text: Hey! I'm Harry Matthews, I'm a student writer from the UK. This is a story I wrote recently. I wanted to create a subtle sense of the supernatural without being too blatant and to try and write with a better balance between dialogue (which I often struggle with) and description (which comes more naturally). I hope you enjoy it! I'm not sure it's worth marking this story as "NSFW", although there is some violence/gore. ***SOOTHSLAYER*** “This is the place where I was killed”. His brow furrowed, dark eyes piercing the arid gloom of midnight. Strong, tan hands gripped a leather-bound scimitar at his waist. He gave the ancient soothsayer a grimace. “Finally, you decide to speak. Finally, and it is babble. Whatever value you possess to my Lord is beyond me.” She gave no reply. The creaking, decrepit woman gently toyed with a necklace of dyed beads, bones, and charms. She muttered almost silently, chapped lips barely moving. Zu’kuma sighed, broad shoulders slumping. He moved his gaze away from the deranged hag, out over the barren landscape before him. A few small dunes, dotted with gnarled bushes and great rocks worn smooth by wind-cast sand, sheltered Zu’kuma and the woman from the open desert. Luna’s facsimile half-light cast an exposing glare over the long expanses, but in the shadow of the dunes, Zu’kuma and his whispering partner sat, and took rest. The moon passed mutely above them. Nothing moved within Zu’kuma’s sight. He began to fidget. He stood, taking gentle steps in a wide circle around the woman. As his rested muscles started moving comfortably, his pace quickened to a brisk walk. He looked at the hag again. She hadn’t moved, but for her fiddling hands. “You are an intolerable presence; I must inform you.” Zu’kuma stopped walking, turning to face the woman as he spoke. “How is it that someone so silent, so still, can cause me such irritation? You make no sense, Oracle. I suspect many of the tales I was told of you are fantasy. Stealing you was little effort. Killing your guards was a pleasure.” He knelt, looking her in the eye. She did not return his gaze, still staring at the necklace that snaked between her fingers. “I cannot insult my master’s intelligence, but I believe you are a charlatan. The people of your country are maddened by hashish, yet somehow their fervor has spread into my Lord’s kingdom. I have seen the look in my master’s eye when he considers how he would use you.” The warrior’s head dropped slightly. His voice was flat. “I fear. I fear for him. I wonder what this madness you bring will inspire. He has such vision, and such damning ambitions.” He looked up at her. Her hair was a wild mess of thick braids and matted locks. Lice crawled visibly over her head, like ticks on a rancid dog. She was unbelievably frail. Zu’kuma had seen men starved to death who looked healthier than the Oracle. Zu’kuma sat down, legs folded in front of him, his sword laid flat on his lap. “How did you get to be this? What makes a woman into an Oracle? Was it the fumes? Were you struck as a child? Kicked by a horse? Are you simply insane?” Zu’kuma picked a small piece of wood from the sand by his feet. He eyed the finger-length piece of withered root. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the root towards the Oracle. It crossed the empty space between them and bounced silently off the soothsayers’ forehead. She did not flinch. She gave no reaction, and the imperceptible whispers that snuck between her lips did not stutter. Zu’kuma frowned. Then, aloud, the Oracle spoke again. “It won’t hurt.” Zu’kuma shuffled and got to his feet. “It *didn’t* hurt, you senseless witch. How should any master seek to find reason in the fetid babble of your mewling tongue?” The warrior fastened his sword to his waist and took several heavy steps away from the woman. “You enrage me.” The words seethed like boiling mist running through teeth set as row of spears. “I shall count myself lucky if you do not survive our journey, though I am sure to be - “ Zu’kuma froze for a moment, his hunter’s eyes seeking movement in the dark. A flicker of shadow, a displacement of sand with no wind. Zu’kuma dropped, his legs bent beneath him. He curled his head into his chest as an arrow passed above him. He extended his legs fast and threw himself forwards, rolling over one shoulder, trailing the arrow’s path back to its archer. As Zu’kuma came to his feet, he drew his scimitar in a long sweep. Moonlight struck the blade and it flared bright. A grunt of displeasure trembled behind a nest of frail bushes atop one of the dunes. Zu’kuma threw himself forwards, covering the distance in moments. As he crested the peak, he dove over his right shoulder, narrowly avoiding a second arrow. As he rose, Zu’kuma laid eyes on the first of his attackers. The man was taller than Zu’kuma, though not as broad. He was garbed in the same rough array of skins and fabrics that covered the Oracle’s rotting husk. Zu’kuma took two long strides, closing the distance between himself and the archer. The other man fumbled for a knife at his waist, but Zu’kuma was faster. He sliced open the archer’s belly in a single strike, already moving through him. The Oracle’s archer hit the ground and the stretched flesh holding his body together split. Gurgling cries were all that escaped his lips as his two halves tumbled bloodily down the dune. Zu’kuma moved on instinct, every muscle in his body attuned in perfect balance. Two men appeared from the rocks, long, wicked knives clasped in malnourished hands. They died fast. The striding warrior lunged into the first man, dropping his weight low in a deep crouch, his scimitar passing clean through the man’s knee. The fanatic hit the ground; his left leg separated completely. Zu’kuma rose and stepped over him, driving his sword into the wounded madman’s belly as he passed. He swore in his native tongue, blood rushing from his open mouth. The second threw himself towards Zu’kuma, his knife held high above him, carving down towards the warrior in a broad arc. Zu’kuma avoided the blow easily, moving behind his opponent and bringing his sword down directly onto the man’s head. Zu’kuma withdrew his sword as the man dropped. The warrior ran quickly back to the base of the dune, his sword still grasped in his fist. The Oracle had not moved. She still sat, murmuring silently. Zu’kuma marched towards her, coming to stand a few feet in front of the haggard seer. He spat at her. It hit her cheek, but she did not react. “You are beyond description. I cannot tell you of the hate that is stoked in my heart. Those men - “, he gestured towards the ravaged bodies, “ - were starved, and deranged. They stank of hashish. How can you inspire such madness?” Zu’kuma swelled before the woman. “You must not be allowed to infect my homeland. I care not what punishment awaits me. My master deserves better than you.” Zu’kuma brought his scimitar high. The gleaming blade cut back down through the air, passing without sound through the Oracle’s crooked neck. Zu’kuma watched her head fall to the ground, bounce once, and roll over. Her eyes were open, looking directly into his. She laughed, and then she spoke. “This is the place where I was killed.” Zu’kuma dropped his sword. The Oracle closed her eyes, and the future fell silent.