around her, one slamming
into her chest.  She ripped it out, threw it at another, and drew two more
and threw them at two others.  Dragging at the sword it yanked out with a
wet sucking sound as the trap door slammed onto the floor raising a cloud of
dust.  She shoved the blade into its sheaf, the sword seeming to guide
itself.  A hooded head poked up and a dagger slammed into her leg.  She
staggered.

This wasn't gong to work.  Oh, she could hold them, but for how long?
Ripping the dagger out and tossing it without aim towards the trapdoor she
ran across the floor; closing her hand into a fist, she punched it against
the one shutter, sending it flying open.  Due to necessity she trusted only
her memory and leapt towards where the other roof should be.  It was!  But,
she was going to be low.  Curling up into a ball, she slammed into the roof,
more tiles sliding and /clinking/ down as she staggered back onto her
hooves, the warmth of her healing flowing through her as she panted for
breath.  She turned her head enough to see a cross bow poking out the window
as a bolt slammed into her back sending stabs of red pain through her.
Somehow choking down a scream, she ran, yanking the bolt out in a spray of
blood and flesh as another hissed by her.

By the Seventh Hell, what did it take to get these bastards to stop?

Voices called behind her, and she felt the roof shudder as a weight landed
on it.  The moon passed out from a faint cloud and shimmered in a sea of
silver across the roofs and the glittering Metamor River in the distance.

Where was the damn watch?

A part of her snorted -- who'd have ever though she'd wonder /that/?

More thuds echoed behind her, and the clatter of booted feet.  There was a
scream, the rattle of tile against tile, and a moment later the thud of a
body in the mud below.  Somebody had lost it.  Damn but she should have
scouted this more!  Reaching the end of the roof she leapt, trusting
something was on the other side, not having time to look, not knowing.  She
fell and fell, her heart pumping out its desperate cry before slamming into
a single story roof.  It cracked under her, and one hoof fell through, the
snap of its bone loud in her ears.  Pain filled her, but she pulled and
wiggled loose as her magic healed the wound, leaving behind blood and fur.

She could feel the fatigue now.  Pulling at her, tugging at her.  Breathing
gasping through her nostrils, into and out from her lungs.  A few drops of
blood still spraying from the bolt.

Why were they trying to kill her now, when they'd tried to drug her before?
It made no sense!

She looked, peered, saw another roof before her, far too high to reach.
Turning to the right, she continued to run, hooves skidding, the cloth
digging into her flesh.  There was a long row know, a series of buildings.
Her breath was hot inside her, her heart struggling against the prison of
her ribs.  She needed time!  There was another gap and she leapt, slamming
onto a roof slightly higher.  Turning her head slightly she saw that four
were running behind her, more leaping to follow.  She needed to hide!  But--

A higher story towered above the roofs and she ran behind it, almost falling
so sharp did she turn.  A moment out of their sight.  And-- and--

And she had no choice.

She ran into the shadows, the tower hiding her form them, and them from her.
Only a single room most likely, as the tower ended at an ally that passed
between two buildings adjoining that with the tower.  Having no choice,
desperate, she grabbed a windowsill of the tower to slow her motion and then
leapt into the darkness of the alley.

Silence but for her breath, her heart. Air whistling past her. Then she
slammed into the wooden side of a building, slivers digging into her flesh
as it tore and scrapped off.  She fell, forcing herself to be silent as her
entire body felt like it /glowed/ with warmth.  Then she slammed into the
ground, her legs snapping, landing on her chest.  The fire inside her
burned, and her heart pumped frantically against what felt like her naked
ribs.  She forced her mind to clearness, feeling around as her alicorn
remained mercifully dark, and the clouds hid the moon so that she was hidden
in shadows.  She felt something, a second something--  /How in Kepnos'
name--/?

There was an old trick she'd been shown.  It had to be prepared, set up.
But, she hadn't thought, hadn't had time.  And--

Holding what felt for all the world like two hollow half coconut shells, she
clapped them together, but not perfectly.  Offset to muffle the sound, but
still loud enough for it to echo across the buildings.  She did her best to
make it sound like the desperate gallop of the hooves of a horse, or, in
this case, the different pattern of the two hooves of a desperate unicorn.
She let the sound grow fainter, and fainter, even as she prayed to Kelpnos
whom she'd never prayed to before.  Or, at least never prayed before in
desperation, in /need/.

Voices whispered above her, too faint to be understood.  She stilled,
unswallowed some cud, chewed with what strength she had left, her ears
swivelling, listening.  Bodies clambered down the walls, splutted into the
mud, and ran into the street as others leapt and ran along the other roof.
Spreading, searching.

Going /away/.

And finally there was silence.

An owl hooted; somebody on one of the walls called out the hour.  And the
clouds whispered away from the moon as it glimmered down into the alley.

Yvarra looked, staring, at the two coconuts in her hand.  Muddy, half
rotted, but there.

How?

Something clacked its beak and she looked up.  Looked up and saw a swallow
perched on the edge of sill.  In the moonlight it looked down at her, and
then leapt into the air and flapped its wings, each beat a snap in the
silence.

And it was gone.

She looked at the coconuts.  Looked at where the bird had gone.

Impossible.  Utterly, completely, impossible.

Dropping the shell halves into the mud she fumbled in her pouch as she
swallowed the cud, chewing the grain frantically.  Her body sucked in the
energy and her heart slowed.

***

Three more calls from the watch as she chewed, slowly rebuilding her
strength.  Only then did she feel safe.  Drawing the /Sword of Songs/ she
looked at it, looked at the silver moonlight glimmering along its length.

"Why?  Why me?"

Nothing.

"You warned me.  You did.  And I, the fool, ignored it.  I should be dead.
Dead, or--"

But, why dead?  They were using sleeping drugs.  Why?  The first cultist,
the one in the bath, had said that /The One must die/!  She /knew/ he had.
But--

Had they been taken off guard?  Had whoever was controlling them changed
their orders?  Why?

Did they /need/ her?  She shuddered.

Pulling out a dry cloth from a pouch, she polished the /Sword of Songs/
wiping the blood off of its gleaming surface.

So many questions.  So few answers.  Nothing made sense!

And-- and now she had no idea what to do.

The sword gave a low tone as she chewed cud.

The sword.  It was the key, it had to be.  It was the damn sword that had
brought her into this.

The sword that could detect the cultists.

Detect--

Closing her eyes she swallowed the cud, feeling the cold evil of /necessity/
curl its hands around her soul.

She couldn't keep fighting like she had been.  She would just lose.  Tonight
had been close.  Far /far/ too close.  She needed a way to get at the cult.
A way they couldn't prepare for.  A way that she would keep her safe, that
would give her time to find a way to get into the catacombs where they
lurked.

And--

And a way to /hurt/ them.  To make them feel the pain she felt from every
one of their blades, their bolts, as the tore into her flesh.

There was a way--

Pushing herself to her hooves, she held the sword in both hands, in front of
her, pointing down so that its blade almost dragged in the mud.

"Find some cultists for me," she whispered.

***

It didn't take long until the sword played a tone she recognized.  It was
quiet, so quiet she could barely hear it.

She was standing in the street beside a small house, more of a hovel really.
Instincts made her walk into the alley beside, into the obscuring darkness.
She'd seen nobody as she'd searched, heard only different sounds.  And now--

The door from the alley was easy to find.  It was easy to pick, to open.
Her hooves were coated in mud, its cold wetness soaked into the cloth
wrapped around them.  Stepping in she moved silently, or as silently as she
could.  There were barely two rooms, a workroom, kitchen that was empty,
filled with refuse, the scent of boiled grain warm in her nostrils.

Her stomachs grumbled but she forced them down.  Not here.  Not now.

There were two doors. The one she'd come through, and one that led into what
was likely to be a second room.  A window looked out onto the street, the
large vertical shutter closed now.  By the warm glow that rose from her
alicorn she saw mended clothes hanging beside it.  At least somebody here
made a living doing simple mending.  Ears wiggling, letting scents ooze
through her nostrils, she made her way across to the door.

It wasn't locked, and she pushed it open a crack as the /Sword of Songs/
hummed inaudibly against her back.  There were four figures there, all
curled up on a pile of straw.  Two children, one human, one a small rodent
of some kind, and two adults.  One a horse, the other some kind of bird.

Hardly daring to breath she made her way across to a chest in front of the
bed.  She could feel the sword against her spine, warning, encouraging.
But, she couldn't trust it, not yet.  Crouching she lifted the chest open.
Just clothes, normal clothes.

Until she fished below and found a cultist's robe.  And another. And a
third.  Two small, child sized, one adult.

Damn you /Klepnos/.

Children.  If they even were children around here.

Damn Metamor.  Damn it all.  Damn the whole Kelpnos-damned place.

In silence she closed the lid and stood up.  It was right that the /Sword of
Songs/ did it, but she wasn't skilled in it.

She sighed.

The /Sword of Songs/ could find the cultists.  She could prove they were
cultists.  And, it seemed there was only one language they understood.

Moving away from the chest holding one of the daggers she'd bought so few
hours before and slit their throats, one, two, three, four.  Parents and
children.

She had a method.  And, eventually, she'd find another way into the
underground.

But such a dirty, disgusting, /necessary/ way to fight back.

But, what else could she do?

Wiping the dagger on the straw, she sheathed it.

A search of the building confirmed there were no hidden entrances, no
passages into hidden basements or secret catacombs.

Creeping back out, she trudged through the mud in the predawn light looking
for an inn in which she could sleep.

END