Deathless

I. Funeral

The dirge of carrion birds crept slowly through the blessed silence of oblivion, nearing as one of the great ravens, soon to be fat from feasting on the slain, hopped closer and closer to the body. She lay bloody and still on the ground amidst the ashes of the gates to Dalle. The birds were everywhere, plucking at the soft flesh that remained on the hanging bodies left to bake in the sun. They would dangle like fruit for days or more, rotting until they plummeted from their nooses.

A caw did not stir the body and so the raven approached, razor beak poised to strike at one of the skyward-facing eyes. It hesitated when the corpse's lips moved and the eyelids fluttered, dark and intelligent gaze settling on her. Ever so slowly, the raven hopped back with the help of its wings before taking to the sky in a flurry of dark feathers.

Ravens understood death.

The cold of the grave did not abate even as vision gradually returned to her dark eyes. Slower yet came her ability to interpret what her eyes saw and her body felt. Earth caked in blood was her resting place, not even a grave. One of her hands covered the ragged hole in her chest, stained with congealed gore. Flies buzzed nearby, but none of them touched her body.

Flies understood death.

Another twitch tugged at her dry lips, pulling at the ragged bite mark. Breath returned to her body, drawing in warmth and releasing cold, but she felt no relief from the chill.

Felt. She felt.

Her body shuddered at the realization and all at once, animation returned. She lifted her head from the earth, hair tangled and matted where it had pressed against blood-drenched soil. Her hands quivered as they clenched into fists and then relaxed again, over and over, as she tried to regain her bearings. She had no idea how long she had been wrapped in the shroud of darkness.

The armor that had been stripped from her body was nowhere to be seen. Nor was her treasured relic of a sword to be found. Both had been taken as prizes by the evil that destroyed Dalle.

She felt a violent paroxysm of rage in her stomach. It was cold fury, but it was so visceral and real that it anchored her drifting soul. Her burning eyes turned towards the west, to the low range of mountains that marked the border with Genev. She spoke no oath or spat an epithet. Why should she waste her words when the vow she felt most deeply was only one?

Revenge.

She rose to her feet like a marionette, movements gaining proficiency just as a puppeteer learned to command their toy with ever increasing mastery. By the time she reached the river, her native grace had returned with a predator's edge. She stripped off the torn clothing she had on, the remnants of light shirt and pants that she'd worn beneath her armor and gambeson, and set about cleaning up. She didn't care what anyone thought of her, but she knew risk of infection was rife with this much filth. Besides, she wanted to take a better look at the wounds.

Her body was pale from blood-loss, much of which had come through the wound to her chest. She could feel the splintered bone of broken ribs at the ragged edges of the wound when she pressed with her fingers. Her next stop was the bruising and scraping up and down her legs, each discoloration or patch of broken skin a memento of horrors visited. Everything before she'd lost consciousness she remembered with agonizing clarity, but all was dyed with the same emotional color: rage. Hers was not a weeping pain. She washed methodically in the river, flushing every wound. The water was running clean, which meant it had been more than a day since the massacre.

She was alone in the town, the only survivor, though to be called that was a stretch.

Something snapped audibly in her chest followed by a symphony of cracking. When she felt her wound, her fingers touched healed bone. Her breathing was now less labored and her flesh knitted together under her hand. There was no pain, no hunger, no fear.