For Whoever Would Save His Life...

I just came up with this idea one time, when I was in a kinda down mood... I like it a lot though. Different style than usual... i.e. present tense, first person.

Key to points of view:

j - Hooded One

g - Ganestoor

Sa - Sashart

Sh - Sohriyel

id - Nand

I lurk through the village on silent feet padded with callus, carrying my bundle. The hood of my dark, thick cloak is up; those passing by cannot see my face. The light cannot see my face. The cloak is oppressive in the midsummer heat, but I have grown used to it through the long years. It no longer bothers me.

I reach my hut and open the wooden door. A heat even greater than that under my cloak greets me, and the air seems to be jellied, so that I must push my way inside. The thick cloth blanketing every wall traps heat from outside, creating the sauna. The cloths must stay, though, for they capture the noise of outside before it can enter, and capture the noise within before it can escape, as well shutting out any light that might creep through cracks in the thatch roof or walls.

I set down the bundle and, unwrapping it carefully, examine the contents in the utter darkness. Only one item is visible: a sheathed bone knife with the handle wrapped in black velvet. This knife is quite visible, as if the sun were shining directly on it. It seems to glow, but the glow does not illuminate anything but the knife. This is a very dangerous knife. I put it to one side.

I light a small lantern and examine the other items. A coiled rope, a flint box, a bowstring, a water skin. Standard travel gear. I wrap these back up, but tie the knife around my neck on a leather cord and slip it into my cloak. Then I blow out the lantern and sit unmoving in the hot, silent darkness.

I stride proudly to my home, bearing my bundle of important tools. I am a chosen one, and this does not surprise me. I see the Hooded One pass by on the other side of the street, and I think I see a bundle under his arm as well. I cannot believe it. How could such a coward be chosen alongside me?

A pretty girl waves and smiles at me as I pass. I grin back at her. I reach my great stone house and enter. I call a servant to take my cloak, and ascend the stairs to my chambers. My son comes down the stairs clad in hunting getup. I clap him on the back proudly and wish him luck, and he confidently promises me roast boar for dinner.

I reach my chambers and toss the bundle carelessly onto the bed, then loosen my fine coat and remove my boots. I look in the mirror and comb my long handsome hair. Then I attend to the bundle.

I unwrap it, setting each item apart from the others on the bed. There is a cheap bone knife, a rope, a water skin, a flint box, a bowstring. All travel gear, except the knife, and all poor quality. I am indignant that I would receive such second-rate items. I decide to replace them with my own. I take my high-quality hunting knife instead of the bone one. Wrapping up the better items, I set the bundle in a corner and toss the cheap items into a pile to be discarded.

I stalk home, glaring at all who pass. How dare they choose me to go on such a journey! I am no one special that should be torn away from my life to go on such a quest. All I want is a normal life and a man who will hold me and never let go. This bundle under my arm makes me angry.

A handsome man passes me, and I smile and wave at him, trying to get him to notice me. He does, and smiles back. I feel better, but he passes and does not look back at me. I feel a cold emptiness inside me, and then anger consumes it and I return to glaring.

I notice the Hooded One on the other side of the street, and give him a particularly mean glare. I hate the Hooded One. He always hides his face and I know nothing about him.

I reach the inn at which I live and work, the Cascade. Above the door is a sign with the name painted on and a picture of a waterfall. I enter, go directly to my small room and throw the bundle angrily onto the bed, and then find the innkeeper to receive my chores.

The innkeeper is a middle-aged woman with long black hair and a practical face, named Sashart. She acts like a patient mother. I hate her. She orders me to mop the floor of the main room, quickly, before the patrons gather there for entertainment. I do so, daydreaming of meeting the man I passed on the street when the patrons gather. I finish, replace the mop in the storage closet, and return to my room.

The bundle lies on the bed, partially unwrapped from the rough handling. I unwrap it completely and look through the articles. A rope, a flint box, a bowstring, a water skin… items for a journey. Anger flares within me. The last item is a sheathed bone knife with a black velvet-wrapped hilt. I take it out of the sheath. The blade is white and carved with intricate patterns. The patterns seem to burn into my mind. I shudder and quickly put the knife back in its sheath.

These items are useless. I rewrap them and shove the bundle under the bed until I need it again. Then I find Sashart for another chore.

I have set my bundle aside for later inspection. I had arrived early to pick it up, so that my inn, the Cascade, would not be left alone for long.

A wealthy man of the village, named Ganestoor, stopped in for a drink. He does not seem a pleasant man, for he complained first of the temperature and then of the quality of his drink. As if I could afford better wine, with the small number of travelers that passes through this village. As he was leaving, I noticed that he carried a bundle identical to mine. So, he is to be going on the journey as well.

I hear rumors from various people stopping by at my inn for a drink or a chat. They say that they have seen the Hooded One carrying a bundle that, from their descriptions, is akin to the one I have. Therefore I know the identities of two of my companions already. This promises to be a very interesting journey.

As I tend to the finance book, I hear someone enter. I glance up, and it is Sohriyel, my fiery serving maid. She is carrying a bundle, the look of which I am now familiar with, under her arm. She stalks into her room like an angry cat, and stalks back out, without the bundle. She comes to me to receive her chore for the moment, and I assign her to mopping the main floor so that the inn will be presentable at the busier hours.

So now I know my three companions. I wonder how those that send us on this quest choose those that they send. I resolve to think about it no more, for the only say I have in the matter is whether I myself participate, which I fully intend to do. Therefore, worrying about the details is pointless. I focus my thoughts on my inn.

However, business is light and I have no tasks, so I decide to inspect the bundle. I take it out and unwrap it, laying each item out. A water skin, a bowstring, a coiled rope, and a flint box I lay out. The last item is a sheathed bone knife with a handle wrapped in black velvet. I feel uneasy as I look at it, as if it were not entirely of this world. I quickly rewrap the items and replace the bundle in a corner.

Then Sohriyel comes to me, and I assign her another task.

I wait at the stated place in the forest outside the village early the next morning. I bring my bundle carried under my cloak with various other items for travel. Even this early in the misty morning the air is hot, promising a sweltering midday. I pay it no mind, though the temperature is multiplied tenfold within my thick black cloak. I keep my hood up, covering my face. The others chosen for the journey arrive later than I at various times.

The first after me to arrive is the innkeeper of the village. She has a composed, practical appearance and manner, but a voice in my head tells me that her soul is a tempest of emotions. People of the village call her Sashart, but I know her as Calm Storm.

She studies me curiously. I shrink away from under her gaze, back into the darkness of my cloak. Finally she looks away, spreading her cloak beneath her to shield against the cold earth as she sits against a tree.

A red-haired girl arrives next, some time after Calm Storm. She is the serving maid at the Cascade, I know, and her anger at life is as fiery as her hair. The voice tells me of the cold in her soul though. Calm Storm greets her with the name Sohriyel, but I know her as Icy Flame.

She gives me a glare filled with hate, which can penetrate my thick covering no more than the heat inside can escape, before engaging in a low-voiced exchange with Calm Storm. I can measure Icy Flame’s ire from the sharpness of her tone. Calm Storm remains calm even under the heat of the anger. Eventually, Icy Flame stalks over to sit against the tree, keeping it between her and her employer. She closes her eyes and sits there silently, the corners of her mouth turned down.

The last to arrive is a muscular, finely dressed man with long hair tied back, carrying a well-made longbow. Others in the village look up to him, for he is the wealthiest man in the village, and often boasts about his possessions. Some consider him very strong, but the voice informs me of the true weakness in his soul. The villagers may address him as Lord Ganestoor, but I know him as Loud Whisper.

He looks at me, and I feel his deep, unreasoning contempt. His greeting to Calm Storm is polite, as if he is being gracious to an inferior. It is obvious that he is most interested in Icy Flame, for his tone of voice changes completely when he greets her, and he smiles at her winningly when she opens her eyes. Icy Flame seems to feel the same way, for upon seeing Loud Whisper her eyes shine, though I cannot tell if the shine is delight or of seeing an opportunity.

As they continue their courting, I think. We are four here now in the forest clearing, which means everyone that was chosen is here. I wonder what is our journey, that we four are chosen out of all the villagers. What is our mission, and, I wonder now, waiting in the clearing, when do we begin?

My question is answered suddenly. A toneless voice speaks loudly from above. “So you are all four here.”

The others look up into the trees, searching for the source of the voice, but I know the speaker cannot be found.

“Do you all have your knives?” The voice asked. I nod, Calm Storm displays hers sheathed on her sash, and Icy Flame calls out, “Yes.”

Loud Whisper, however, has a haughty expression on his face as he holds up a finely crafted steel blade to the sky. “This knife suits me better than one of worthless bone,” he announces with self-importance.

“Your knife is worthless,” the voice says, and even in its lack of tone, anger is evident. “You must have the knife that was given to you.”

Loud Whisper shrinks away slightly. “I will go retrieve it,” he says, and there is a hint of sniveling in his tone.

“No,” the voice commands. “It is too late already. Take this one.” A bone knife drops from the trees and thuds into the ground blade-first. The others try to discover from where the knife came, but they cannot see.

Loud Whisper steps out quickly to pick up the knife, looking up at the trees as if he is afraid another knife will fall. He steps back and buckles the knife onto his belt.

“You must know your task,” the voice says. “Now is the last time you will be allowed to decide against going on this journey. After you know what you are to do, you must go through with it, or else you will die.”

No one speaks. I consider backing out, but in truth, I would gain nothing from remaining in the village.

“You have all accepted your quest. Know that you can no longer refuse it.” Everyone nods acknowledgement, still staring into the trees.

“Your quest is this: to enter the lair of the Doomuur Sebiyereha and defeat them.” A shiver ripples through the group at the name. Even though I am sure none of them know any more about the Doomuur Sebiyereha than I, the name itself is chilling.

Calm Storm steps forward. “Where is this lair? What are the… Doomuur Sebiyereha?” Her voice is almost steady, though she hesitates to speak the unnerving name.

“You cannot find the lair without a guide,” the voice replies. “You must travel to the Obsidees Well. There your guide will join you. As for the Doomuur Sebiyereha, I can tell you very little of their nature. Only know this: they are three, and their names are Reyirj, Imreyirg, and Oopayanookuuruu.”

I store these names away in my mind. I do not know their meaning, but I sense that if I could interpret them I would know the weakness of the Doomuur Sebiyereha.

“I have a question,” Loud Whisper announces, arrogantly but trying to be polite. “Why is it necessary that we carry cheap bone knives instead of finely made blades? What can bone cut that steel cannot?”

“Your steel knife would be completely ineffective against the Doomuur Sebiyereha. The only chance you have of defeating them is to use the knife given to you.”

I store this away as well. The voice’s statement implies that these Doomuur Sebiyereha are not made of flesh, but of something only our bone knives can cut. At first, I thought the other three in the group could complete the mission without needing my help, but suddenly I doubt that their true strength is great enough for the task. Realizing my thoughts imply that only with my strength can the mission be completed, I cower within my cloak, ashamed of myself for my pride. The voice in my head tries to comfort me, telling me that I would not have been chosen if I was not needed, but I shut it out.

The voice from the trees speaks no more. I am quaking inside, but I refuse to show it, refuse to let Sashart or the Hooded One gloat over my weakness. The words spoken by the voice have visibly shaken even the man, Ganestoor. I curse myself for not turning away from this quest, and then again for such weakness.

Sashart is organizing the group, assigning duties and planning for the journey ahead, though I believe Ganestoor would make a better leader. He seems content to stand by and control the others with his presence though. I go over to him, wanting comfort. He seems unaware of me for a moment, and then notices me and moves to put an arm around my waist.

I stand there, content, until Sashart turns to me. She frowns, and gives me the duty of cleaning up our future camps. How dare she order me around like she does in the Cascade! I have been chosen just as she!

I look up at Ganestoor for comfort, and find him looking at me. With his blue eyes and luxurious hair, his gaze usually makes my heart race. This time, however, the look in his eyes makes me feel like… meat. Instead of comfort, anger burns higher. I push away, and the man does not try to stop me, but resumes his imperious stance.

Sashart finishes planning, and sends us off to gather what we will take along.

We meet back at the forest clearing, carrying our equipment for the journey. The sun has climbed halfway into the sky; it is midmorning. The Hooded One is waiting for Sashart and me as we arrive. Ganestoor is somewhat later, but this surprises none of us.

“We are ready to set out then,” Sashart says. She does so, and we follow. Sashart leads, with Ganestoor striding purposefully behind, and the Hooded One lurking in the rear. I walk next to Ganestoor, hoping for comfort. My life is miserable.

We travel at a pace somewhat faster than what is comfortable for me, and my legs eventually begin to tire. I suggest to Sashart that we are moving too quickly, but without admitting my weakness. To my surprise, she agrees to slow down a bit.

“After all,” she explains, “the voice in the trees did not specify an amount of time within which we had to reach the well, so for all we know we can move as slow as we wish, so long as we continue our journey.”

I believe she is foolish. That voice did not sound like someone—or something—whose patience we should take the risk of testing. However, I am glad when our pace slows.

The Obsidees Well, an ancient relic of some long gone community, lies too far from our village to be of any use except to travelers. Not many of those now pass through this way either to or from our village though, so the well continues to crumble. We plan to reach the well by nightfall.

Sashart drops behind us, apparently wanting to talk to the Hooded One. I cannot understand why. Ganestoor willingly takes the lead, proudly scanning the forest ahead. I fall behind him, walking by myself. My pack is heavy, but I must not be weak.

We reach the well at the end of the day, and set up camp. I dread my duty that will come when we leave, but at least I have no tasks until then except unpacking my own equipment. Ganestoor is busy gathering firewood, Sashart tending to the fire and readying the evening meal, and the Hooded One drawing water from the well, being careful not to spill any on his disgusting heavy cloak. I wonder where is the guide we are supposed to meet.

I go over to see the renowned Obsidees Well when I finish unpacking. The Hooded One, drawing more water, keeps the ruined well between us, which suits me very well.

The ancient well is falling apart. The roof that once covered it is gone, and the base is disappearing stone by stone. I stare down into the dark water, and wonder if it is safe to drink. The well bores me, and I return to camp. Sashart calls us all for dinner.

The meal is bread, potatoes, and duck. The traveling has made me hungry, but I eat little. Sashart tells me I must keep up my energy, but I take only another slice of bread. Ganestoor eats ravenously, but I notice that the Hooded One avoids the meat. The fool.

After the meal, Sashart calls me to wash the dishes. “It is part of cleaning up the camp,” she says. My hands quickly wrinkle and turn pink in the nearly scalding water. I hate it.

We camp for the night, setting in to sleep, and still our mysterious guide has not appeared. Loud Whisper suggests that we keep a watch through the night, but Calm Storm points out that there is nothing to worry about this far into the wilderness. I am not so sure, but I do not dare speak up. I decided to check our surroundings every so often throughout the night. I sleep only in my cloak; it is thick enough to keep out the cold hardness of the ground.

I am tired after the long day of travel, but my sleep is light and my dreams fleeting. The first few checks reveal nothing; the night is silent. On the fourth, however, although I hear nothing, my mind is not at ease. I do not return to sleep, but lurk silently, ready to catch any change in the dark silent night.

For a while I sense nothing. Then, softly, as if from a great distance, the sound of singing reaches my ears. The voice is sweet and high-pitched, singing wordlessly. I hold my breath, keeping still and silent, as the singing comes ever closer.

The singing stops when the voice seems just outside the camp. I stand up, removing my hood so it does not interfere with my hearing. No one can see me in the darkness anyway. I hear leaves rustle as our guide enters the camp.

I can see him clearly. He is a small, innocent boy, playing with a flawless crystal bauble. The ball shines with pale flickering light, but it illuminates only the boy. His eyes seem strange, as if they have no depth. The voice in my head tells me that this boy is very dangerous. Although he introduces himself as Nand, in a voice sweet but strangely… empty, I know him as Innocent Death.

I hear a noise behind me and quickly pull my hood up before I remember that no natural light shines on my face. Calm Storm approaches; I can see her by the light of the moon, though it is dimmed by clouds. She comes up beside me to look at our guide, and I shrink away slightly.

“Who is it?” She asks softly, staring at the boy, and I realize that she cannot see the eerie light.

“I am Nand,” Innocent Death says in his sweet youthful voice. “I shall guide you to the lair of the Doomuur Sebiyereha. May I sleep with you tonight?”

“Yes, of course,” Calm Storm says. “I have some extra blankets you can use.” She turns to retrieve them, touching my arm lightly on the way. I jerk away, but the touch is harmless.

Our guide settles down, so I return to my sleep, undisturbed until dawn.

I wake up early and begin to prepare the morning meal. It seems that no one else is awake, but then I notice a pail of water drawn from the well. The Hooded One has been up before me. I frown slightly. I wish I knew the man’s true name, but no one knows him as anything but the Hooded One. In truth, I realize, I am not even sure he is a man.

I need more firewood, so I rouse Ganestoor. He whines about the early hour like a child, but a simple challenge to his strength sends him swaggering into the forest. I decide to let Sohriyel sleep though. I could use her help, but her assigned duty is large enough, and she traveled well yesterday.

Nand rises to sit watching me work, shifting his ball from hand to hand silently. The boy disturbs me, but the feeling is just below consciousness and I cannot place it.

Soon everyone is awake and we break the fast. Then we pack up our gear—except Sohriyel, who is grumpily cleaning up the camp. I pack for her.

We begin traveling again when the camp has been cleaned, and this time Nand leads the way. We start out traveling north from the Obsidees Well, approaching the mountains northeast of our village. Soon the ground begins to slope upward.

I catch up with Nand. Perhaps he can answer something I have been wondering about. “What is the significance of this bone knife?” I ask, displaying mine.

“A scratch from it dispels a soul,” the boy replies. His voice is not monotonous, but it lacks emotion.

I nod at this before his explanation sinks in. A soul! Any other knife would be less dangerous coated with the deadliest poison. My hand shakes as I very carefully replace my knife. “May I… tell the others of this?” I ask hesitantly.

“You may,” Nand says.

I drop back to do so. Ganestoor responds with some interest to this news, while Sohriyel seems indifferent, although there is a faint gleam in her eyes. When I mention it to the Hooded One, though, he seems to already know. At least, he does not show surprise. He is a mystery to me.

We have not left the forest since we began our journey. Not even at the ancient well, which was once at the center of a great city, for over the years the trees have grown up around it. However, as we climb higher into the mountains, the trees grow sparser and large clearings come more frequently.

The sun is not even at its highest point, yet we have covered a considerable distance. Our child-like guide, in spite of seeming no more than eight summers passed, never tires. The others, however, are growing weary. Ganestoor moves steadily, but I can see he is breathing heavily. Sohriyel is obviously exhausted, though she refuses to show it. She repeatedly pushes forward strongly, and then has to stop and rest until we catch up. The Hooded One is lagging behind. For some reason this surprises me, though it makes sense that he should not be used to such exercise. I myself am very tired.

I suggest that we rest in the clearing we are now crossing, and perhaps eat something. Nand agrees, and we find comfortable seats on rocks around us. Each of us has a supply of nonperishable food on which we snack. I offer some to Nand, but he declines.

Suddenly screeches sound as three winged shapes, silhouetted by the sun, swoop down upon us.

I look up to see the source of the shrieks. Three creatures dive toward us from above. They should be silhouetted with the sun behind them, but I can see them clearly, as if they shine with their own light, like the bone knives and our guide’s ball.

The creatures have talons like eagles, though much longer. Their wings are furry, like bats’ except that they are rounded, without points. They have long snouts with fangs that extend past the opposite jaw. Their eyes glow yellow, and are as bright as the sun reflected off glass when they look at me. They swoop down upon our company, and I dive out of the way.

Loud Whisper and Icy Flame stand, soul-eating knives in hand, ready to fend off another attack. The monsters dive at them again.

The Nimarekon have no souls, the voice in my head says. The knives will not work.

“They have no souls,” I repeat softly.

Calm Storm hears me. She calls to the other two, “They do not have souls! You cannot use the knives!” Loud Whisper and Icy Flame duck down just in time to avoid the sweeping talons.

Loud Whisper rises quickly and retrieves his bow. He is foolish to thinking of using the knife before the bow. He nocks an arrow, ready to shoot when the creatures attack again.

“Aim for the eyes,” Innocent Death says. As the Nimarekon attack, Loud Whisper looses. His aim is excellent. He sends one arrow after another streaking toward the monsters, felling the last after he rises from ducking to avoid the attack.

The creatures fall to the earth. I watch as their self-light fades, and as their bodies fade and disappear. The others pick themselves up and gather their belongings.

“What were those?” Calm Storm asks Innocent Death.

“Guardians,” the boy replies in his emotionless voice. “They existed to prevent any travelers from reaching the lair of the Doomuur Sebiyereha.”

“They could have killed us,” Calm Storm argues. “Would dying in the talons of these monsters be better than meeting the Doomuur Sebiyereha?”

“A more merciful fate,” the guide replies. Calm Storm stands, looking shocked.

We pack up to continue our quest. Sohriyel looks at me admiringly, impressed by my excellent marksmanship. I compliment her on how she was almost as brave as I in the fight, but get a glare in return. I cannot understand that girl.

We continue our journey after we rest, traveling higher into the mountains. The ground changes from earth to rock and the trees disappear. Our young guide leads us through a maze of twists and crevasses in the mountain passes, and soon even I cannot remember the way back.

Suddenly Nand stops. “The lair is above,” he says, pointing up the path. It ascends to the rocky edge of a cliff and then turns, vanishing behind the rock wall running along it.

“Now what?” Sohriyel asks irritably. “How do we defeat them? Just run up there and stab them?”

“No,” Nand says. His voice has no emotion. “You must challenge them one by one, using your knives.”

“I will go,” I volunteer. The others look at me. “So no one else has to,” I explain.

Sohriyel shrugs and turns her back, and Sashart wishes me luck. The Hooded One and Nand say nothing, but just look at me.

I turn and walk up the path toward the lair, drawing my knife on the way. As I round the bend, I see the hole in the rock that must be the entrance to the abode of the Doomuur Sebiyereha. It is barely large enough for me to squeeze through. Once inside, the cave widens so that I can stand comfortably. Some light comes in through the entrance, so that I can see a little way into the cave. I move forward slowly and carefully, holding out my hands to avoid running into the walls.

The passage extends a few yards, and then there is a wall. I feel around and discover that it is actually a corner. I turn and continue. It is now pitch black. Suddenly, the ground under my feet slopes away and I fall, sliding a little way down and then coming to rest.

I quickly climb to my feet, holding my knife at ready. Suddenly, light seems to shine all around, and then quickly fades, but I can still see. I see three copies of me, as if in mirrors, standing before me.

“Who are you?” They ask in one voice, and the voice is at once boastful, harsh, and warm.

“I am Ganestoor!” I state proudly.

“Who loves you, Ganestoor?” They ask.

“Many love me. I am a very important man in my village,” I reply confidently.

The three copies scream. The sound reverberates endlessly around the stone chamber, enveloping me in its forceful vibrations. Within the noise I hear voices taunting me, digging deep into my soul. “They do not love you!” “They think you are a fool!” “You are a blind, weak coward!” “No one could love you more than you love yourself!”

Roaring, I thrust myself forward and plunge my bone knife into the center figure.

“He has lost,” Nand says. Ganestoor has lost! I cannot believe it. Whatever these Doomuur Sebiyereha are, if they are stronger than Ganestoor there is none stronger than they.

“I’m leaving,” I say. “I will not go in there just to be killed or… whatever.”

“You cannot turn back,” the boy says in his frighteningly emotionless voice. “You will more certainly die if you leave than if you face the Doomuur Sebiyereha.”

“Not fair!” I am angry.

“You are the one who agreed to come,” Nand says. “Now, who will go next?”

“I will,” I say crossly. I might as well go and spare myself the wait.

“No, let me,” Sashart says, pushing forward. I push her away and run up the path to the lair.

As I round the bend, I see the hole in the rock that must be the entrance to the abode of the Doomuur Sebiyereha. Once inside, the cave widens so that I can stand comfortably. Some light comes in through the entrance, so that I can see a little way into the cave. I move forward slowly and carefully, holding out my hands to avoid running into the walls.

Suddenly light flashes, illuminating the rock chamber, and then quickly fades, but I can still see three figures. They look like me, as if in mirrors.

“Who are you?” They ask, and their one voice is at once sweet, angry, and cold.

“Figure it out for yourself!” I shout. I try to lunge forward with my knife, but I cannot move. I struggle against what binds me.

“Who loves you, Sohriyel?” The three say.

“No one loves me! Everyone is cruel and hateful! Let me go!”

The three scream. The sound reverberates endlessly around the stone chamber, enveloping me in its forceful vibrations. Within the noise I hear voices taunting me, digging deep into my soul. “They love you! You just do not see it!” “You turn their love away!” “You are the cruel, hateful one!” “You have never let anyone love you!” “Your misery is your own fault!”

“Shut up! Stop!” I scream. My restraints are gone; I attack.

“She has lost,” our guide says. “Which of you is next?”

I bow my head in sadness. I knew Sohriyel would lose, for though she tries to crush her weakness, she is no stronger than Ganestoor. I wish I had gone in her place. At least, it would delay her fate for a time.

I look around and see that only the Hooded One and I are left. “I will go,” I say. I have lived a good life so far, and I believe the Hooded One still deserves a chance to do so.

No one speaks, so I turn and start up the path. As I round the bend, I see the hole in the rock that must be the entrance to the abode of the Doomuur Sebiyereha. It is barely large enough for me to squeeze through. Once inside, the cave widens so that I can stand comfortably. Some light comes in through the entrance, so that I can see a little way into the cave. I move forward slowly and carefully, holding out my hands to avoid running into the walls.

Suddenly light flashes and quickly fades, but three figures remain. They look like me, as if there were three mirrors.

“Who are you?” They ask, and their voice is at once thoughtful, calm, and frantic.

“I am Sashart,” I say calmly. They do not seem hostile, but I am on guard for an attack.

“Who loves you, Sashart?” They ask.

“I do not know,” I say. “No one, I suppose. I am a simple innkeeper.”

“Who do you love, Sashart?” They ask.

“I love Sohriyel like a daughter,” I reply.

The three scream. The sound reverberates endlessly around the stone chamber, enveloping me in its forceful vibrations. Within the noise I hear voices taunting me, digging deep into my soul. “You need love, but no one needs you!” “Even if someone loved you, you could not love them in return!” “You turn your back on those you love!” “Everyone see you as cold-hearted!”

“No! No!” I try to push them out of my head, but cannot. These are the enemy! I must attack! I thrust my knife at them, trying to stop their cries.

“She has lost,” Innocent Death says. It is my turn. We nod to each other, and I start up the path.

As I round the bend, I see the hole in the rock that must be the entrance to the abode of the Doomuur Sebiyereha. I cannot fit through with my cloak. I hesitate, and then decide there is no one left to see me, and it is dark inside anyway. The warm summer air feels frigid without my cloak after years of extreme heat within it, but I ignore the cold. The sun seems to burn my thin, pale arms, so I quickly enter the darkness.

Once inside, the cave widens so that I can stand comfortably. Some light comes in through the entrance, so that I can see a little way into the cave. I move forward slowly and carefully, holding out my hands to avoid running into the walls.

Suddenly light flashes and quickly fades, but three figures remain. They look like me, except that they still have cloaks.

“Who are you?” They ask, and their voice is at once tremulous, intelligent, and fearful.

I cannot answer. I do not know my name. It has been too long since I have heard it.

“I do not know,” I say finally.

The three scream. The sound reverberates endlessly around the stone chamber, enveloping me in its forceful vibrations. Within the noise I hear voices taunting me, digging deep into my soul. “You are worthless!” “No one loves you!” “You are a coward!” “You are too weak to help anyone!”

I know they are right. I am worthless. I must defeat them; defeat them so that I do not die in vain. I prepare myself to attack.

Wait! They are wrong! The voice in my head cries through the echoing resonance. I love you! You are not worthless. Let me help you! Think of their names!

I stop. I had forgotten the names of the Doomuur Sebiyereha. The voice helps me. Reyirj is truth. Imreyirg is untruth. Oopayanookuuruu is doubt. That is it! I understand.

The intensity of their scream increases and their taunts grow worse, but the voice helps me to resist their manipulation. I throw back my head and add my scream to theirs. The voice gives me the strength to win the battle. I sound my battle cry and plunge my knife into myself.

The scream of the Doomuur Sebiyereha turns from one of triumph to one of fear and anguish. The lair shakes violently and a powerful current of air sweeps through the chamber, while light flashes blindingly. The three cloaked images of me are sucked into the vortex and twisted into swirling colors.

The world is crashing down around me. I cannot stay on my feet, so I fall weakly to the ground, barely clinging to the rock to avoid being pulled into the cyclone. I am on the verge of giving up.

Suddenly, a warm, bright light shines on me, giving me strength. I look up and see a man, clothed in a white robe and shining with beautiful radiance. He holds out his hand to me, and I see it has been pierced, but the wound is healed. “Come, Jimuur,” He says, and I recognize His voice as the one in my head that helped me through the battle. He knows my name! “Come, live with my Father and Me, and never again feel sorrow or fear.”

Tears fill my eyes. I take His hand, and the infinite warmth and brightness of His love envelopes me.

His masters, the Doomuur Sebiyereha, the Soul Devourers, are defeated, and Nand fades away.

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