It was fire season, when the damned gas worms dug themselves up everywhere for a frenzy of mating that'd often set fire to everything what'd burn in a quarter-reach radius. Normally, Shenda and her husband Redrick wouldn't have been caught dead out in the open on fire season, but the damned worms had come early and caught them on the steppe unawares. It'd been a drought season too, to make it all the worse, and Red was a war mage, not a dowser, while Shenda didn't have the magic to fill a thimble, and things looked to be getting pretty dicey.
Red swore quietly in Westie, but otherwise, his grim soldier's face remained impassive, but Shenda laughed through her tears—not from grief, but from the smoke—and said that she had to give the gods credit; she always figured it'd be the war what killed them, not a fiery orgy of wormflesh. And Red snorted and took her hand and Shenda thought that if she had to die ridiculously, at least it'd be with good company.
And then, over the roar of brushfire, she heard the crack of thunder.
That was all the warning they got before the water hurled itself out of the sky. The soil, brittle and loose from the drought, came up under Shenda's feet like the earth itself was shedding its skin, and she clung to Red around the middle to keep from falling.
Not much could get the attention of a gas worm in heat, but that did the job. With a slithering lurch, they disengaged and burrowed back into the ground, leaving smoldering scrub, billowing smoke, and two very wet pilgrim-herders. The downpour halted as suddenly as it'd started, leaving the ground cloaked in smoke and steam.
“Hello? Is someone there?” A voice called.
Red was busy shaking the water off his back, but Shenda said, “Just us two.”
Out of the wreaths of mist darted a figure dressed in the blue gown of a dowser. “Mercy! I must apologize, I didn't realize there was anyone but gas worms out here!”
“There wouldn't have been for much longer, you hadn't shown up,” Red said. “I'm Redrick, and this is my wife Shenda.”
That was the first thing that got Shenda's attention. Red didn't do introductions. Most of the time, he let Shenda do the talking, self-conscious of the Westie accent that he'd never managed to shake.
The dowser exchanged bows with them, in a style Shenda didn't recognize, but she now got a good look at the stranger's broad-brimmed wicker hat.
A Fiery Orgy of Wormflesh 1/2
Red swore quietly in Westie, but otherwise, his grim soldier's face remained impassive, but Shenda laughed through her tears—not from grief, but from the smoke—and said that she had to give the gods credit; she always figured it'd be the war what killed them, not a fiery orgy of wormflesh. And Red snorted and took her hand and Shenda thought that if she had to die ridiculously, at least it'd be with good company.
And then, over the roar of brushfire, she heard the crack of thunder.
That was all the warning they got before the water hurled itself out of the sky. The soil, brittle and loose from the drought, came up under Shenda's feet like the earth itself was shedding its skin, and she clung to Red around the middle to keep from falling.
Not much could get the attention of a gas worm in heat, but that did the job. With a slithering lurch, they disengaged and burrowed back into the ground, leaving smoldering scrub, billowing smoke, and two very wet pilgrim-herders. The downpour halted as suddenly as it'd started, leaving the ground cloaked in smoke and steam.
“Hello? Is someone there?” A voice called.
Red was busy shaking the water off his back, but Shenda said, “Just us two.”
Out of the wreaths of mist darted a figure dressed in the blue gown of a dowser. “Mercy! I must apologize, I didn't realize there was anyone but gas worms out here!”
“There wouldn't have been for much longer, you hadn't shown up,” Red said. “I'm Redrick, and this is my wife Shenda.”
That was the first thing that got Shenda's attention. Red didn't do introductions. Most of the time, he let Shenda do the talking, self-conscious of the Westie accent that he'd never managed to shake.
The dowser exchanged bows with them, in a style Shenda didn't recognize, but she now got a good look at the stranger's broad-brimmed wicker hat.
“Oh!” She said. “You're a follower of Lujow.”