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Chain of Command

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2020. Chain of Command. p. 91-113 in: D. Draa and D.A. Riley (eds.) Swords and Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy. Vol. I (anthology), Parallel Universe Publications.

The towering woman placed a proportionally large hand on the sarcophagus. “I’ll remove the lid; you watch my back.”

The diminutive woman nodded. “Agreed. But watch yourself too. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if it’s cursed.” Mouse was no primitive, her barbarian heritage notwithstanding, yet she’d been raised on supernatural tales and hadn’t freed herself completely from their grip.

Freya bent her knees, grunted, and applied pressure, muscles swelling on her arms and thighs. The thick stone hesitated a moment, then lifted an inch. She took a deep breath, braced herself again, and reapplied her strength. This time, the lid slid free, falling to the floor with a crash that raised billows of ancient dust.

A dark cloud rose from the sarcophagus, towering over her despite her near seven feet of height. The cloud slowly took shape, becoming a once-muscular old man wearing a crown.

“Who dares disturb my rest?” The voice was dry, with an antique accent.

Freya stepped back to stand beside Mouse, who’d drawn her sword. “I believe it’s these two gentlemen you wish to speak with.” She swept her free hand back towards the two sorcerers who’d led them here; her own sword had found its way into her hand.

The fat mage glanced at the thin mage, who tittered nervously. The former nodded his chin towards the specter, and the thin one stepped forward. As he did, he raised his hands before his face and began to weave a complex pattern, hands leaving a faintly glowing trail. The specter snorted and raised its own hands, weaving a different pattern bright enough to leave afterimages on the eyes. The thin mage finished his pattern, and smiled a thin smile at the specter. Neither the smile nor the glowing image before him had the slightest effect on the lash of dark flame that shot from the specter’s hands, curled lasciviously around the mage, and—before he could draw breath to scream—left him a smoking cinder that slowly collapsed under its own weight, like untended ash falling from a well-used cigar.

“Oh dear,” said the fat one, and pissed himself.

***

Several days earlier, the king’s advisor had frowned down at the two women from his throne-like chair, atop a raised platform. “My agents tell me you’re both skilled with a sword. This barbarian,” he nodded at the 7-foot woman who was clad, incongruously, in a well-tailored pair of breeches and billowing silk shirt, accessorized by a sword nearly as long as her companion was tall slung over her shoulder. “Her, I have confidence in. She has the look of a hardened killer.”

The “hardened killer” grinned. The smaller woman glanced to her side, craning her neck to take in the full scope of her companion. At first glance, the giant seemed little different from the many large men and women she’d humbled when they underestimated her. She’d grown up in a barbarian village, where such giants were the norm, even among the women.

“But you?” He looked at the smaller woman and snorted. “You have, I grant you, a certain litheness of motion, but a tender urbanite such as yourself? I should think it would serve you poorly against this one.”

“I might surprise you. And her.”

“You might, and you might speculate that I don a woman’s garb each night when I return home. Proof is what I need. If you’re to surprise me in any kind of pleasant way, now would be a good time. One or two passes at each other with your swords, if you please. I’m keen to see with my own eyes how you both move.”

The taller woman looked down at the short one. “Freya. Are you willing?”

The other returned her gaze with equanimity. “Mouse.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously as the tall one’s grin widened. “Aye, I’m willing—but only to first blood. I wouldn’t rob our King of your evidently remarkable skills should I chance to win.”

“And should you, by chance, lose—which you will?”

Mouse’s fierce answering grin reflected Freya’s. “Well, then, neither would I wish to deprive our king of myself, so best if it were only first blood. Not last, if you take my meaning.”

Freya found herself liking the small woman, and swept a deep bow. “On guard, then.”

Mouse curtsied without ever taking her eyes from the other woman, but misliked how easily the big woman drew her sword over her shoulder. The ease of drawing such a long sword did not, itself, alarm her; she was amply familiar with large, powerful men, and not a few large, powerful women. It was how Freya held the blade one-handed that concerned her, not to mention the efficiency of the motion—the lack of swagger was a particular concern. Men seemed insecure over whether size alone was sufficient to intimidate, and felt a need to elaborate. Most never quite mastered the use of their size.

For her part, Freya watched the smaller women with a keen eye. Big men were easily handled, as they relied too much on their strength, but this small woman moved far too fluidly for her liking, and the saber she drew from her scabbard, an inch-wide length of polished, well-maintained steel, drew the eye. This was not a lady’s weapon, worn for show; it was a fighting sword, and well used from the look of it.

“Milady Mouse”, she bowed, never taking her eyes off her foe.

“Milady Freya,” the other woman replied, watching every bit as warily.

With that, the two stepped apart, raised their blades to salute, then approached each other. Freya was content to keep her opponent at the comfortable distance permitted by her sword’s greater length; Mouse, for her part, knew she’d need to come within reach of that blade long enough to lunge and draw blood. In a real fight, she might have been tempted to let the larger woman tire herself from swinging that intimidating weight of steel, while judiciously arranging to remain beyond its reach. Here, it seemed wiser to rely on speed. Feinting high, she stutter-stepped close enough to tempt Freya’s swing. Had Mouse been even a hand taller, that swing might have cost her a lock of hair, and possibly some scalp; as it was, the bigger woman misjudged Mouse’s speed. Mouse ducked nimbly beneath the swing and tapped Freya’s thigh and forearm an eyeblink before the return stroke of that enormous blade caught her across the back and propelled her, staggering, across the floor. The two women sprang backwards, disengaging, eyes narrowed.

“Enough!” called the king’s advisor.

“But neither of us has drawn blood,” Mouse observed.

“And neither shall you. You’re no good to me if you kill each other.”

“Agreed,” boomed the taller one. Freya’s voice was uncommonly deep for a woman, though not out of proportion to the depth and breadth of her chest.

“For now,” whispered the shorter one, drawing an amused glance from Freya.

The advisor cleared his throat. “You’ve been chosen to protect two seekers in my service.” He pulled a cord that dangled beside his seat, and a bell tinkled. Two men entered the room clad in robes; the first was fat enough to be nearly round, and his robes were a simple midnight blue; the other was thin as a glaive, with an equally hooked nose, and his wine-red robe was cluttered with a mass of obscure symbols, picked out in gold embroidery.

“Seekers?”

The two women had spoken simultaneously; they met each other’s eyes, and shared a grin.

“This one’s Thomas. He’ll be subordinate, but you’ll follow any instructions he provides.” The thin one waved a hand coyly at Mouse, blushing, and tried to meet her eyes. She snorted and returned her gaze to the advisor.

“And this is Mathias. He will command your expedition, and you’ll follow his command, as does Thomas.” The round one gazed ostentatiously at the ceiling, as if watching things only he could see. Mouse found herself wanting to poke him to capture his attention. Instead, she sheathed her sword before she could give in to temptation.

The two women exchanged gazes. Mouse nodded. “And what might they seek,” wondered Freya aloud.

“Why the truth, of course.” The advisor evaded their eyes. The two women exchanged glances.

This time, Mouse spoke. “Whose truth?”

The king’s advisor frowned. “We chose you for your wit, small one, as we chose your companion for her brawn. Please don’t convince us we chose poorly. We have little time remaining to mount this expedition.”

“And where might that expedition be going?” asked Mouse.

“To the lost city of Falorn.”

“The one in the Wailing Desert?”

“The same.”

“Why does it wail?” Freya wondered, sotto voce.

“Later,” Mouse replied from the corner of her mouth.

The advisor continued, ignoring the question. “There, our seekers will find a tomb, and retrieve a certain artefact.”

“And what does the artefact do?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

“There’s undoubtedly a curse...?”

The round one roused himself at that. “If there is, I’ll deal with it. It’s unlikely to be beyond my abilities.”

Freya raised an eyebrow. “Unlikely, or impossible?”

He frowned sourly, looking up to meet Freya’s eyes. “Impossible, then.” He didn’t look away until the advisor cleared his throat.

Thomas tittered. “And anything he proves incapable of defeating? Well that will be mine to defeat.”

“Well, then. That’s reassuring.”

The thin wizard blinked at Mouse, not sure whether he’d just been insulted.

“Enough. Follow Thomas and Mathias. They’ll explain what you need to know of your expedition, and ensure that you’re supplied. You leave on the morrow.”

***

Mathias provided horses, but warned they’d only carry the four adventurers to a border post at the edge of the Wailing Desert. Thereafter, they’d be given a suitable pack beast, but would need to walk; no riding animal could cross the sands or long survive the harsh desert conditions. Mouse vanished for a time, and returned with new clothing for herself and Freya: a loose, billowy head-to-toe garment, and a long, dirty-white hooded cloak.

They withdrew to a private room, removed all clothing save their small-clothes. Mouse held up her clothing. “The desert people call this garb a thobe, and the cloak, an abernus.”

Freya held hers up skeptically; it would be a tight fit, whereas Mouse seemed like to disappear within her new clothing. “It seems fragile.”

“The fabric is tough enough to endure harsh travel, but loose enough that air will pass freely through it and cool you. The cloak can cover your head and provide shelter from the sun by day and the cold by night.”

“Deserts are cold at night?”

“You’d be amazed.”

The roads around Losthaven were in good condition, and well patrolled against brigands, so they made good time. There was no conversation, each engaged in their own form of contemplation, whether mundane or mystical. At first, Thomas had essayed conversation with Mouse, but her acerbic tongue convinced him that his efforts would be futile. He considered engaging Freya, but her size frankly intimidated him. After a time, he frowned and began to complain to himself, at great length, in a low voice that held out until they reached the border post.

At the small stockaded fort, Mathias presented a token to the commander, and the two withdrew to discuss their needs. While the men conferred, Mouse took Freya aside.

“What tribe are you from?”

“Pardon?”

“What tribe. I can’t place your accent.”

“Ah. No, I was born and raised in Losthaven. Unless Mother lied to me about my father, I’m as tender a shoot as ever sprang up amidst the cobblestones. And you? Which city did you spring from?”

Mouse snorted. “I grew up among a hill tribe two weeks’ march from Losthaven. In fact, I never saw any settlement bigger than a clutch of peasant huts before this year.”

The two women looked at each other, then shrugged simultaneously.

“Then I shall teach you the ways of civilized women.”

“And I, in turn, shall teach you the ways of the barbarian.”

“Deal.” They shook hands, Freya being careful not to crush the smaller woman’s hand, which was lost in hers. Mouse, unintimidated, returned her grip with commendable strength.

Entering the desert was like stepping across the threshold of a house: within the space of that one step (or two for Mouse), the vegetation changed from the lush fields and dense forest that surrounded Losthaven to bare rock and drifted sand.

“Is this natural?” wondered Freya aloud.

Mathias shook his head. “The desert was created by the last king of Falorn.”

“Not intentionally,” added Thomas.

“I’ve read that he was a powerful sorcerer, but perhaps less powerful than his wife, the queen.”

The two mages exchanged glances. Thomas replied. “Nay, the stories of her power are greatly exaggerated. The King was the true source of power, and the true cause of his city’s downfall. Now leave us in peace a moment while we confirm our path.”

Freya whispered to Mouse. “A pleasant change. For once, they don’t blame the woman.”

Mouse spat on the rock. “That’s as may be, but neither do they grant her any role.”

“True. Are you surprised?”

“You could have knocked me over with a feather. One launched from an arbalest.”

They exchanged cynical grins, and waited while the wizards conferred. The two men had drawn a map from its case, and stood shoulder to shoulder, holding opposite sides of the map. As they discussed, they looked to the sky and made occasional mystical gestures with a free hand.

Freya cleared her throat. “How will you know where we’re going? I was given to understand that the lost city was... lost.”

Mathias smiled up at her. “The explanation would be too mystical for a simple swordsman—swordswoman—to understand. Suffice it to say that the relative locations of the planets, the moons, and the sun provide the necessary guidance. So long as we can see at least three of them simultaneously, with our eyes or more mystical tools, we can establish our position on this map to within the length of your small companion’s sword. With four or more visible, we could determine our position within a finger’s breadth.” He rolled the map and tucked it away in its case. The end-cover closed with a loud snap. “We’d best be off.”

The two mages led, followed by Freya with their pack animal, a strangely shaped beast with a foul temper and a tendency to spit gobs of thick cud at anyone who thwarted its desires. Mouse brought up the rear. The air was no hotter than in the lands around Losthaven, but was painfully dry, and the sun was intense. They were soon glad they’d packed as much water as their misshapen, hump-backed horse could carry. They were equally glad of the loose, flowing garments Mouse had procured. These wrapped around them and protected their face and eyes against both the sun and the stinging windblown sand. To the women’s surprise, the two mages kept pace with them. It was only later, when the sound stopped, that they noticed the quiet chant the two men had been muttering as they walked, giving vigor to their strides.

That night, the four sat around a blazing campfire, which was rapidly consuming the small supply of firewood they’d loaded on the beast of burden. Around them, bare rock and lazily stirring sands stretched for miles.

Mouse sipped ale from a water skin. “Why do they call it the Wailing Desert?”

“Surely the winds?”

“No, Freya,” Thomas replied. “Not the winds, else Losthaven would be found in the Wailing Grasslands beside the Wailing Forest and Wailing Lake.”

“Why, then?”

Mathias gave them a sober look. “It’s named for the ghosts of those who lived in Falorn before it was claimed by the desert.”

“Ah.”

Mouse snorted. “And they’re wailing because they were too fat and slow to escape a moving desert?”

Mathias looked down at his broad midriff and frowned. “No. The desert took them overnight.”

Freya thought a moment. “I’m no geomancer, but that seems fast for a desert.”

The thin mage bestirred himself. “Blame their king. The most powerful spells don’t always work out as planned, and there are consequences for failure.” He tittered nervously, and missed the dark look his colleague shot him.

The women exchanged glances, and Freya inclined her head slightly. Mouse asked what they were both thinking. “So what do we seek, and how does it relate to this dead king?”

Mathias replied. “Our king, as you may know, claims descent from the kings of Falorn. Yet that descent, and by implication, his right to rule, has been called into question by the council. Should he be unable to prove that heritage, they’ll remove him from the throne and replace him with a candidate more to the council’s taste. We need you to keep us safe until we reach the crypt of the kings of Falorn, so we can retrieve the dead king’s chain of office and return it to the living king.”

“And that will be sufficient to prove that he’s the legitimate ruler?”

“No one else will have the chain of office.”

Mouse frowned. “So the chain of office represents the truth of the matter?”

“We shall convince them it’s so.”

Mouse’s frown turned to a grin. “So if we kept the chain for ourselves, we’d then rule?”

Thomas shrank back under her fierce smile.

“Peace,” said Freya. “Those who pay our wages decide what constitutes truth. And I’ve no desire to rule that pesthole of a city.”

A chittering noise came from the darkness. Freya stood and drew her sword. “Is that the wailing you spoke of?”

Mouse rose, drawing her sword. “That’s no ghost.”

“What else is there to fear?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it might be, it sounds large.”

The two mages stepped behind the women and raised their hands, preparing their own, less visible, weapons.

The chittering drew nearer, and became a dim shadow at the edge of the firelight.

“Mouse? Follow my lead.” Freya, eyes focused on the shadow, didn’t look back to see whether her companion agreed.

All at once, in a rush of chitinous limbs, an enormous scorpion emerged from the darkness. It stood a good yard above the ground where its chelicerae joined its skull, but was at least four times that length, and its limbs clattered on the rock as it ran. Freya stepped between the enormous pincers and whipped her blade through a vertical arc that ended between its eyes with a CLACK!, stopping it momentarily in its tracks. She whipped her blade back up, barely in time to parry its stinger. Venom sprayed the rock behind her, and Mouse cursed.

Freya leapt backwards to avoid a second thrust. As she did, a small blur darted past her as Mouse lunged, stabbing the creature in one large eye. As Mouse recovered from her lunge, Freya slammed her blade against the pincer that tried to grab Mouse, redirecting that thrust downward. The scorpion’s claw scraped across rock with a high-pitched squeal that made the women wince. Before Freya could try again to crush its head, Mouse lunged and blinded one of the secondary eyes.

The scorpion’s chittering rose to ear-bleeding levels. It hesitated a moment, then turned and fled into the desert.

“We didn’t kill it.” Mouse sounded disappointed.

“Just as well,” spoke Mathias, shuddering. “Its corpse would have attracted scavengers. We don’t want to meet anything that would eat such a monstrosity.”

“Best, then, that we maintain a careful watch, in case it returns.”

The two mages nodded.

“And since we’ve done all the hard work thus far, I nominate you two seekers to take the first watch.”

Seeing the look in her eyes, Thomas nodded.

***

The scorpion didn’t return that night. The next morning, they shared a hasty, cold breakfast of biscuits and meat dried nearly hard as cuir bouilli armor, then set off farther into the desert. After a time, Mouse paused and cocked her head.

“We’re being followed.”

Freya looked at her. “You think?”

Mouse nodded. “Trust the barbarian.”

“By what?”

“Were I to guess, I’d say a large predator.”

Freya drew her sword. “Shall I go kill it?”

Mouse shook her head. “Wait. You’ll just scare it off, and then it’ll attack when we’ve forgotten it.”

“Really?”

“Trust the barbarian.”

“That seems the wise course. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless our two seekers have a better solution.”

“Fair point.” Freya cleared her throat. “Mathias! Thomas!”

The two mages stopped their muttering. “What?”

“We’re being followed by some large predator. What can you do about that?”

The men exchanged glances. Thomas rolled up his sleeves, and held his hands before his face, as if he were inspecting them. He flexed his fingers, cocked his hands, then spat a stream of liquid syllables. From behind a dune, there came the yowl of an enraged cat, loud enough to hurt the ears. The yowl vanished rapidly into the distance.

“Well done.”

“It was nothing, Freya.” Thomas giggled.

Mouse batted her eyes at her companion. “It was nothing, Freya,” she whispered. The women exchanged grins, then resumed walking.

***

That night, as the women slept and the mages stood guard, the desert cat took their strange horse. Its screams woke them from their slumber. Before they could reach their feet, swords in hand, the cat was gone. They found only the two mages standing together, back to back within a glowing curved wall of light. The light from that wall danced upon the sand like sunlight on water.

“Where’s our horse?”

The two men pointed into the darkness with trembling fingers.

Mouse kicked at their piled supplies. “At least we still have our supplies.”

“That won’t do us much good if we have to carry them ourselves.”

“You can drop your shield, truth-seekers. The beast’s long gone, and won’t return before it’s finished digesting its meal.”

“You’re sure?”

Mouse grunted. “Sure we shouldn’t have left you two on watch.”

“You’d have done better?”

“Couldn’t have done worse now, could we?”

The men glared at Mouse.

Freya cleared her throat. “That’s not productive. I don’t suppose you two have any way to summon a mystical beast of burden to carry all of this for us?” She paused. “Didn’t think so. Very well. In the morning, you two will carry the food. I’ll carry the water, and Mouse will keep an eye out for any other hungry fellow travellers. In the meantime, get some sleep in case Mouse was wrong and the cat returns. We’ll stand watch.”

***

By morning, the cat hadn’t returned. Freya kicked sand into the mages’ faces to wake them.

“Time to get moving.”

Grumbling and wiping their eyes, they rose from the sand and walked a discreet distance into the dunes. When they returned, Freya and Mouse set about dividing the load as best they could. Then they shared a silent and hasty breakfast. As on previous days, the mages conferred over their map, then agreed upon their direction and prepared to set off.

“Drink deep now, then refill your bottle from the water skins.” Mouse took her own advice, and the others followed. Then they each shouldered their burdens, Freya grunting under the weight of the water skins.

Freya shrugged her broad shoulders to settle the load. “How far are we from the ruins?”

“Less than a day. With luck, we’ll arrive before noon.”

They traveled, uneventfully, as the sun rose in the sky, and not long after it began its descent, Falorn came into view, nearly submerged under the sands that lapped against the walls like waves against a sinking lifeboat. Only the palace, or what remained of it, rose high above the encroaching sands.

“Transient are the works of man,” Mathias announced, with some satisfaction. “We’ll camp beneath the walls. We should be safe from the ghosts.”

“Should be,” Thomas replied.

Mathias nodded. “We’ll wait until morning to enter the city. The light will be better, and the ghosts quieter.”

They stopped a spear-throw from the walls, in the lee of the city, where they found the best shelter against the blowing sand. Freya dropped their water skins with a groan and sat heavily. As the sun continued its descent, the wind stilled, to be replaced by a faint keening from within the walls. As darkness fell, the keening increased in volume to become full-blown wailing, and the women tried, without much success, to plug their ears against the sound.

Mouse noticed the two men seemed unaffected. “Hey, seekers! How is it the caterwauling doesn’t bother you?”

Mathias apologized. “Forgive us.” He made a gesture with his left hand, and hissed a word that hung upon the air before dispersing. Instantly, the wailing ceased.

Freya glanced around nervously. “Did you banish them?”

“Nay, I merely muted them for a time.”

“And I’ll keep them from disturbing our sleep.” Thomas pulled a short length of polished blonde wood from his sleeve and walked a circle around their camp, dragging the wand behind him and muttering under his breath. In his wake, a transparent curtain sprang up that glowed faintly. When he’d completed the circle, the curtain flared once, then vanished. Later, as full darkness fell, grey, transparent human shapes appeared, walking listlessly from the city towards them. There were men and women, children and stooped ancients, and they wore tattered rags, as if time and windblown sand had eaten at their clothing. Their faces and skin were desiccated and shrunken, as if the dry desert air had sucked all the moisture from them.

The invisible curtain kept them at bay, but they circled the camp, mouths open as if they were wailing—or trying to say something. But whatever Mathias had done, it silenced their voices. As the ghosts circled the camp, kept out by the invisible wall, they gazed hopelessly at the travelers. Their eyes were disturbing voids that plucked at one’s eyes, and even the wizards would not meet that gaze. The ghosts continued their hopeless circling of the camp all night, leaving only as the sun rose above the horizon.

After a light breakfast, the four refilled their water bottles, covered the rest of their supplies with a blanket whose edges they weighted down with sand, and walked to the city walls. In the lee, the walls rose well above their head. But upwind the sand had overtopped the walls and fallen on the far side, creating an easy scramble up and a steeper slope down the other side. They descended in swooping steps, sand giving way beneath their feet and turning each step into a slide of several feet.

“This way,” Thomas said, and led them towards the palace without hesitation. They entered, then walked through sand-choked corridors to a flight of stone stairs that descended steeply into the ground. There, he snapped his fingers, and a glowing light appeared above and slightly before his head. Mathias conjured his own light, then both swept down the stairs.

Freya looked at Mouse. “I suppose we’re obligated to follow our truth-seekers.”

Mouse looked at Freya. “I suppose we are. At least, if we hope to travel in the light.”

Freya bowed and swept an arm gracefully before her. “After you, Milady!”

Mouse curtsied, then grinned and followed the mages. They descended perhaps a hundred feet into the ground, careful to keep within the area lit by the mages’ lights, each footstep dislodging a choking cloud of dust. When they reached the bottom, they followed the trail the two mages had broken through the dust, eventually arriving at a crypt with many burial niches along walls that receded into the darkness. A rune-covered sarcophagus stood at the room’s center.

“Uncover it, Freya,” commanded Thomas.

***

Mathias stepped beyond his puddle of urine, withdrew a wand from his cloak, and leveled it at the spirit.

“Do you really think that wise?”

He looked up at Freya. “Keep to subjects you understand, giantess, and leave magic to its masters.”

Freya shrugged and stepped back.

The wand’s tip glowed, and Mathias stood straighter and with more intensity than he’d shown before. “I charge you, begone!”

The spectre laughed, and made a brushing-aside motion. The wand flew into the darkness beyond the diminished circle of light. Mathias made a choking noise, then raised his arms above his head, as if warding off some crushing force. As the women watched, he gradually bent under that invisible pressure, pressed relentlessly downward until, with a groan, he slumped to the ground. The light faded, replaced by the dim glow of the blank-eyed ghost that rose from his corpse. With a despairing wail, it fled into the darkness, leaving the two women in the dark.

The king’s voice filled the darkness. “That leaves only you two.”

Freya cleared her throat, which had gone suddenly dry. “If it please you, your highness, might there be light so we can see you and plead our case?”

“That seems only fair.” Golden light fell from the stone ceiling, revealing the corpse and the cinders. Mouse took a step farther from the pool of urine beside the corpse.

Freya took a deep breath. “We’re here at the behest of your descendent, the King of Losthaven.”

The spectre crossed its arms on its chest. “I know nothing of this city. Tell me more.”

Freya explained the situation concisely. “So you see, sire, we’re here to retrieve your chain of office and return it to Losthaven to restore legitimacy to your descendant’s reign.”

“I see. And you think a piece of clanky metal will do that?”

“I wouldn’t venture to speculate. I was merely paid to return the chain. What happens thereafter is their problem.”

Mouse frowned. “Will be paid, she means. Without the chain, there’ll be no payment.”

The spectre laughed. “That is not my problem. But I confess, being confined within these walls weighs upon one. And I feel some curiosity about the fate of my descendants.” He paused a moment in thought. “Very well.” He gestured at the sarcophagus with one wispy hand. “Gather my bones, and the chain you seek. Carry me to this Losthaven of yours.”

“And me.”

The two women jumped. A second spectre had appeared, wearing a tiara upon its forehead. Freya leaned forward to glance into the sarcophagus. “Two skulls.”

“Indeed. Our last command to our followers before they fled the encroaching desert was that we be interred together for eternity.”

“How romantic.”

The queen frowned. “There are some thoughts you should keep to yourself, small one. In the meantime, have we a bargain?”

Mouse stood a little straighter. “And what shall our reward be?”

“Whatever you negotiated with our descendant, that shall be yours. In addition, you may keep whatever there is of value from our sarcophagus, save only our crowns and rings.”

“Including the chain?”

“Including the chain. The power of command inheres in the wearer, not the chain.”

The women exchanged glances, then Freya removed her cloak, and began gently transferring bones to it. When she’d wrapped the bones, the spectres sank into the cloak and disappeared, though their faint illumination persisted. She examined the sarcophagus. Little remained.

“I should know better than to trust a king’s word.” She sighed and reached into the sarcophagus once more. All that remained were two ornate knives with jeweled hilts, two woven silver belts, and a silver scepter that she gave to Mouse for safekeeping.

They ascended the stairs slowly, relying only on the faint light from the bones.

***

“You’re sure you know where you’re going?”

“Trust the barbarian.”

“I’ve trusted the barbarian for three days. I now have sand in every crevice of my body, including places best not mentioned. It only took us two days to reach the city. It’s a well-known fact that the return journey is always shorter than the outbound travel. Ergo...”

Mouse sighed. “Ergo, we must be lost.”

“That seems the logical interpretation.”

“I blame these shifting sands. In a civilized wilderness, the landmarks stay in place, allowing reliable navigation.”

Freya snorted and dropped the water skins she’d been carrying. With two fewer members of their expedition, there’d originally been ample water for the women, but her burden had shrunk alarmingly during the three days of their wandering. “Still, whatever the merits of civilized wilderness, it seems we may need more assistance than your barbarian instincts have provided here in its uncivilized cousin.”

Mouse blinked. “I have a thought.” She placed the cloak containing the bones upon the sand and cleared her throat. “Your highnesses?”

After a moment, twin black clouds rose from the bones, resolving into the forms of the king and his queen. They looked around, blinking in the intense light.

The king spoke first. “Are we there yet? Ah, I see we aren’t. What seems to be the problem, giantess?”

“Our navigation skills.”

“I’m grateful for the our.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The King cleared his throat warningly. “So you two are lost?”

“Quite thoroughly.”

The queen replied. “And you want us to save you?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. Your former tomb undoubtedly felt more confining than this vast expanse of sky, but if we don’t escape this desert, you’ll find yourself longing for the comforts of the tomb after a few centuries of burial beneath the sands.”

“You have a point.” The queen closed her eyes a moment, then pointed. “That way. About three days.”

The living women exchanged glances.

“No,” continued the queen. “We cannot transport you. You’ll have to walk.”

“Needs must,” sighed Freya, and shouldered what remained of the water.

***

By the second day, their water was gone. Freya spat grit from her dry mouth. “You should ride upon my shoulders.”

“Won’t that tire you faster?”

Freya snorted. “My water skin weighs more than you. Weighed more than you.”

“That’s because you’re freakishly large and carry a proportionally excessive amount of water.”

“There’s no denying that.”

Mouse heard the implied but. “But?”

Freya sighed. “When my limbs eventually fail me and I fall, then you’ll still be fresh, and can carry on in search of water. I trust that, as the barbarian among us, you’ll find water and bring enough back to revive me.”

Mouse’s lips quirked a grin. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of your trust.”

“Best you be. Or you’ll be dealing with a large and thirsty ghost for the rest of your undoubtedly short life.”

“Even the heroic heart quails at that prospect. Very well, then.” Freya knelt, and Mouse climbed upon her shoulders.

***

In the event, they escaped the desert before such desperate measures became necessary, though Freya was staggering before they crossed into wetter lands. At the border post, they rehydrated for a day, then took horse for Losthaven, and arrived in good time.

“You took long enough,” complained the advisor, scowling down his nose at Mouse and then up his nose at Freya. “And what have you done with my sorcerers?”

“Your sorcerers chose to be rude to the king of Falorn, who taught them the importance of politesse.”

“Wait—there’s a king in Falorn?”

“No,” said the dead king, rising from Freya’s bundled cloak, accompanied by his queen. “There’s a king in Losthaven.”

The advisor blanched.

“And it’s our first desire that you pay these two women the sum you agreed upon”, added the queen.

Hands shaking, the advisor withdrew a large bag of coins from a pocket of his robes, and tossed it to Mouse. Mouse made it disappear.

The Queen smiled a cold smile that had not been warmed in the least by the desert sun. “You have our permission to leave, warriors. And our gratitude for bringing us here. Now, you: advisor. Bring us to our descendent and his council. We have the matter of his legitimacy to discuss.”

Freya and Mouse left the audience chamber with alacrity.

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