7.2

Alone in her tent, Zyrdicia removed her spiked gauntlets and tossed them on a table. Her magic mail coat she sent to the nether space where she held her sword and dagger. The last enchanted item she removed was the slim silver chain adorning her waist. With it, she abandoned the stolen supernatural strength her body normally exhibited.

People normally associated her body's strength with her demonic heritage, an error she preferred to not correct. The physical power was, in fact, completely unrelated to her genetic lineage. She had trapped the soul of a fire giant within the belt's enchanted metal. When she wore it, his massive strength became her own. The trick was so elegantly simple that few would ever guess that without it, her body's force was unremarkable. She kept her muscles strong, but the fire giant's strength was her secret.

The morning's bright light illuminated the tent. Even at this early hour, she could tell that the weather on this side of the mountains was warmer. She opened her magic pouch to access the extra-dimensional space within it. Once it was activated, she retreated behind the violet portal into her enchanted rooms, taking the belt with her.

She eagerly peeled off the blood-soaked leather clinging to her skin and plunged into the enormous marble pool, magically refilled and waiting for her. The water soothed her. As she washed the blood from her braids, she decided she could stand them no more. They had served their purpose. Her nimble fingers set about the arduous task of liberating her hair from them. She was in no hurry. Sleep was forbidden. She had time to waste.

After her long bath, she stood naked in front of a long, silver mirror. She summoned what she could of the Tenaebran energy to sustain her. The violet light filled her eyes, and the angelic glow bathed her skin as the energy permeated her physical frame. Her appearance would only cement the soldiers' perception of her as a goddess.

She was loathe to get dressed again. She loved the feel of her freshly washed, bare skin. She reached for a bejeweled crystal vial and pulled the platinum stopper from it. A beguiling floral scent filled the air. She touched the perfume to her throat and the ends of her hair. Its subtlety was such that one had to be very close to her to smell it. Its purpose was purely to please her own senses.

The strange perfume was a distillation of a very rare and deadly flower. To her knowledge, the flowering vine grew only upon the gates of Hell. The flower's wondrous scent was deadly to mortals, for it belonged to the Plane of Darkness. Its beautiful fragrance lured any living creature that ventured that far into the underworld to death's waiting arms. Zyrdicia admired the fact that the pleasure of the scent's aroma was also its poison. The effort to distill the fragrance had killed three of Lyr's most gifted perfumers. Her current artisan had worked first with a skilled necromancer to isolate and nullify the toxin. The necromancer's expertise in the realm of the dead had been vital to the procedure. The elaborate magical process was slow and terribly expensive. When she smelled its product, however, she was certain that it was worth it.

Looking through her clothes, she found one of her Temple robes. Her hand lingered over the luscious black satin. The irony of wearing it while impersonating a local goddess was sweet. Anthony had redesigned the old vestments of the Zyrian priesthood to exhibit a more pronounced sense of sinister style. The deep hood had been elongated dramatically, so that even when pulled up, it still had a long, pointed drape in the back. He tailored the robe's fabric along the torso so that it hugged her curves. He lined the hood with a purple satin which matched her eyes. The liquid sensuality of the fabric was a tactile delight.

She dressed and pulled the hood up. Her eyes glowed powerfully from within it. The effect was dramatic. She exited the nether rooms and returned to her tent. Someone had left a tray of food. She wasn't interested.

The morning was far too bright already. It was hardly an appropriate setting for the appearance of a dark goddess. She summoned fog as best she could in her weakened state. Looking outside, she saw deep blankets of it roll off the mountains into camp. The thick mist obscured the sun with ghostly tendrils. A heavy guard had been placed upon her tent. These guards were not to keep her in, but to keep others out. They had been ordered to see that no one disturbed her. How thoughtful.

She stopped and looked at the guards' faces. They bowed their heads. Searching through their minds, she found that each considered it a tremendous honor to be near her. She touched one finger to the forehead of each and traced a glyph shaped like the waved-bladed dagger she wore at her throat. The glyph glowed with violet light upon each man's skin. "Strength to the faithful," she whispered, invoking one of her favorite, meaningless Lyrian Temple slogans. The guards all looked as though they had just had a religious revelation. They belonged to her.

She moved through the camp slowly. Many were already sleeping off the early morning revelry. Those who weren't saw a spectral figure emerge through the gray mist. Most bowed. She continually repeated the minor illusion with the dagger glyph, each time whispering the Temple slogan. They frequently repeated her words back as though it were a ritual. They were easily molded. Lyrians were sophisticated and jaded by centuries of magic in the city; it took a lot to impress them. These poor bumpkins, however, were desperate for divinity.

A bit of activity near the camp's edge caught her attention. She smelled death. As she approached, she found a small group of torture troopers systematically executing the remaining southern prisoners. There were only thirty or forty captives left. She wanted them. She was too tired to properly enjoy them in this state, but after she found time to rest, she knew that she would need to kill again. Having a ready supply of victims would allow her to express her creativity at her leisure.

The soldiers ceased their activity when she approached, reacting with the predictable reverence of their peers. She pulled a square of enchanted fabric from her pocket and cast it to the ground, opening a square hole. "I require the rest of the prisoners as a sacrifice. You are to cast them into this pit alive."

They looked at each other nervously. Blackpool had given them strict orders to kill every prisoner. She sensed their thoughts. "Your lord will approve," she reassured them. "Before you consecrate them to me, cut off each man's sword hand and one foot. Do you know how to cauterize such wounds to prevent them from bleeding out?"

They all nodded mutely.

"See to it. The sacrifice is a holy matter." Before she left, she repeated the glyph ritual. "Strength to the faithful!" they repeated in enraptured unison as she departed. As she walked away, they lit a fire to heat the swords with which they would amputate appendages, pursuant to her instructions. Not only would they do as she demanded, she smiled to herself, but they would do so in direct violation of their prince's order.

"Hail Karteia! Hail Landeshexa!" someone whispered from within a tent's doorway.

Zyrdicia turned. The man was no mere soldier. He was one of the northern noblemen. His auburn hair was just starting to gray at the temples. His high cheekbones reminded her of Geoffrey and Dirk. They were undoubtedly somehow related. Zyrdicia immediately began to sift through his thoughts.

He stepped out of the doorway as she regarded him. "Greetings. I am Baron Erowyn Dagonet."

"I know." Zyrdicia took an instant dislike to him, though her pretense of a smile was disarmingly sweet. As she looked into his eyes, his thoughts became clearer. She realized why she disliked him as his true identity crystallized. She had to resist the urge to laugh. He was part of the Blue Thorn. He envisioned himself saving Karteia from a tyrant, retrieving the land from the brink of oblivion. He hoped the manifestation of the country's old goddess was a good omen.

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," she smiled. "Farewell, Baron." Zyrdicia continued on her way. He was vermin of the worst kind. The idealistic fervor she detected in his mind disgusted her. He was a moralizing scavenger of power. He was too weak a human being to create power in his own right, so he nibbled at whatever scraps he could find, all in the name of righting the world's wrongs. Dirk appeared to be the only likeable person this land had produced.

She considered stopping by the command tent to share the discovery with him, but she was certain he would be asleep. It could wait. The sun gradually burned away the mist. She retreated back to her tent. Her work was done. Word of her ghostly visits would spread like wildfire as the day wore on.