'Umbasa…'

He had only been to the palace once, and even then he and his brothers saw little past the gates. They were permitted to train on the lawn with the palace guards, but had been otherwise relegated to an unused barracks.

'Back then, it had been a bright place. Not this.'

Small fires littered the bridge, as did decaying corpses. He could smell burnt flesh and rot, the scent made his eyes water and bile threaten to come up from his gut. Crows were feasting on the carrion of what had once been the people of Boletaria.

He could see ramshackle fortifications ahead, with dreglings attempting to hide behind them in piecemeal armor. He snuck off to the left, where he found a stairwell leading down. A dregling attempted to ambush him, but he deftly moved to the side.

One swing of Herst's blessed mace spattered the poor wretch's brains upon the wall.

A roar came from the skies above, and he looked up to see a shadow blocking out the sun.

He threw himself against the wall as a great red dragon swooped down upon the bridge, obliterating the meager fortifications. The luckiest of the dreglings fell off the bridge to their peril, the unlucky ones were clenched in the great claws of the beast.

As the dragon flew off to parts unknown, he wondered what hope he had against something like that.

He kicked open the rusted gate, allowing him entry to a small courtyard. The sight before him unnerved him almost as much as the sight on the bridge. There were bodies, some charred, some not, but all decaying. He had seen as much when he arrived, but these were different. They were impaled.

'Dreglings lack that intelligence. This was done by something smarter, and something far more malicious.'

His senses told him to go back, but he ignored them. Something or someone had done this, and if it was as intelligent as he thought, it was a threat that needed to be dealt with, lest it become stronger.

He made his way towards a door that he recognized as one that led to a sewer. It would not be a clean approach, but perhaps he could use the sewers to his advantage. He reckoned few, if any, dreglings would be found in the murk of the sewers.

As he entered into the tower, his body tensed. It was out of pure reflex that be brought his shield up. He heard the scrape of stone on metal and the shattering of bone. And he was airborne.

He landed in a heap, rolling down the grass. A few more feet and he would have fallen off the edge. Pain shot through his clearly broken arm. He bit back a scream as he tore his shield off his useless arm. Grabbing his mace, he looked up to see what had attacked him.

'Oh God, she still lives?'

Emerging from the darkness of the tower was the Headswoman, the King's Justice, the Bloody Woman. She had many names. Her real name, however, was known to him. Her sanity was the stuff of gossip and rumor even before the fog had come.

"Executioner Miralda," he grimaced.

A giggle escaped from behind her ragged cloth hood. It was a filthy thing but it matched her disgusting robes, all patchwork and rope. She looked like a sinister scarecrow.

"I have you now," she giggled, "wretched traitor to the king!"

He rolled to the side, barely avoiding the overhand blow. She used the handle of her embedded weapon as a pivot, swinging her foot out and connecting with his broken arm. He heard himself scream.

Miralda giggled again. "Oh, did I cause a boo-boo? Let my axe kiss it all better!"

The woman pulled the great axe out of the ground, but it left her exposed. He grabbed his weapon and thrust it into her midsection, taking satisfaction when he heard the breath leave her lungs. He crawled and rose to his feet. Miralda had similarly composed herself.

"Miralda," he pleaded. "I am no enemy to the King! I serve him as I serve Umbasa! See reason!"

The scarecrow woman merely tilted her head. "Oh," she giggled again, "I rather think not. You cannot hope to tell truth, as you've yet to know it."

"What truth? Is there no reasoning with-"

He ducked her horizontal blow, and made to bring his mace up again to her ribs. He gripped its handle tight and drove it hard into her abdomen. He spun, making to strike the back of her head much like he had with the dregling.

Or he would have, had she not ducked the swing. The steel head of the mace swung harmlessly over Miralda, who jabbed the handle of her axe into his ribs, cracking them beneath the force. It was a strategic move, he realized, as she pinned his good arm against her torso. He struggled against her, but with a broken arm it was to no avail.

He drove his head into her canvas-covered face. She recoiled, allowing him to leap backwards towards the edge of the cliff. He gripped his mace tightly.

"If you are so intent on making me your enemy, may you reap what you've sown, executioner."

Miralda swung her monstrous axe above her head, and he straffed to the side. Again, she kicked him in his broken arm. He saw white and his knees buckled under the pain. He looked up to see the executioner standing over him. She was surely smiling under that hood.

"Little birdie," she whispered, "trapped by a spider. Feel her bite."

He felt the dagger enter his side. She had left her axe in the ground. Her hand now favored an ill-looking dagger.

"Miralda," he choked, "I…I was not an enemy to you….nor the King."

The woman stroked his face. "Oh, you poor thing," she soothed, "you know so little." She drew his face into her bosom, like a mother comforting her young. "Anyone with a soul is an enemy."

He coughed as she removed his helm. Her fingers ran through his long, dark blonde hair. "So few of you come to me anymore," she said in regret. "There is but one other here, a green lad. I will be rewarded for delivering him."

"There are more," he questioned.

Miralda gave another giggle. "Of course," she cooed. "Scarce few, but they are here. We keep the useful ones, they have formidable souls."

"And I don't?"

She giggled again. "Your soul is but an ember against their flames. Pity you could not kindle it. Now you will fade to ash." She grabbed him by the top of his breastplate and leaned him backward. He could feel his strength leaving.

"Not even a noble death, executioner? I am a knight of Umbasa, I at least deserve death beneath a blade."

She stared at him through those black holes in her hood. "Such hubris. I thought the temple snuffed that out."

"Not completely, it would seem."

Miralda chirped. "A noble death for a disgraced temple knight. Mmm, the irony of it all. I think you may be correct. I shall even do you the honor of keeping your head as a trophy."

She released her grip on him and turned to grab her axe. As Miralda did so, he summoned his last bit of strength and lept to his feet. He grabbed her from behind, his right hand gripping her between her breasts.

'Sick...vile woman,' he thought, feeling her press her hind against him.

"Some life left in you, I see," she giggled. "It has been so long since I have been touched. I definitely think I will keep your head."

"You are not afraid," he said. It was not a question, merely a statement of fact.

"Of course not," she said, pressing against him once more. "My dagger is poisoned. You have precious little strength and even less time to live."

"I am a man of God, you treacherous woman. I learned how to die in service to Him long ago. I will credit you one thing, however, your flame analogy is an apt one, Miralda."

"Oh," she said, "and how is that?"

"Because," he said, gripping her as tightly as he could, "it is only from ashes that things are reborn. Umbasa."

With that, he grabbed Miralda with all his remaining strength and threw himself off the cliff, with her in tow.

His last thought, before he was dashed against the rocks, was of a small sense of satisfaction he got, listening to Miralda scream all the way to the depths below.