Dance of the Exalts

Updated July 2018

Courtesan followed the old path, the dead path, the path that called to her, as the whispers in her mind goaded her on. She moved quickly, silently, often no more than a shadow amongst shadows. She avoided threats where she could and destroyed that which would not be avoided. At times she rested peacefully in those places touched by death.

The journey left its mark on her wardrobe, for it was not meant for the travel she underwent. The walker In Darkness had envisioned her more a doll than anything else, needing servants to keep her looking just so. As she leapt high into the canopy of a tree, landing crouched upon a tree branch, she thought she would not mind such a state.

To travel in grand carriages, with servants to take care of the minor details as she focused on death, that would not be such a bad thing. Not at all.

Below her, she looked down on a clearing in the forest. Not a natural one by any means; axes had felled the trees and shovels had removed the stumps. Within a space defined by a simple, wooden palisade were neatly ordered tents around a parade ground in the centre.

No cook fires marred the perfection below, nor were there odious latrines. The dead had no use for such things, and Courtesan knew that the dead were the ones in the camp below.

Already she came upon the lands that the Mask of Winters claimed. That Death Lord was enemy to the one that she served, but the pressing demands of the whispers cared little for such things. Courtesan knew that she should, for she did not think she would receive a welcome in these lands.

But she had no choice.

She descended rapidly, silently, circling the camp. Outside the palisades zombies roamed, mindlessly shuffling about, though Courtesan did not know if they were there as guards of a sort, or if the dead in the camp found the animated corpses foul and disturbing.

They were weak guards, for she easily avoided them.

Only once did she consider readying her bow of soul steel. A group of mounted ghosts rode close by, and she thought she might have been discovered. But they continued, unaware of her presence. There was not a single Abyssal among them, and so they were not a credible threat. They rode fast, a sizeable force of war ghosts, heading to the North.

Towards where were they running off? She was curious, for part of her knew that this was the kind of information that would interest Walker in Darkness. But it was not an overwhelming curiosity, and the whispers demanded her attention be focused elsewhere.

Soon she left the camp behind as she travelled deeper into the Mask of Winter's territory.

Though she would have far preferred to battle on the deck of a ship, Sparrow was quickly picking up the skills a rider needed. She led a charge across the blasted deadlands, behind her were nearly six hundred riders. From the flanks and rear of her unit flew arrows, propelled by re-curve horse bows of horn and resin, the broad-head arrows cutting apart the shambling zombies that covered the battlefield.

From her side, she lifted a horn of ivory and blue jade. She put it to her lips and sounded it, the notes echoing out over the area, travelling far farther than they might from any regular horn. Around her the riders changed their formation, heavily armoured lancers moving up abreast with her, forming a line of destruction.

When that line hit the forces of the Mask of Winters, ghosts mostly, but some mortals, the soldiers of the Death Lord fell, their lines broken. They were crushed beneath hooves, or speared through with lances, or cut down by arrows, or smashed by hammers, and many met their end by Sparrow's sword. Her forces pushed through until Sparrow faced the commander.

She was, Sparrow had been told, a Ghost Blood by the name of Calli Shar.

Sparrow and Calli met with a clash of daiklaives, Red Jade and Soulsteel ringing off each other like the peeling of bells; essence fuelled sparks flying amongst them like a swarm of fireflies.

As they were pressed close to each other by the mass of battle Calli demanded, "Tell me who you are!" There was the power of death behind her words, and a lesser opponent might have been forced to answer, but Sparrow remained silent. Sparrow's horse, a big, mud brown gelding named Brownie – she had not named it – pushed back against the black stallion that Calli rode, and that horse stumbled.

Sparrow moved in time with the motion of her mount and lashed out with a series of blows that came close to unhorsing the ghost blood.
Calli finally managed to stop Sparrow's punishing onslaught, but there was a rent in the soul steel cuirass she wore, and blood flowed from it. "Fine," Calli growled, "your ghost will provide the answers soon enough."

Sparrow reined Brownie back and raised her daiklaive, pointing towards something behind Calli. Calli frowned, confused, perhaps concerned, and then she lifted her sword and used it as a mirror, to look at what came from behind.

At first, she smiled as she saw the forces moving up on her rear lines, but that smile faded as she recognised them for what they were.

"Your reinforcements are not coming," Sparrow said, for psychological warfare was as crucial as the physical.

A horn, twin to the one that Sparrow carried, sounded out from the approaching force, and around her, the Marukan riders redoubled their efforts.

Sparrow laughed as she spurred Brownie forward, the heavy horse crashing into the stallion that Calli rode. Heron, she thought, would have handled this with far more grace, but she was not the rider that Heron was, nor was Brownie the horse Dragon was.

But as both horses went down heavily, the stallion screaming, Sparrow did not care.

She let the force of the impact catapult her from her saddle, and rolled across the ground, coming up on her feet, her boot heels digging into the ground, dirt flying back as she charged back the way she had come.

Calli was trying to free herself from the tangle of tack and the weight of her mount. She was barely able to lift her sword to parry Sparrow's first attack, and even then Sparrow turned her sword to redirect the force of her blow, sending the tip of her blade slicing across Calli's face, cutting her from chin to temple.

Calli screamed in frustration, kicking viciously at her mount, trying to extricate herself.

Then her sword went spinning up into the air and Sparrow's daiklaive came down to rest between her eyes, cutting the skin.
"Surrender," Sparrow said.

"I'm not afraid of death," Calli spit.

Sparrow smiled. "You should be, considering the welcome your failure will likely earn you." She put her foot on the rent in Calli's cuirass and pushed down, causing the ghost blooded woman to grunt in pain. "The ghosts in your armour, how many of them died in failure."

Calli's blanched at that, and the fight seemed to leave her.
Sparrow nodded, smiling. "I thought you'd see it my way."

The rhythm of dripping water and the soft sounds of splashing filled the dark tunnels. The light of a small lantern caught the water ripples, casting the light about in odd ways. Lightning shifted to the side, trying to find higher ground.

Before the coming of the Mask of Winters the tunnels had served as channels to carry away rainwater and other refuse and wash it into the bay. Back then they would have been unwholesome, but since the area had become a shadowland, the tunnels had taken on a much more disturbing aspect. Faint whispers in the air, and occasionally something seen out of the corner of the eye, gone when looked for.

Much more disturbing.

Soaked as she was to the top of her thighs in the stagnant waters of death, thinking about the darkness of those waters, and what might be within them, did not make her feel particularly comfortable.

Clarissa, on the other hand, splashed along, seemingly unconcerned, her attention on the clockwork device she held.

"Are we close?" Lightning asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Louder noises echoed in an odd way that only served to heighten the anxiety that she felt.

"If Ivory's compass can be trusted, we're almost there," Clarissa answered in a whisper. "The ghost of the city," she added. "I had wondered why she needed soul steel."

"She is a useful thing," Lightning said, looking around.

"I've meant to ask, is she yours Daddy?"

"What?" Lightning looked at her and then shook her head. "No, she's not my Solar mate. The Lady knows who gets that job. Hopefully, someone who likes children."

"But does not like them too much," Clarissa said, and added, as she looked back towards the compass, "and is not batshit insane like Rakshi."

Nodding, though Clarissa could not see it, Lightning followed, and considered the question of her Solar Mate. She wondered what sort of person her mate would be. And she wondered why she was suddenly thinking of the woman in frills and lace who had attacked Ivory and Heron in Lookshy.

"We're here," Calli said not long afterwards.

Lightning stopped and looked around, then up. Above them was a patch of shadow, hinting at an open space above them. "I'll go first," Lightning told Clarissa.

"Yes Daddy."

The walls were slick with a strange, slimy black moss, but Lightning went up them easily, fingernails grown to claws found easy purchase. Once she was in the shaft above, the stonework was much cleaner, and her upwards progress was faster than some might run.

Before, when Thorns had lived, the shaft had been a garbage chute for the kitchens. The dead, having little need for food, had likely closed the kitchen and sealed up the chute. Ivory's clockwork map, with its gears of Soulsteel and White Jade, had shown them the layout and hinted at the chute.

Lightning was glad it was there, or the entire trip through the sepulcherian tunnels would have been a waste of time.

At the top of the chute, she felt along the wall, finding the seam of a small panel. She took a deep breath, held it, listened for several seconds, and then, hearing nothing, pressed at the wood, listening to the soft squeak of metal nails coming out of the frame. She worked the panel, mindful of the force she used so as not to crack the wood, until she finally freed it. The care was required for she would try to hide her forced entrance when it came time to leave.

The hatch opened, and she peered out into a dusty, forgotten kitchen. She relaxed slightly, for she had feared the kitchen had been re-purposed to something of value to the dead. She shifted about, carefully, exiting the shaft, being heedful not to disturb the dust too much. She found a stable place and took a coil of rope from the small bag at her side. She sent the cord snaking back down into the shaft, to where Clarrisa waited.

A few seconds later she felt a gentle tug, and she replied with two tugs of her own before bracing herself. The rope creaked, as did the surface that Lightning had set herself against, as Clarissa began to climb.

The other woman came up the rope fast, pulling her body up, hand over hand. She levered herself from the shaft, slipping out, so she and Lightning crouched on the counter, almost nose to nose. They remained like that, listening, waiting. Lightning counted out a hundred heartbeats before she slipped from the counter, placing her feet carefully, observant of the dust. Behind her Clarrisa came, stepping where Lightning had stepped, following closely.

They were silent as ghosts should have been.

It was not the door out to the dining room that they made their way, for it was certain that such a large space had been put to use, but instead the door that led to the old kitchen garden. They found it as they had hoped, abandoned and still surrounded by a high wall.

The once fertile earth was a sickly grey, and all that remained of the vegetables that had once grown there was some desiccated, unhealthy looking plant matter.

Lightning climbed the wall and peered over. Beyond was an alley, a small space between the garden wall and a large storehouse. She signalled Clarissa to follow and then went over the wall.

Clarissa took the lead next, moving up the mouth of the alley, signalling Lightning forward when it was clear. And so they made their way deeper into the compound, hiding from the ghosts and other dead, never leaving cover except when they were certain it was safe. Or as safe as it could be.

A disturbance ahead of them sent both of them slipping into cover; Lightning shifted her form as she went, making herself even more challenging to spot.

Coming around the building, flanked and partially hidden by some armoured war ghosts, was a small woman, one of the diminutive Dajalans. She could not have been more than four feet tall. Dressed in a suit of soul steel plate armour, a strange weapon, that looked like a pair of giant shears, across her back; somehow she had a sense of gravity to her such that it seemed the war ghosts were being pulled along behind her rather than following.

Passing close by Lightning could hear the soft conversation that had only been a murmur before.

"...please Lady Blood, let us loose," one of the ghosts addressed the Dajalan woman.

"I'll cut you loose soon enough," she said, her voice a surprisingly deep rumble, "but only when the Mask of Winters looses my lead."

"But Lady Blood..." one said.

"Enough," she told him. "Your thirst for battle pleases me, but discipline will please..."

And then the words became indistinct as the sound of the voices faded.

When it felt safe, she slid from cover. Clarissa stood close. She looked at Lightning, shook her head, and then looked back the way they had come. There was nothing more for them to find out, at least Clarissa thought as much. Lightning nodded.

They retraced their steps, moving with as much care as before.
Eventually, they were back in the tunnels beneath the city, moving away from the military complex. Lightning stepped up onto a higher bit of ground and asked, "Why do you think there is nothing there?" Her voice was hushed.

"Flowers Soaked in Blood, Lady Blood. She's little better than a rabid dog. If she is in that military complex, then the Mask of Winters has left nothing important there."

Lightning did not bother to ask Clarissa if she was certain of that, she had gotten the feeling that there was nothing significant there herself. "His Citadel then," she said.

"I don't envy you going there, Daddy."

"Shut up." After a moment Lightning asked, "What about this Lady Blood. She's new."

"Yes. Not subtle at all, barely controlled. Vicious. Some people call her Mini Maiden behind her back. They think she is trying to be like the Maiden of the Mirthless Smile."

"Is she?"

"No, maybe yes. I think she was a killer before she came to serve the Mask. One who probably used poison, or arranged accidents."

"An assassin?"

"Maybe. More likely she just enjoyed it if you ask me. I think she wants to look her kills in the eye, get the blood on her. From what I have heard, the messier it is, the better she likes it."

"A Dajalan with a thirst for bloodshed. A disturbing image."

"One I think her master enjoys."

Since the confrontation with her cloak, well, her confronting it and it just lying there, Ivory had been looking for proof that her assumption had been right.

The cloak had not cooperated.

Oh, it was undoubtedly an unusual garment, with its perfect blackness, never fading nor getting dirty, nor snagging even as it dragged along behind her, always comfortable.

Perhaps, she thought, pulling it closer around her as the people and ghosts of Thorns passed her by, apparently not seeing her, it was only that. A garment.

She could picture it in her mind, the demonic tailors, their inhuman hands sewing the cloak, with black needles, and a thread drawn from the very essence of the demon realm. They were singing; in the images her mind conjured up, the demons always seemed to sing. Not that the song the Ivory imagined was a pleasant one.

Clever hands, slowly forming a cloak of darkness, each thread a work or art, a gift to be given to a princess of their realm. A gift she had then passed onto Ivory.

Maybe.

She shifted her position, looking up at the Palace of the Autocrat, the colossal pyramid that dominated the centre of the city. It was busy, this place, and little changed since the fall of the city years before. She watched the people as she stood in the shadow of an outlying building, the place busy, mortals and the dead mixing, something of an uneasy balance reached.

She had come to watch the Palace before, when Lightning and Clarissa thought her safely in the house. Since first seeing it Ivory was certain that what they sought would not be found there, but she had come once again, just to be sure.

Noise nearby made her step back against the wall, deeper into the shadow.

A small group approached, at their head a beautiful man – though not in the feminine way that Heron was beautiful – with blonde hair and pale skin that stood out starkly against his black armour. Around him shuffled zombies, the stink rolling off them making Ivory's stomach roil.

The man and his zombies passed on without noticing her, but a large, black ration landed on the ground close to her, turning its head from side to side, as if it sensed her. It hopped across the pavement stones, moving closer to where she stood.

"Baron," the man called from some way off.

The ration turned, spread its wings and then flew towards the man and landed on his armoured shoulder.

Ivory hugged her cloak tighter to her and decided it was time to return to the safe house.

The halls of the Palace of the Autocrat were rich with the treasure of centuries and the weight of history. There was a permanence to the structure that the dead could appreciate. That was likely why so many of them came, thought Cold Rain. As he marched through the corridors, at the head of his zombies, heels of his soul steel boots heavy on the floors, he was reminded that he found no comfort in the house of a puppet government, that he had no desire to play out the pantomime.

The dead and the living looked askance at him, for the zombies were not appreciated. They might happily see them working down at the docks, slaving away through the city, but most did not want to see them in polite society. Such as it was.

Cold Rain had found he preferred the company of the walking dead.

"Cold Rain, a pleasure to see you again," an ancient ghost lied through a faded smiled.

"Cold Rain, certainly we can expect great things to happen," a mortal desperate for alliances called to him.

"Charming to see you and your companions," the ghost blooded major-domo sniffed derisively.

How Cold Rain hated all of them.

Into the throne room, Cold Rain swept, pushing the doors open and then dropping to his knee. "My Master," he said.

In a room full of scared beings the Mask of Winters was the only one who was not scared; well, he and the mindless zombies who knew no fear. Even Cold Rain was terrified of his master, but he masked it better than others.

Usually.

The Mask of Winters turned his attention on him; showing the side of his mask that was a joyful face. "Cold Rain, stand," he called in a voiced that resounded melodically from within the mask.

Cold Rain did as she was told. "Thank you Master."

"I have something for you," the Mask of Winters said, and then stepped to the side, his cloak dropping. Cold Rain started ever so slightly as he saw the zombie that Mask of Winters had revealed. 'Mother,' he silently mouthed.

The Mask of Winters put a soul steel clad hand on the zombie's back and gave it a gentle push. It stumbled forward, towards Cold Rain.

The Death Knight stepped forward and took the zombie gently by its shoulders and pulled it close, looking into the ravaged flesh of the face. Carefully he brushed his thumb along a decaying cheek. "Thank you Master," he said.

"Surely you are pleased for my faithful Death Knight," the Mask of Winters said, but his words were not directed at Cold Rain.

Around him, Cold Rain heard the sound of polite clapping from the dead court.

"Yes," the Mask of Winters said, "Very good. Now Cold Rain, I have a task for you, one that I hope you will perform better than the last I gave you."

Cold Rain was careful not to flinch at the barbed comment, for the punishment for his past failure was still fresh in his mind. "I will not fail you," he said.

"No, you won't," the Mask of Winters said pleasantly, and hidden in those words were the promise as to what might happen if he did.

"What would you have me do Master?"

The Mask of Winters crossed the room and put a hand across Cold Rain's shoulders, the soul steel of his armour rubbing against the soul steel of Cold Rain's armour, and both suits moaning piteously, the Mask of Winters cape draping around them.

When the Mask of Winters spoke Cold Rain knew that only he heard those words.

"Take your forces into the lands of Marukan and destroy their border patrols, prepare to push deep into their lands at my command. There is currently some force there that is foiling my other commanders. I trust you will succeed where they did not."

Cold Rain nodded, wondering what sort of force the Marukan Alliance had been able to muster if they were opposing his Master's expeditionary army.

"You will also take Lady Blood with you. I will not tell you to keep her under control but do try to make sure the atrocities she will commit are manageable. I don't want my new neighbours and subjects to feel that they have reason to fear me."

"No Master," he said.

"I expect great things from you," the Mask of Winters told him, before stepping back, drawing his cloak away.

"Go and do my bidding," he told Cold Rain.

Cold Rain bowed low and excused himself.