And So It Is Written

Written By: Michael Sussman

“Do you live?” It was Lyuba’s hoarse rasp through the crack in the cave wall separating their pits.

Koschek hadn’t yet moved from where they had dropped him. The blood on his cheek had dried and congealed, adhering his face to the surface of rock and filth.

Again, “Do you live?”

The permanence of darkness gave Koschek no sign of whether his remaining eye was open. He lay still upon one mangled arm and managed a halting gasp of air as the thought arrived. No, not a thought. A sound.

“Koschek, do you live?”

He groaned, an easier reply than speech, and used his better arm to peel his head from the cold ground. Koschek pushed himself over and onto his back, easing the weight off his useless arm. He worked his tongue to find enough saliva to dampen his lips.

“I live, damn it.”

Lyuba paused in the adjoining pit, listening for any sound from guards beyond the iron door. “May the devil take you to a better place.”

“May it be so,” replied Koschek. He felt about for the metal cup holding a bit of foul water.

“Koschek? Koschek, do they ask still of the dragon’s nest?” Lyuba waited for a reply.

Koschek labored to a sitting position. The constant chill and daily assaults had numbed him to further pain. The rags left on his legs were dank, and the numbness did nothing to lessen his own stench. “Yeah, sure. And about those one-horned stallions. But Lyuba—” He felt around again and found the metal cup, then sipped some of the nasty liquid, letting it ease down his raw throat. “Lyuba, I thought of something.”

“The location? Did you give them up to the Dread Souls?”

“No, not that,” said Koschek. “But I have—” He hesitated and considered his next words. “I have an idea.”

“For survival? For escape?”

“For a novel.”

There was silence. Then, “You what?”

“I have this idea. About a beautiful princess. She’s crossing the great water, but a storm comes up—" He set down the cup and shuffled closer to the crack in the wall.

“Koschek! Clear your head. Did you give up the dragons? What did you tell?”

“Listen, Lyuba. The princess is caught in a big storm, and everyone seems lost. But she awakens in the boat of this guy, a common fisher.”

“Koschek!” Lyuba kept to a low, if more urgent, whisper. “Is the Dhyrian Kingdom doomed? You took a blood oath!”

“The fisher takes her to his island. She’s so messed up from the storm that she looks more like a wench than a princess.”

“If they release the Helleborne, doomsday is upon us. Oh, woe! Woe!” Lyuba cried aloud, unheedful of retribution from the guards.

“Do people still say that? It sounds archaic.”

“How’s that? Koschek, does your head spin?”

“I’ll call the princess, um, Celladora! How’s that sound?

Lyuba spoke softly once more, lips pressed close to the wall. “Koschek, hear my words. There is no shame in what was done. I have heard your fear since first they dragged you in. Yet you have held dumb for moon upon moon. The Dread Souls have beaten you, broken your bones, burned you to death and back. But you held dumb as long as any warrior of the realm. Longer! Feel no shame in what you have done.”

Koschek thought now in the blackness of his pit. He, too, put his mouth up to the thin opening in the rock. “Lyuba, I’m stuck on something. Will you tell me what you think?”

“Yes, of course. Yes.”

“So, do you think backstory is needed? I feel conflicted. It could slow down the pace.”

Lyuba muttered a curse, then patted the ground, finding a small rock with a sharp edge. “Let us scrape the wall, Koschek. The stone between us may yet come loose. Even now I feel it shift in its place.”

“And the genre, Lyuba. Should I stick with romance? Or maybe historical fiction? Or contemporary?” He pondered his access to tomes and to the fancies of the populace, ignoring the scraping sounds coming through the crack. “The princess would feel lost. She’d be trapped in this place where everything is new. Kind of scary.”

Lyuba stopped working the rock and spoke harshly. “Are you daft, Koschek? Mind our task! Forget this fantasy.”

“Yeah, that’s it! Good idea, Lyuba. I’ll make it a fantasy romance, set in a land across the great water…in a kingdom…I want to say ‘weird and surprising,’ but more interesting.” Koschek pictured how the men behaved, waking at the same time each morning, working in the fields or boats or shops, then returning home to their families day after day. “How about ‘curious and astonishing?’ You know, for a blurb.” He thought about the setting and the creatures in his tale. “Imagine a world where there’s no magic, Lyuba. Where grim wolves are small and friendly. Where there aren’t any mages or demons. Can you imagine that? Not even dragons.”

“With no dragons there is no hope, Koschek, not if the Helleborne attack. Help me now with this stone. It does shift the more. Push hard against it.” Lyuba scraped and beat upon the wall.

Koschek placed his hand on the wall, feeling the jagged edge in the rock face. “I think it should have another conflict. More emotional tension. Something that really scares Princess Celladora. Like, why was she on that ship anyway? What was she after? Damn!” He pounded the wall in frustration.

“Again, Koschek. Again!” Lyuba dropped the small scraping rock and pushed hard against the wallstone. It shifted once more, then split from the surrounding wall as fragments and chips fell to the ground. “Push, push it toward me,” urged Lyuba, while prying at it with calloused fingertips. The stone budged forward, loosening its heavy grip in the wall. Lyuba clasped the sides and leaned back with all remaining strength. The stone came free from its confines and crashed to the floor of the pit, splitting into rough chunks. Lyuba plunged an arm through the hole and grasped for Koschek’s hand.

“I find your hand at last,” sobbed Lyuba. “A fellow Dhyrian, a friend.”

Koschek, too, was lost in the moment. He held tight to Lyuba’s hand, pressing his lips to it. “I know, right? It’s been a long time. Even though I’ve never seen you, to finally find—” He stopped short and raised his head suddenly, looking up into the darkness. “That’s it! Of course, that’s it. Celladora wasn’t looking for anything. She was running away. She was running from … from an arranged marriage to some lord, a vulgar, evil guy who didn’t really care about her. He just wanted wealth and power. Yeah, that’s it. She wanted to escape before the wedding.”

“Escape,” murmured Lyuba.

“Right, a desperate escape. I like it.”

“Escape,” Lyuba repeated. “From the pits? I do not think it possible.”

“To save herself. And to save her kingdom. She has to believe there’s a way out.”

“May it be so.”

“Even now,” continued Koschek, “while she’s trapped in this strange place, she’s being chased by that evil lord. Hunted by her betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” wondered Lyuba. “Could it work in such darkness?” For the first time since being captured, Lyuba felt a rise of hope from within. “Koschek, are you a wedded man?”

“She’s afraid of the evil lord…afraid that he’ll find her and take revenge on the fisher who saved her. A nice guy. An honest man—”

“Koschek!” Lyuba gave his hand a sharp tug. “Tell me, are you wedded?”

He was startled back to his place in the pit. “What? No, I serve in the Dhyrian army. I don’t even have a girlfriend. Don’t really have time for womyn.”

“Then your sacred Whorl of Shareen remains virgin?”

Koschek placed a hand over his heart, touching the place on his chest where he had last seen the Whorl. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, self-conscious that his mark was still whole. “I can’t see it. I guess so.”

“For me as well,” said Lyuba. “Koschek, listen. We may have a chance, the slimmest of hopes, to yet help the realm.”

Koschek loosened his grip on Lyuba’s hand. “What are you saying? There’s nothing we can do here but die. No one can escape.”

“No, not escape. A signal. We might yet reveal this fortress, though it be underground. Let our warriors come, if there be dragons still, and vanquish the Dread Souls at last. Did you see, when they brought you here, how far beneath open ground we are entombed?”

“I think about three lances down. Maybe four. But what about it? We don’t have any weapons or light.”

“Not weapons, but perhaps light. Koschek, let us do a heart meld through this hollow we have made. Let us raise the spirit light of wedlock.”

Koschek was baffled by the request. “Are you crazy? Only womyn in the shamanhood can draw the spirit light. We’re just men. Doomed men.”

“No, Koschek, no. I am of womyn. Could you not tell?”

There was silence now from Koschek’s pit. He heard the words yet knew only the hoarse rasp of Lyuba’s voice and the roughness of her hand. “You are of womyn?” He was still. He was perplexed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” replied Lyuba. “And of shamanhood. I know the invocation of heart meld. It is possible that I can raise the spirit light of wedlock.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Have you not seen the spirit light? It rises from wedlock and flows as a river through the ether, filling all space around the wedded, even unto the sky.”

“Yeah, of course I’ve seen the heart meld. What about it?”

“I will call the invocation. Let our Whorls of Shareen come together. If I have yet the strength, if there be fissures enough through the fortress walls, and if it be night, then may our spirit light flow through unto the sky. If these all shall pass, then may our signal be spied by the warriors of the realm, that they come with dragons and rain death upon the Dread Souls.”

Koschek heard the words of his friend, who was now of womyn, considered what could be and what could not, and said to her, “Not likely.”

“My friend, we have nothing else. This could be the last of us.” Lyuba again reached through the hole in the wall, and when she felt Koschek take her hand and squeeze gently, she knew his answer.

“Bare your chest and face your Whorl of Shareen into the hole. I will do the same that they may come together.” They each loosed what cloth yet covered their bosoms and stood close to the cave wall, their spiral marks facing through the hole.

Koschek closed his eyes and let his mind drift. He spoke quietly. “A wedding of the princess and the fisher. That could work.”

Meanwhile, Lyuba drew what energy she could from the earthly substance around her—the ground, the stone wall, even the air—and she let the voices of old well up from within.

Kaya mon vitem puri, kaya mon aleya, indivo fa reculum vi kaya

Kaya mon vitem puri, kaya mon aleya, indivo fa reculum vi kaya

A warmth developed in her heart, expanding, filling her chest.

Kaya mon vitem puri, kaya mon aleya, indivo fa reculum vi kaya

The spiral on her skin grew hot, a magnificent heat, one of hope and love. Her voice rose.

Kaya mon vitem puri, kaya mon aleya, indivo fa reculum vi kaya

The spirit light emerged, filled the hole, penetrated every crack and crevice of the wall.

Kaya mon vitem puri, kaya mon aleya, indivo fa reculum vi kaya

Lyuba’s glowing Whorl of Shareen united with that of Koschek. She cried out.

Kaya mon vitem puri, kaya mon aleya, indivo fa reculum vi kaya

“I should work on my stairway pitch,” thought Koschek. Lyuba shouted.

KAYA MON VITEM PURI, KAYA MON ALEYA, INDIVO FA RECULUM —

The iron door to Lyuba’s pit swung inward as a thick, livid guard charged in, a mace in one hand, a blazing torch in the other. “Who calls a beating?” he yelled.

Lyuba turned toward the guard. The searing light from her Whorl blasted his face. “Aargh! What devil is this?” He dropped his gear and covered his blinded eyes with his gnarly hands. Lyuba grabbed a chunk of rock and charged the guard, smashing the side of his head. He fell backward. His bare, shaved head cracked against the heavy door and left a bloody smear.

Lyuba knelt down and placed both hands on the guard’s chest. Some life force remained. She spoke ancient words to absorb what energy was left. Lyuba closed her bodice, picked up the torch, and ran into the hall. She lifted the locking bar from the next pit and pushed the door open.

There stood Koschek in the light from her torch, a man of broken bone and bloodied skull, foul rags slack upon his bent frame, patches of oily hair in tangled knots.

He turned and squinted his one eye at the light. “Are you here to kill me?”

“Koschek, it is I. Lyuba.”

He took a step forward and beheld her in full. “No, Lyuba is now of womyn.”

Lyuba tried to approach but was halted by the close stench of rotting vomit and feces. “It is I…ugh! If I knew what you were like…never mind, what is done is done.” She saw by the flame’s light that his Whorl of Shareen glowed now as an amber circle, the second of its potent phases. Lyuba brought her fingertips to her heart and traced the warm mark round and round. The Ring of Amo Supremia. Of this she had heard, of course, but never seen. Had learned of its power yet not believed. For what purpose it would serve, she could not know.

“Your voice,” said Koschek. “I know it. Like the whine of a boar in its death throes. Lyuba, it really is you!” He advanced and reached his arm out as to touch her.

“Wait! Remove your rags.” Lyuba went back out of his pit while Koschek obeyed, letting his thin, torn remnants drop to his feet. She returned to the doorway, now holding a dark cloak she pulled off the dead guard, as well as his mace. “Here, put this on.” She helped Koschek into the oversized garment and cinched it at his waist and neck.

“Tell me, Lyuba, how come you aren’t scarred and broken? Didn’t they torture you?”

“They knew, as one of shamanhood, that I could thwart pain. They chose for me starvation and sheared my head as to weaken my powers. They nearly succeeded, as I survived on majik alone. When they brought you in, they left me to the darkness and dust. It may be shameful to admit, but the sound of your screams kept my vital spark from waning.” Lyuba raised the hood over his head. “Here, hold this mace upon your shoulder as best you can. Come now, all speed to us.”

They made their way through the dungeon by torchlight, passing pit after pit, leaving behind the moans of the living and the fetid malodor of the dead. They turned now and again, at times to the right, at others to the left, only chance and whim at their disposal. When they came to a rise in the passage, Lyuba had them stop.

“Something is afoot. There are no guards to challenge us, nor Dread Souls to face.” She closed her eyes and laid a palm upon the rough-hewn wall. “There are sounds of heavy steps from above, and I sense emerging fear.”

“Lyuba, wait.” Koschek put a hand on her shoulder. “What cover should I use?”

“Is the cloak not enough?”

“For my book. Show Princess Celladora in the storm? Or the evil lord chasing after her?”

Lyuba shook her head. “We have not time for that, Koschek. I fear they have summoned all hands to fortify their stations and prepare for battle. Come again, with haste.” Lyuba led them up the rise and through a winding passage. They reached an end with a narrow twisting stairway on their left, leading up into darkness. Before them was an uneven wooden door. A dim light shone through the narrow space below it.

“And which path to choose?” wondered Koschek.

“Always up,” replied Lyuba, holding her torch to the stairway.

“To scribe it myself on parchment scrolls or have it pressed upon vellum? Vellum, I think. It’s classier.” He grabbed the handle of the door and pulled.

“Koschek, no!”

The door opened to reveal a guard sitting in a privy, his breeches down, viewing a small slate in the light of a solitary candle. The guard looked up in surprise and scowled. “Can you not wait, you toadbunkle?”

“Use the mace!” cried Lyuba.

Without thinking, Koschek yanked the weapon down from his shoulder and square onto the head of the guard. Blood splattered across the privy walls, and the guard slumped to one side. Lyuba quickly pushed past Koschek and placed her hands upon the guard, uttering words to absorb his fading life force.

“My strength grows. To the stairway, wherever it may lead.” Lyuba went ahead with the torch. Koschek followed in her shadow, climbing up and up. “A spire,” whispered Lyuba. “Whether to freedom or combat, I cannot say. Walk lightly now.”

Koschek sighed with dismay. “I fear a book tour. I have not the fortitude.”

“Shush!” hissed Lyuba. She heard a voice from above but could not discern the words. Lyuba turned to Koschek. “We must face an adversary. One, perhaps two. If it be men, we may yet prevail. If we face a Dread Soul…” Her words trailed off. They had little choice.

They took more steps upward, then Lyuba raised a hand for them to stop. She considered the flame of her torch. It had done well to light their way, to give them hope, to bring them now to the brink of fate. But it would also reveal their approach. They could not both use the light and hide it. “We must proceed in darkness,” she said to Koschek, “to have surprise on our side.” She turned and cast the torch down the stone stairway.

Lyuba led Koschek by the wrist of his good arm as he continued to hold the mace in his hand. She carefully felt her way up the steps. Their imprisonment had accustomed them to walking through the dark, to balancing on a rough floor, to sensing small changes in the flow of air. 

Ten steps. 

Twenty. 

A glimmer appeared from above, becoming a brighter flicker as they approached. An open doorway led to a room lit by torches. A voice screamed out, not as at someone in the room, but to others more distant. And the voice, Lyuba and Koschek knew, was not human. It was that of a Dread Soul.

Lyuba turned to Koschek. There was glow enough to see him, his hair now pushed back under the hood, lips cracked yet firm, dirty face plain and truthful, one eye dried shut and in the other…was that a glint from the torchlight above or a curious spark from within? She raised her hand and brushed a crawling thing from the reddish-brown crust on his cheek.

Koschek gazed back at Lyuba, at the soft hair growing back on her head, her determined expression, clear and steady eyes, her skin…oh, was this the skin of womyn? He nodded and thought, Celladora.

They faced the open door ahead, she with no training in combat and weak in majik against a Dread Soul, he of one arm and one eye, neither with plan, both mere children of destiny. They stole into the room. 

The walls were draped with crimson banners and tapestry separated by blazing torches in wrought iron sconces. A broad oaken table commanded the center of the room. A large map lay on the table. Small flags and figurines were positioned on the map. Across from the doorway was a narrow window, an iron grille across it. At the window, its back to the room, stood a roaring Dread Soul.

Lyuba and Koschek had both learned some of the guttural language during their many interrogations. It was clear to them that this was no ordinary Dread Soul. This one was commanding orders to an army below. It shouted for its cavalry to flank, yelled to its cannoneers to advance, demanded they repel the invaders.

Lyuba turned to Koschek wide-eyed. Had the signal of spirit light gone through! No, it was too soon. The Dhyrian army must have already found the hidden fortress. They were now in full attack. Then what of her invocation of the Whorls of Shareen? Was that of no measure? No, it had blinded the dungeon guard and helped them escape. And one other thing. Koschek and she were now wed.

But what of the Dhyrian dragons? The Dread Soul gave no orders to defend against them. Lyuba feared the worst—the dragon’s nest had been discovered and all were destroyed. She held back tears and let only rage build inside her.

Koschek moved around one side of the table, his mace held high. Lyuba went the other way, skirting the wall, raising her hands with intent to effect a spell. She came close to a banner and suddenly reared back. The fabric was reddened with no ordinary dye. Rather, it was drenched in blood. Lyuba gasped in horror.

The Dread Soul spun around at the sound and cursed at the intruders. Koschek charged, shouting and swinging his mace. The Dread Soul smashed the back of its hand against Koschek. He was sent flying over the table and into the opposite wall. Lyuba tried a spell to weaken the beast. It leapt forward and smacked her down to the floor. It stomped on her once, twice, then placed a scaly foot open her head and crushed down. Lyuba screamed in pain. The creature reached down into her mouth to snare her tongue and rip it out. Lyuba bit down hard on its clawed fingers and the Dread Soul yelped in pain. It reached down again, this time for her eyes.

Koschek hurled his mace at the beast. The brute snarled back. It picked Lyuba up by one arm and flung her at the window grille. It then fell upon Koschek, clenching his throat with one clawed hand while digging between his legs with the other. Koschek’s face contorted in agony, but his scream was strangled to silence.

Lyuba rose in pain from the base of the window. She gripped the iron bars of the grille for support and saw below her a seething battlefield. The Dhyrian force was sending flaming arrows and fireballs down on their enemy. The Dread Soul army was running amok with burning fur and flailing swords. No commands came to guide them. 

Lyuba looked to the sky. It was thick with cloud cover. No stars, no moon could be seen. There was no sign of dragons. She was jerked away from the window and thrown back to the floor. The Dread Soul leaned into the window and peered down at the mayhem. In a fury it shrieked a command, “Reluqak ghor Helleborne!” Release the Helleborne!

“No!” cried Lyuba. She lunged in desperation at the brute’s legs and sunk her teeth into its calf. The beast kicked its leg out, sending Lyuba into a wall where she crumpled to the floor. It jumped on top of her, shoving one knee into her stomach while the other crushed down on her chest.

“Hey, asswart!” Koschek had raised himself to the side of the table. “Leave my wife alone!” Koschek yanked on the map, scattering all the flags and figurines.

The Dread Soul howled in anger. It charged Koschek and pinned him high on the wall. The beast shoved Koschek’s good arm through a sconce and twisted it down. Koschek struggled helplessly. The beast ripped open Koschek’s cape and stabbed its jagged claws into either side of his rib cage. Koschek cried out with intense pain. It squeezed Koschek’s body, forcing the air from his lungs. The Dread Soul brought its face close and sucked in Koschek’s breath, licked its lips, prepared to feast.

Lyuba had grabbed a tapestry and pulled herself up on unsteady legs. She looked across the room, seeing her husband on his last breath. And she saw, where his cape was torn away, on his bare chest, marked forever on the skin above his heart, the Ring of Amo Supremia. Her hands were now guided by the ancients. Lyuba loosened her bodice, revealing her own forever mark, her own Ring of Amo Supremia. She began a chant that was new to her voice, a chant that rose from ancestral memory, a chant that had waited in patience for a worthy call of its power.

Kaya mon vitem puri, allum sen divi callavi

Kaya o sylla vi kaya pineum du wey

The Dread Soul shook its head and pulled its claws from Koschek.

Kaya mon vitem puri, fen jyrrah du vilacem

It growled and hissed, then turned around to face the source of this chanting.

Kaya mon vitem puri, allum sen divi callavi…

It snarled in fear and bared it fangs. There would be no more toying. It wanted blood. The Dread Soul spread its claws and leapt at Lyuba.

…o sylla vi kaya mon AMO SUPREMIA

The beast was halfway across the room when a gleaming bolt of amber light shot from Lyuba to Koschek. Their Rings of Amo Supremia connected, piercing the Dread Soul and suspending it in midair. Koschek inhaled, filling his lungs. Lyuba glared. The beast writhed and twisted on its skewer. The amber bolt intensified, giving strength to both Lyuba and Koschek. The beast overflowed with a light it could not withstand. Dazzling beams surged outward from its torso and head. A thunderous crackle filled the room. With a horrific scream, the wretched beast exploded into thousands of fragments. Each vile scrap burst into flame, leaving nothing but a settling of ember and ash.

Lyuba halted her chant and covered her face from the blinding flash. She put down her arms. Everything was coated with a layer of particles, many still aglow. She grimaced from the smell of singed bones and flesh. Koschek was still suspended on the opposite wall, struggling to free himself from the sconce. Lyuba rushed over and wrapped her arms tight around Koschek’s legs, then lifted him enough to bear his weight while he pulled his arm from the iron fixture.

“Koschek, Koschek, are you all right?” She loosened her hold to have him slide down, her arms still wrapped around his body. “Koschek.” She spoke urgently, but tenderly. “Koschek, can you speak?”

Koschek took a breath, his ribs yet aching. He put his good arm around Lyuba’s shoulders as to steady himself. They stood together, their bared skin pressed together, and they looked upon each other. A tear rolled down Koschek’s cheek as he blinked against the hot ash.

“My eye is watering from this dust,” he said.

Lyuba nodded. “As do mine.” She pressed her face into Koschek’s collar to wipe away her tears. They stood like that, each in awe that the other lived, and that neither was alone.

Koschek spoke first. “Is it over?”

“I fear all is lost. The Helleborne have been released.” Lyuba held him close for a moment more, then stepped back from their embrace and went to the window. She looked down upon the battlefield. The Dread Soul army had held their ground against the Dhyrian force, and now the frenzied Helleborne charged with weapon and fang, flanking the Dhyrians on left and right.

Koschek went to her side. Lyuba took his arm and buried her face in his cloak, unwilling to watch the tragedy to come, despairing at the fate of her people. “Speak to me, Koschek. Not of what you see, but of what you wonder. Tell me your story.”

He lowered his head to hers and whispered. “There was a beautiful princess named Celladora, young and happy in her land of plenty. It happened that her father, a good and kind king, took deathly ill. Before he passed he would see Celladora wed, that his line would continue. In his weakness, the king agreed to betroth her to a cunning lord of his court. The princess knew this lord as vulgar and evil, wanting only the kingdom for himself. She refused to wed, seeking refuge throughout the land. But the lord went in pursuit, sure to have his day. So, Princess Celladora took passage by ship to cross the great water. But the ship was overcome by a powerful storm, and all seemed lost to the cold, dark sea. But fear not, Lyuba, for there is still hope.”

“Koschek?”

“Yes, my Lyuba?”

“When it is done…when you finish your tale, what shall become of it?”

Koschek raised his head. “I’d like to see it spread among the people. Maybe they will like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Lyuba?”

“Yes, my Koschek?”

“What do you think? Should I send messages out by raven? Or hire a town crier?”

Lyuba smiled at his innocent madness, a brief respite from her sorrow.

“By raven,” she said. “That it would fly above the suffering below.”

Koschek gazed upward at the sky as to view a bird in flight.

“The clouds are still heavy,” he said.

“Are there no stars to count?”

“None. The moon barely shines through. Here and there I see a flash of orange and red.”

Lyuba sighed, then realized that Koschek’s tone had changed. That this was no tale. She lifted her face from Koschek’s cloak and peered out the window and toward the sky. She saw them, too, small flashes of fire at first, then larger ones and more frequent.

“They live,” she said, in hushed tone. Then louder, “They live. They live!” Shouting, “They live!! Koschek, they live!!”

The clouds parted for the fiery breath of diving dragons, and below them the cheers of Dhyrian warriors rose to the sky. The Dread Soul army wailed and scattered with no command to lead them. They sliced and hacked their own kind in desperation to escape. The Helleborne froze with cold fear, for now came a power they could not deter. Fire rained down upon the enemy, leaving their terrain strewn with molten shields and charred bones and the thick smoke of death.

Inside the spire, Lyuba and Koschek laughed and cheered and cried. They jumped and cheered again, sharing the joy of salvation for their kingdom and for themselves.

“They only waited,” Lyuba realized, tears streaming now. “They waited for the Helleborne to come out in full, that they might all be vanquished together.”

“Yeah,” said Koschek.

“And you said nothing to the Dread Souls. Through the torture, you gave up nothing.”

“No,” said Koschek.

“Oh, my Koschek!” She threw her arms around him and held him tight. “You did save the realm. You are a wonder. You are my hero.”

“And you’re mine, my Lyuba. You gave me hope when I had none. You gave me life as mine slipped away.”

“Your bravery shall be sung to the masses and to the court. To the king himself. Anything you want shall be yours. I shall see to it. Be it riches or to lead an army of warriors.”

He placed his hand behind Lyuba’s head and, forgetting his appearance, brought his lips to hers. And when they were both done, he said to her, “I don’t want wealth or weapons. I just want to be with you.”

“And I with you,” said Lyuba. She kissed him on the rough bristles of his chin, on the crusted stain on his cheek, even upon the gash of his lost eye, then once more on his cracked lips.

“And one thing more,” added Koschek. “I’d like to be a writer.”

Lyuba smiled at him. “Then so you shall.”

Koschek shrugged. “Well, there are only a few printing engines in the land. And they’re kind of far away. I’ll need some way to reach them...”

“Yes,” said Lyuba.

“…and to have them accept my tales and print them. And then they need to bring them to market. Or is that something I do? I’m not even sure.”

“Yes.”

“My Lyuba, it seems like an impossible task.”

“Yes. But Koschek, what else can we do?”

He kissed her once more, and again it seemed the dust caused tears to run from their eyes.

Lyuba took Koschek’s head in her hands and said with all of her heart, “I have a cousin whose hairdresser’s brother is in the printer’s guild. Perchance he may be of service.”

And Koschek replied, “May it be so.”

Michael L. Sussman, born in New York, has lived most of his years in Oregon. He is a re-emerging writer with a background that includes film reviews, technical publications, humor, and theatrical scripts. Recent work has been published in The Piker Press, Star 82 Review, The Pensieve, and other journals. His debut novel, You're Gonna Love It Here, is not yet published.