Ranger of Path

16. No Bodies

Verdants held claim over most of Mythica

When the holy war began anew

And their Emerald Knights

Faced four rival crusades

Eager to replace them.

Tides of Red, White, and Blue

Eroded the rule of Green

Then the Obsidians broke their back.

—Victor Heldane

The farmhouse floor creaks as Ishkur carries chairs into the kitchen and tosses knickknacks and other remnants of the Sticknot family into bedrooms and closets. With the only survivor being the youngest girl-ghoul, his claim to the home is sound. He grips the dining room table and drags it over the blood-stained cellar hatch in the hall, leaving the main room bare.

Turning in place, he sighs. Except for the low ceiling, the empty space would be perfect for some polearm practice.

I ache for your heft, my Endraker, and the whoosh before your magic severed or shattered ... He stomps the middle of the floor, about where his weapon is enshrined below. But you cannot recharge since that vampiress bitch stripped away your soul fuel.

Deep breaths. Body loose. Stance low. He spins his fists about as though his corrupted Endraker is in hand. Feint. Feint. Trip, and thrust. He huffs and repeats. Nothing beats having a real weapon, but imagining does something more than nothing.

This vile shrine claims the local power nexus via the hanging bones of dozens and the bodies of two flayed men rotting. How do I get my treasured Endraker without triggering a Black beacon and also replenish its soul battery?

He coughs, spoiling his routine to wave clear the dusty air.

Home sweet home.

"Ishcougher?" Nose painted green, Whisana peeks through the open back window and lays a yellow flower on its candlewax-covered sill.

"Pretty. Thank you." He scoots past the table and joins her outside. "It's a cheerful color, but I need sweet release."

"What?"

Ishkur rolls his shoulder until it pops. Whisana makes a prune face and clutches her pale-pink dress. Groaning, he twists his back, causing a domino of cracks, and she gasps.

Birds sing, and a warm spring wind sends a fluffy seed by his nose. He turns as it floats along the peeling farmhouse walls and slips around a corner.

"This place needs some fresh décor," he says. "More of those flowers to start."

Whisana shrugs, rubbing her verdant-stained nose. "Good to look at and nice to smell, but daffodil roots will kill a mule."

"I think my mom taught me something like that." He pats her on the head. "She'd have liked you."

The daughter she wanted and maybe the sister I'd have wished for.

Across the farm's field another kind of woman works the land with a passion. Sweat glistens across Sallai's butterscotch skin as she drops her plow and bends into a deep stretch. Too far to take in her facial features, but her shapely physique makes Ishkur tingle as her nose passes her knees with a contortionist's ease.

Nice.

He claps and gives the woman a thumbs up.

Whisana frowns. "Ishpoor, you are going to be teaching me now, right?"