“It’s time to go.” The words were spoken softly, but there was no hiding the certainty behind

them. 

           Zia didn’t turn right away, instead choosing to watch from her window as the

Faithful’s mob finally toppled the statue of her great-grandfather, screaming

gleeful obscenities as the image of their once prominent House shattered on the

cobblestones below. The priests of the Hungry God shouted further encouragement

from the rear of the frenzied gathering outside the estate.

           Her father, barely able to stand with the Blight coursing through his body, had

chosen to don his armor and stand at the gate with what remained of his honor

guard. What had once been a proud assortment of Names and veteran soldiers were

now a handful of grim-eyed loyalists who had chosen where they would die. Zia’s

eyes lingered on the steel clad form of her father as the last remaining gate

slowly gave way to the weight of numbers.

           “I’ve never seen such blind hatred before,” Zia said, rising from her place at the

window.

She could not bear to watch his end.

Standing at the door, chain hauberk marred, his gauntlets spattered in bits of flesh and gore, was

the Anvil. Unlike the remaining servants and lingering soldiers, the man didn’t

seem perturbed by the violence just outside their home. 

The barrel chested Named man shrugged and awaited her command, one hand on the basket hilt longsword at

his hip and the other on the punch dagger he carried. The Anvil of Riven held

the same flinty eyed stare that so many of his enemies must have seen in his

duels.

“Stay close to Donovan, my heart.” her father had said. “He has given his oath

that he will keep you safe until it is time to return, and his promise is worth

more than gold.”

           Now Zia’s father had gone to meet the Creator on his feet, as was his duty. She

would soon be the last of House Laird at the age of sixteen. A deep, gnawing

anger rolled within her, tensing against the shackles of duty that kept it in

check; defiant of the fear that lurked in the shadows of her heart. Zia was no

warrior, but she was no coward either, for the women of House Laird understood

that sacrifice and honor came before all else. Their prestige in Riven came not

from the finances they gathered or the manipulation of Houses that so many others

had prided themselves in before the Blight. 

           House Laird was forged in the blood of Names and warriors who stood unbroken while

lesser men fled. Their reputation for martial might was widely known and

justifiably feared. It was also why the rioters had saved their estate for the

end. Zia’s House had earned their right to rule through the strength of their

sword arms and the unwavering nature of their resolve. 

So while the flames of civil unrest rushed throughout the Haven, exceeding that of the burn piles

where so many of their dead had been tossed, it was nothing compared to the

inferno raging within Zia.

           Even after the Blight ravaged their leadership and reduced House Laird’s military

might to a paltry few, the priests of the Hungry God and that glutton, the

Butcher, had saved their House for last. They knew well that the death toll

would be high, and now it was time to pay the price for insurrection against

the Houses. 

           “If I ordered you to accompany me to join my father, at the front, would you?” Zia

asked, fixing Donovan with a hard stare.

           Although he towered over Zia like some unyielding mountain, she had been given authority

over her people many times over and had learned a great number of lessons from

her mother. The first and most prominent in her mind, as always, was that the

women of House Laird were born with wills of iron. It didn’t matter that she

had seen the man before her end the lives of Names throughout the land, he was

pledged to her, and Zia would test the worth of his word.

           The hulking swordsman watched her for a moment, his dark eyes sparkling as his lip

tugged up in a grin. “I admire your grit, m’lady, but I don’t much care what

order you give. I gave your father my word I’d get you out, and that’s exactly

what I intend.”

           For a moment their wills met, and she could see that, while she prided herself in

an ability to hold her own against the weak wills of House politics, this man

lived and died by his own. There would be no authority that would break it.

           As it should be.

           “Very well,” she said. “Do you have the Ash Key?”

           Donovan nodded, pulling the key from a chain around his neck. It was the only one in

existence and would allow them to exit the city though the cistern tunnels that

ran beneath their estate. From there, a wagon would be waiting with what good

planting seed was left from the storehouses. 

           “Then let’s be off,” she said, even as the screams outside the estate rose and the

sound of steel on flesh began.

           Zia longed to look one last time at her father, but she would rather remember the

kindness in his eyes, than the killer he would become in his final moments.

           It wasn’t enough that the Blight killed so many. Like the ‘Hungry God’ the priests

claimed had punished their world, the disease was an insatiable beast. It ravaged

the land and livestock as well, so that not even the survivors could pick up

the pieces. Their world was dying, and House Laird had seen the writing on the

wall before the rest.

           Knowing it was only a matter of time before the fanatics and their gluttonous leader

came for their storehouses, Zia and her father had planned an escape. Months

before the first House fell, House’s Laird’s scouts had found a place that

would give them a chance at survival, even if they had to start anew in the

Blighted world outside of Riven. 

Even at the cost of so many lives. 

Yet the success of the Hungry God was beyond what anyone imagined. The city-wide feasting that came

from raiding House foodstores, after years of ration lines, sent the people

into a frenzy. The sickening cannibalism, that some had taken to in their

twisted faith, was now a ritual of celebration. No longer were bodies set to

flame in order to keep the Blight at bay. 

Now it was something one did to eat. 

Those of the House staff who could be trusted had gone on with Annabel, their last remaining advisor.

The rest of the soldiers had gone to hold off the rioters, a final sacrifice so

that something of their House and families who had gone ahead could survive.

The world might be dying and its people gone mad, but House Laird would do as

it had always done and forge a path during this time of decay.

           The conflict outside the estate grew and Donovan set a steady pace down through the

lower levels, eventually leading them through the cistern where the sound of

steadily flowing water drowned out the screams of the dying. In the torchlight,

Donovan’s face took on a grim appearance, his dark gaze shifting to the shadows

around them in the dank depths beneath their home. The Named man’s hand never

strayed from the sword belted on his hip.

           Zia had often explored the cisterns when she was a child, usually receiving a firm

hand and harsh words for her wanderings. Yet the aged history of their young

society was one that interested her greatly. There was a small altar to the

Creator located beside the Ash Gate which she had found interesting, for it had

to have been erected during the foundation of Riven by one of her ancestors.

The small murals around it were depicted differently than the temples of the

modern age. 

In her youth, the water flowing beneath their city had been relatively clear and was a cool escape

during the hot summer days. As Zia glanced at the flowing darkness below, she

saw the bloated remains of countless dead that had not been burned. Death was a

fact of life now, yet the smell of decay rolling up from the now fetid water

was enough to make the bile rise in her throat.

           Murmured words rose from the waters below. Faint at first but growing in strength the

further they marched through the tunnels. Holding the torch Donovan gave her

over the edge, she spotted a figure reaching up from the water below, nails

bloody from raking against the stone walls. The light caste below showed a woman,

gray skinned with swollen glands, drawn to the light.

           “Where are you my sweet? Where are you?” the woman garbled as the distress in her

voice became wet laughter.

           Donovan snatched Zia’s torch away and she could see a hardness in his eyes. “She’s well

past death, lady. Withers have found their way down here, it’s best that you

leave them be.”

           Zia had heard of Withers but had yet to see one up close. Some folk, it was said,

could live on after the Blight ran through them. Those poor souls were never

the same; often becoming violent as the disease twisted their minds just as it

did their bodies.

           As they pushed on, she could hear the Wither’s laughter become a desperate scream.

           “Where is he? WHERE IS HE?”

           Zia repressed a shudder and continued, only to find Donovan had come to a stop.

Ahead, she could see the locked Ash Gate illuminated by a brazier, which caused

her heart to skip a beat. 

           The cisterns should have been dark. 

While there were several entrances to the lower levels of Riven, only House Laird had the key to this

particular exit. Someone was waiting, and they knew their prey had nowhere else

to run. Donovan reached down and pulled a spare dagger from his boot and handed

it to her, along with the Ash Key from around his neck.

           “When I tell you,” he whispered, “make a run for the gate. Anyone grabs you, cut them

wide and deep, then keep running.”

           “What about you?” Zia asked.

           “Lock the gate behind you. Annabel will know where to go. Don’t wait for me.”

           “No,” she said.

           Donovan’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t understand-”

           “I understand your intent quite well, Anvil, and I will hold you to your word. If

you intend to honor your oath to my father, then I will not have you throw your

life away. We leave together, or not at all.”

           Donovan began to growl something when Zia shouted, “Come out then, cowards. Or is your

fear of House Laird so great that you would strike from the shadows?”

           Donovan cast a withering glare at Zia as he drew his sword and punch dagger, just as

three men stepped from the small alcove where the Creator’s Altar was located.

In that moment, Zia contemplated her actions, for each of the three were known

throughout Riven as Names to be feared.

           The first to step out was a good head taller than Donovan, his movements smooth as

he came to stand before them. He was known as Godsbane, a swordsman of renown

and peerless skill. A political assassin, known to seek out and challenge any

Name for the Houses willing to pay for his bloody service. Behind him came

Linebreaker and the Asp. Both had earned their reputations on the battlefield

and were, before the Blight, considered to be of substantial skill. 

           “Fear the name of House Laird,” Godsbane chuckled, holding his hands up in mock fear.

“Come down from the clouds child, your House has fallen.”

           Zia gripped the hilt of Donovan’s dagger and held her ground. Ignoring the

predator’s gaze, she set about a facade of disinterest. “Three Names for me?

What brave men you must be.” Zia offered them a false smile. “Of course, when

facing the Anvil, I can’t blame any of you for wanting to gather in numbers.”

“Bite your tongue, bitch,” Godsbane hissed. “I’ve taken him in single combat twice.”

Though the severity of their situation was dire, Zia forced out as condescending a laugh as she

could. 

“Oh sweet man, you and a dozen others could say the same at the Festival of Houses. To bleed the Anvil

is as much of an achievement as wiping your ass. In matters of death, all Names

find themselves broken against the Anvil.”

“Not today,” Linebreaker snarled, stepping forward only to find Godsbane’s hand on his chest. 

“Know your place,” Godsbane said, the hint of violence in his voice an assertion of his station

amongst the three. “The Anvil is mine.”

           Donovan didn’t glance in her direction, but she felt the slight tap of his pinkie

against her arm. A small indicator that violence was moments away. 

Stepping forward, the Anvil rolled his shoulders, raised his blades, and his bearing simply changed,

like a man having stretched and was prepared to continue the work of his craft.

The vigilant guardian, strong and quiet, vanished, and in its place was a being

of certain and brutal violence.

           When Donovan spoke, there was no bravado in his words. No passionate outcry of a

desperate man before the end. The Anvil addressed the man before him as if he

were of noted interest. “Come then lap dog, and die in place of the fat bastard

you serve.”

           Godsbane and the Anvil came together in a flurry of steel and blood. Their blades

clashed four times, and the Anvil’s blood spattered the stones below as

Godsbane’s sword sought a killing blow that never seemed to find the desired

mark. On the fifth pass, something changed and suddenly Godsbane began falling

back. Brief moments of perceived victory quickly turned as the Anvil measured

his worth and found it wanting. Each strike grew faster as the Anvil gathered

momentum. Godsbane’s retaliatory thrusts and slashes grew exceedingly more

desperate and, despite scoring several cuts along Donovan’s arms and legs, none

were deep enough to slow his terrible speed. 

           In a sudden shift, Donovan ceased his momentum, leaving Godsbane desperate to

defend as he took a premeditated step. The Anvil lowered his positioning, and

dove forward, thrusting the punch dagger deep into the meat of Godbane’s thigh.

The Name cried out, eyes wild in disbelief as he screamed, “Kill him!”

           The other two sprang into action, but Donovan was already amongst them. The first to go down was

Linebreaker as Donovan punched his basket hilt into the warrior’s face. The

bones there gave way to steel as he crumbled to the ground. Asp made a

disciplined slash, his sword impacting the Anvil’s midsection when a heavy

thud. A grunt escaped Donovan’s lips, but his hauberk held and the injury did

nothing to slow his blade as he thrust it through the side of the Asp’s face.

The blade exited the back of his neck before being ripped out with savage

efficiency.

           Seeing his companions downed, Godsbane hobbled back. The Named man froze as his back

pressed against the Creator’s Altar. Gone was the predator who thought himself

amongst prey.

Donovan wasn’t far behind, blood dripping from the wounds they managed to slide past his guard as

he stalked toward Godsbane. 

           The two Names stood opposite each other for a moment. Godsbane gripped his sword in

both hands now as his lifeblood oozed out of his thigh. A blow meant to sever

an artery that had just missed. 

           “You won’t fucking survive out there,” Godbane hissed, testing the weight on his

punctured leg. “Butcher will see to that.”

           Words ceased as the two came together, their blades touching twice before Donovan

severed the other swordsman’s wrist. As Godsbane’s sword clattered to the

ground, Donovan moved in and sank his dagger deep, his cold dark eyes staring

into Godsbane’s own.

           “Perhaps,” Donovan said as he shoved Godsbane atop the altar. “But you won’t be around to

see if you’re right.”

           Godsbane tried to rise from the altar, desecrating the holy site with arterial blood

that pumped from his severed wrist and thigh. Attempting to get to his feet,

the pool of blood building on the stones caused him to slip and fall down. He

made a few more attempts, but his strength was fading and eventually he went

still. Donovan walked over to Linebreaker as he stirred from unconsciousness,

knelt down at the prone warrior’s side, and quickly cut his throat.

           Zia watched the Anvil with a mixture of awe and terror. While violence was not

unknown to her, the sheer brutality of the man was something else

entirely. 

           Donovan turned to look at her. Blood still trickled from the many lacerations he had

sustained and she could see the way in which his eyes tightened with every

breath. “Best get moving, m’lady. These were the first to find us. That glutton

won’t stop there.”

           Feeling the shawl of responsibility return, Zia turned her gaze away from the bits of

skin still clinging to the basket hilt of Donovan’s sword and nodded. Striding

over the bodies, Zia unlocked the Ash Gate and locked it behind them. 

           Donovan’s breathing became more labored, but the Named man gave no other indication that

they should stop until the light of day broke through the darkness. As they

emerged where the cistern fed into the nearby river, Zia could see the horses

waiting on the edge of a forest of twisted trees and dying undergrowth. 

The Godless Lands, as they were now known. A fitting name for such a bleak place. Yet glancing back

at the Anvil, she did not fear the prospect of the hardships ahead. 

For the men and women of House Laird knew the price of survival, and they would not falter.