Dive into the world of Eschtalon with this brief glimpse of the Dark Times, when Songmasters hunted each other in the name of peace.

Keturah Impellian of Jem, and Reva Annocast of Farholme

portraits created using Artbreeder

None had disobeyed Keturah’s song—until she began hunting Reva. It was as if music couldn’t touch the woman.

Tonight, Keturah followed Reva’s trail into the jungle. The canopy blocked sunlight during the day and trapped sweltering heat and moisture. If Keturah hadn’t lived here two of the past three decades, she would have surrendered to the humidity within minutes.

The reek of fouled water choked the air, and nocturnal monkeys rattled an irritated chorus from tree to tree. Clouds of gnats and flies swarmed close but left her alone after she hummed a choice, quiet melody.

She checked the pouch secured to her belt by knotted drawstrings. Despite ambient heat, it was cold to the touch. Even the contemplation of opening it made her nervous. If she miss-aimed the contents or struck too soon, this hunt would end with her as the captive instead of Reva. Accuracy would be vital.

Ahead, Reva’s trail snaked into thick undergrowth, toward a stream that glowed yellow and hissed with pollutants. She had to avoid touching any plant life that fed off the stream unless she wanted toxic excretions to leave burns.

She chose a handful of scolding notes, and all undergrowth barring her way retreated a few leaves at a time until she had a clear path to the stream. During daylight, the river and all connecting waterways appeared dull yellow, but in the darkness, they glowed phosphorescent.

Keturah kept to a trail of everstones jutting from the stream. She was careful not to let even a few caustic drops touch her soles though. Only everstone could withstand immersion in corrosive water, and she pitied anyone who slipped into this toxic mess. The stink of rot assaulted her after every inch of progress, and if she hadn’t been so concerned with keeping balance, she’d have covered most of her face during the crossing.

Once safely on the opposite shore, she used the same commanding cadence as before to order the next section of undergrowth to part.

A cluster of pale orange orchids hugged a tree just past where the line of corrupted plants ended. She inhaled the flowers’ rich sweetness to expunge the water’s stench, and most of the foul odor dissipated, but a thin film still hugged her tongue.

Reva’s trail threaded between two trees, their trunks easily twice as wide as Keturah. Vines dangled high enough off the ground for her to pass beneath without crouching.

A jaguar dropped into the path. Its golden eyes fixed on her.

Predators didn’t bother with stealth anymore—not since the waters fouled.

The jungle cat leaped at her.

Keturah drew twin long knives as she sang a forbidding phrase.

Mid-leap, the jaguar twisted away and landed in the undergrowth beside Keturah. It lay in the dirt, throat exposed in submission.

“Thought you’d get an easy meal?” She took a dominant stance over the cat as he avoided meeting her gaze. “You just volunteered for the hunt.” She sheathed both blades and checked the still-cool pouch. Its strings were secure. “Do as I instruct, and when this is over, I’ll release you from the song binding you to me.”

The cat’s plaintive yowl held resignation.

“Get up.” She shooed the jaguar out of the flattened underbrush.

The cat obeyed, and Keturah wove an additional melody around him. She poured determination into each phrase as she dredged up every frustration from her hunt—reviewed each time Reva had slipped through her traps.

When Keturah finished slaving the jaguar’s will to hers, the cat slinked into the dense jungle but remained nearby, awaiting her commands.   

Reva’s prints headed east, toward sheer cliffs. Surely, she didn’t intend to scale them. No one had made that climb in over fifty years. This had to be a false trail, laid to send her away from Reva’s true destination.

If Reva thought Keturah could be so easily misled, she had no grasp of Keturah’s skills.

Her next song, this one a declaration instead of a command, sank into the earth. It leaped from roots to bulbs to runners, announcing the hunt for Reva to every plant, tree, and flower. If Reva wanted to conceal her presence from Keturah, she would have to hide from the jungle itself.

A tremble beneath Keturah’s feet led her to a second set of prints, these scratched out by a kapok branch.

The trail narrowed, and visibility dimmed until Reva’s tracks vanished, and all Keturah had to navigate by was the gentle thrum of the earth and occasional luminescent fungi.

Wet leaves slapped her arm. She jerked away, keeping in a yelp as the plant’s poisonous excretions burned her skin. She must be near a bend in the stream she’d crossed earlier.         

The ground’s hum rose to a low rumble as she skirted more poison-covered foliage and stepped into a clearing barely four lengths in diameter.

Faint yellow light seeped from behind a line of gapped trees.

The ground stilled.

After half a year of searching, she’d found Reva.

Keturah drew both knives with a near inaudible whish. “Face me, traitor.” She followed the demand with six firm notes that filled the clearing.

Outside the jungle canopy, rain fell. Drops sneaked through a handful at a time. One plopped into Keturah’s hair and slipped into her eye.

It only took a moment to blink the raindrop clear, but in that bare half second, Reva appeared opposite Keturah.

The faint glow behind the other woman obscured all details. If it weren’t for the luminous, palm-sized stone hung around Reva’s neck, she’d have been little more than a dark outline. Her deep sienna skin and eternal black eyes seemed to absorb the stone’s blue light, giving her a warrior’s semblance. Her words shook the air. “To whom have I been disloyal, Keturah?”

Reva’s glowing necklace illuminated precise lip movements, but there was a half second delay between word formation and sound projection. Her words should have been blurred, yet they vibrated with crisp strength, and beneath each unit of sound was a supporting melody, as if Reva sang and spoke in the same breath.

Keturah kept both knives ready and prepared to summon the jaguar. “You’ve betrayed everyone—all seven tribes, the ruling council, your fellow Songmasters, even yourself. Once, you were a guardian of the throne. Now, you rebel against it.”

A mosaic of bold notes underpinned Reva’s response. “Because that throne’s occupant has changed. I will not serve tyrants. If that makes me a traitor, then traitor I’ll be.”

“The king is dead. And we’re better for it. He was too loose with the tribes—”

“But was he ever wrong? Did he once neglect the needs of his people? Did he fail to redress wrongs or reward goodness?” Reva’s questions circled Keturah in impassioned melody, using song to control the direction and movement of sound.

This had to be the reason every attempt to capture Reva had failed. She wore her musical gift as a shield. Outside of killing her, the dreaded contents of Keturah’s belt pouch would be the only way to thwart that shield. Once the pouch was open, she would have scant seconds to act.

Before she replied to the traitor’s questions, Keturah hummed a clandestine chorus, instructing her jaguar conspirator to position himself behind Reva and prepare to pounce. “The council metes out judgment. They keep order and stem chaos so the tribes will prosper far beyond what the king’s liberality allowed. You’ve shunned order, Reva. You’ve resisted the council’s efforts to unite all seven Songmasters for the good of the tribes. Come with me, or I’ll drag you back. The council prefers you alive.” She brandished her knives. “Don’t make them settle for less.”

The air rippled as Reva’s song-made shield seemed to filter Keturah’s words, stripping away any hidden commands she might have tried to sneak through.

“It saddens me that you, a fellow Songmaster, would bow to the council’s undisguised agenda. I will never yield. Though I die resisting.” Reva’s reply clapped Keturah’s ears and rattled her vision.

Taking advantage of Keturah’s momentary disorientation, Reva doused her glowing necklace half a breath before she tackled Keturah and snugged a forearm across her throat. One knee pinned each wrist in the dirt, eliminating the threat of both drawn blades.

“You—will—yield,” Keturah rasped despite restricted airflow. She dropped one knife and with her fist pounded a signal beat to the jaguar.

The jungle cat sprang into the clearing.         

Reva gained her feet and spun away. With a wave of sound, she hurled the jaguar into a tree.

The cat leaped again, fangs out, but Reva dodged, using three hasty notes to bolster her speed and outpace the jaguar, but the sprint lasted less than two seconds and seemed to cost significant energy.

Keturah scrambled up, ignoring the dropped knife. She’d hoped the jaguar would take Reva down in one strike, but the other woman was far more agile than Keturah anticipated. She couldn’t command Reva, but she could command the jungle.

To combat the other woman’s abilities, Keturah sang a tangled spread that pulled vines and roots around Reva as the jaguar herded her toward the line of trees backlit by the polluted stream.

With a pulse of melody, Reva shoved away the jaguar and Keturah’s impromptu cage.

The shock wave rocked Keturah onto her heels and forced her back a step.

Reva gathered each note around her, leaped over reaching tendrils and extended claws, and sprinted for open jungle.

Before Reva escaped the clearing, Keturah commanded the surrounding undergrowth to wall them off from the rest of the world. Leaves, petals, sticks, and boughs wove into a thick dome, leaving only a narrow gap to allow in light from the poisoned water.

Reva hit the wall hard enough to knock her into the dirt, momentarily stunned and breathless.

Heat skyrocketed inside the dome, and sweat poured off Keturah as she dashed to Reva’s side. She fumbled to detach the belt pouch, and her fingers slipped on the knotted drawstrings. If she missed this opportunity, and Reva woke while she was releasing the bag’s contents, there would not be a second chance.

She grabbed fistfuls of her long hair to dry her hands before trying the strings again. This time they unraveled.

Reva coughed and sputtered for breath as she struggled to sit up.

Keturah pointed the bag at Reva’s face and let it drop open.

A creature, blacker than shadow, immune to Songmaster gifts, emerged from the pouch and leaped onto Reva. Its single, red eye burned in the center of its shapeless mass. It sprouted six appendages, each ending in a wicked barb. The first two barbs anchored at the base of Reva’s throat before the thing climbed her face and wrapped her skull in liquid darkness. Two more barbs dug into her forehead, and the last two attached behind her ears.

Months ago, Keturah had refused to use a quash for this hunt—the creatures could be unpredictable—but she’d exhausted all other options.

Reva shrieked and clawed at the quash as its eye pulsed bright red. She tore one barb free, leaving a ragged wound in her neck. The creature sprouted a seventh limb and swatted away Reva’s next attempt to dislodge it while it reclaimed its hold on her neck.

Each attempt at freedom stole more of Reva’s strength until the quash’s eye, now a steady shade of crimson, settled over her forehead.

Reva lay in the dirt, weeping.

“Get up.” Keturah nudged her with one foot. “The council’s waiting.” She hummed a descending scale which directed the wall of undergrowth to recede.

Reva dug her fingers into the damp soil and sobbed.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said, get up!” Keturah grabbed Reva’s arm, hauled her onto unsteady legs, and pulled her toward their destination. She retrieved her abandoned knife and sheathed it before freeing the jaguar from his service. He bounded into the jungle, headed the opposite direction as Keturah.

Reva reeled with each step until she tripped on a root, breaking Keturah’s grip. She yelped, but the expression was thick, indistinct, and she tumbled into a heap beside the polluted stream.

“If you can’t see, re-light your necklace.”

Reva stared into the water, face blank.

“A handler can remove the quash once you’ve submitted to the council, but until then, you’ll have to live without access to your abilities.”

Reva struggled to stand again, and with each try she edged closer to the water.      

“I know the severance is unsettling. Now get up, or I’ll drag you back.”

Reva sat in the dirt, back to the stream, a hand’s breadth from the caustic water. Her tear-stained lips framed two sentences, but her cloudy speech muted or omitted hard consonants—as if Reva’s tongue had forgotten how to form words—but Keturah discerned the message. “I can’t hear you anymore. I can’t hear… anything.” With a broken wail, she sagged toward the stream.

Keturah lunged for Reva, but her fingers only brushed the other woman’s arm, and Reva splashed into the water.

The instant Reva touched the toxic liquid, her wail morphed into a scream. She thrashed as the effervescent water ate through her within seconds.

The quash shrieked. In self-preservation, it released Reva and leaped from the dissolving body onto the bank. Half its exterior smoked from touching the corrosive water, and it squealed in pain and desperation for another host. Its flickering eye fixed on Keturah, and it gave a soul-rattling bellow.     

Keturah ran.

As she dodged branches, rocks, and underbrush, she called the jungle to protect her as the enraged quash pursued. If she could make it to the nearest handler, he could catch the beast, calm its parasitic urges. The man’s hut wasn’t far past the stream she’d crossed an hour before. If she reached the stream, she might make the handler’s doorstep without falling prey.

At Keturah’s bidding, birds, snakes, insects, even small animals assailed the quash, but each time something grabbed hold of it, the thing consumed its attacker’s life and left the unfortunate creature dead in the dirt before speeding after her again.

Vines captured the quash until it grew a serrated arm and hacked clear of its bonds.

As the quash gained, Keturah abandoned caution, leaping through thorns and sharp-leafed plants. There wasn’t time to take the safest route to the handler. As her pace rose, spare breaths became luxuries, and she abandoned her song for help in order to ensure survival.

Sweat drenched her clothes and slicked her hands. She focused on staying ahead of the quash, but each time she glanced back, it had gained.

The stream was near. Its sulfurous odor grew with each stride. She was almost safe, but her legs burned for relief, and the humid air seemed to be trying to suffocate her.

In one more attempt to stop the quash, Keturah sacrificed speed to renew her song for help. Tangled roots broke the soil and lashed together around the creature to form a solid sphere.

When the quash didn’t immediately rip free, Keturah staggered to a halt. She bent double, hands braced on bent knees as she hauled in blessed air.

The quash’s serrated arm thunked and rattled inside its prison as it sawed for freedom.

When she straightened, a stitch in her side pulled her into a crouch. She had to ignore it—get back to the handler’s. Her breath hitched as she pushed onward, leaving the caged quash behind.

All too soon, the quash’s triumphant shriek announced it was loose.

Ahead lay the stretch of acidic water. Its stench burned her nostrils.

Behind her echoed the quash’s unnerving squeals, rasps, and howls.

No time or energy to sing her way clear now. She dashed through corrupted undergrowth. Each leaf she brushed ate layers of skin, and her cries of pain mingled with the quash’s screams as it closed.

By the time Keturah reached the bank, red welts peppered her hands, arms, and legs, and yellow-coated leaves stuck to her skin. She wanted to rip off each leaf and hurl it into the water, but the quash was too close to allow her that extravagance.

She had to get across the stream. Now.

When she’d crossed the first time, there had been a line of comfortably spaced everstones jutting from the water. She spotted them quickly.

Keturah rushed to the water’s edge and didn’t hesitate to leap onto the first rock.

Pain made concentrating on footing more difficult, but if she stopped to estimate her next stride, she might never take it.

By the time she landed on the third stone, the quash was two rocks behind her.

In panic, Keturah lunged for the opposite shore.

Her sandals slipped.

She toppled forward into the loose earth, and the quash vaulted onto her back. She scrambled and fought to dissuade the quash—to get up.

Black tendrils swarmed her face and head, and by the time she’d gained her feet, the quash had anchored four of its six barbs.

She grappled for the creature’s last two flailing arms, but consuming so many other organisms had bolstered its strength beyond Keturah’s ability to defend, and the remaining barbs sank into place.

The jungle dimmed. Sounds muted. Colors grayed. Textures blurred, and all other sensations numbed.

Keturah reached for the music that had filled her soul since her second birthday. But she found only silence.

Empty.

Deafening.

Silence.

There would be no more hunts.

The quash was master now.

Strings is Ⓒ D. T. Powell, 2022.