Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

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  At the edge of his awareness, Keltin felt a delightful warmth spreading up through the soles of his feet. Part of his mind knew it had to be a dream, but he chose to enjoy the pleasantness while it lasted—it seemed real, and that was good enough for now. A moment later, his eyes snapped open in shock as a howling gust of wind screamed through their improvised shelter and ripped away any thoughts of heat. Glancing at the boards above him, though, Keltin noticed a faint glow as well as shadows that flickered with the wind. He looked past his feet as the gust subsided and was amazed to see a very small but very real fire less than a stride from where he lay.

  Curious, Keltin began to ease himself into a sitting position, but a hushed voice stopped him. “Be still,” Carnan whispered from his left, and Keltin complied as a surge of fear coursed through his body.

  “What’s wrong?” Keltin hissed, peering from the corners of his eyes at the Stonebrother. Carnan didn’t reply, instead he used the tip of his oar to point to the fire. Keltin stared at the flames for several seconds, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The crackling and groaning of the ice sounded louder than it had been earlier, but Hirst had said the sounds were no cause for alarm. “Carnan, what is it?” Keltin demanded. The Stonebrother glared at him and pointed his oar emphatically towards the fire once more.

  As Keltin watched, a strange dark patch the size of a fist formed next to the fire—a patch that appeared to somehow be within the slab of ice below. His confusion turned to horror as something long and transparent silently pushed through the ice in the center of the dark patch and extended slowly towards the boat overhead. Whatever the clear tendril was, it grew to more than a stride long as it loomed beside the fire, but then it paused and seemed to be undulating with uncertainty. In the span of the next heartbeat, it vanished beneath the ice without a sound.

  “That’s the closest one yet,” Carnan breathed.

  Keltin looked from the dark spot beside the fire to Carnan and back. “What in the Kingdom was that?”

  “I have no idea, boy, but it’s coming back,” the Stonebrother replied as another dark patch suddenly formed on the left side of the fire. Sensing Carnan’s uneasiness, Keltin readied his isen and the scrid knife. Just as before, the narrow column of clear flesh erupted from the surface of the ice, but this time there was no hesitation. The point of the tendril curved downward and stabbed through the fire with a sharp thunk, then it was still.

  A moment later, Keltin felt the entire slab of ice beneath him trembling as the tendril shook violently in the flames before disappearing, but it was the noise that followed that made him truly afraid. A deep bellow resonated from every side at once, its agonizing sound accompanied by a loud, bubbling shriek that pierced through the night more fiercely than the first rays of dawn.

  “Keltin, what’s happening?” Wyand shouted as he bolted upright. Aemetta and Hirst leapt from their blankets as well, their faces tight with the same fear Keltin currently felt. He offered no answer to Wyand’s question, instead scanning the darkness beyond what remained of the small fire. Though there was nothing to see, Keltin felt like he was watching the creature retreat as its screams echoed from the depths of the ocean far beneath the slab of ice. They grew more and more distant until at last only the sound of wind remained.

  “Anything in your Visions about that, Stormbrother?” Carnan demanded quietly.

  Hirst shook his head as he looked out at the dark ocean. “Was anyone hurt?” he asked a moment later.

  “No. Not yet, I should say,” Carnan replied. “As much as I don’t like the idea of traversing this place without the aid of daylight, we can’t stay here.” There was no argument from Hirst or anyone else, so Carnan hurriedly broke apart the fire and covered its embers with snow, taking care to remove any pieces of wood that could be used later. The shelter plunged into darkness with the firelight gone, but a faint yellow glow quickly took its place as Wyand and Carnan slipped on the grotesque helmets that Keltin had come to fear and hate. “Take these,” Carnan’s garbled voice instructed as he offered Aemetta and Keltin two of the glowing haugaeldr carcasses.

  Aemetta put on the helmet without question, but Keltin backed away. “I can’t,” he said, repulsed by the thought of one of those things touching him.

  Carnan sighed, then he shoved the helmet against Keltin’s chest. “Take it anyway. Even if you choose not to wear it for now, you’ll want it before we see daylight again.” A surge of fear and nausea twisted Keltin’s stomach, but he forced himself to take hold of the helmet long enough to slide it into one of his pockets.

  In less than a minute, the shelter was disassembled and the boat ready at the edge of the water. Keltin stumbled more than once as he tried to find his seat, but he didn’t dare to complain aloud. Evidently, Wyand could still sense his frustration, though. “The Watch helmet won’t hurt you, Keltin. I promise,” he said. “I was horrified the first time I had to wear one, but once you see what it can do, you’ll realize it’s worth the discomfort.”

  The knot in Keltin’s stomach twisted tighter after hearing Wyand’s distorted voice coming from the glowing helmet. “I can row without it,” Keltin insisted as he seized his oar in proof of his point. There was so little light from the few clear patches of sky overhead that Keltin could barely distinguish the end of his oar from the surface of the water, but it was still enough that he could forego the use of that wretched helmet.

  For the first few minutes, rowing was easy—the sea was calm, the wind had subsided. Then something large splashed in the water to Keltin’s right, drawing the attention of everyone on board. “What is that thing?” Aemetta exclaimed.

  “Look at the size of it!” Wyand breathed.

  “Keep moving!” Carnan hissed. “We need to get to shallower waters now!”

  “There are more of them nearby,” Hirst said softly. All Keltin could see was darkness; each time he heard a splash, his resolve weakened. Finally, the fear of the unknown outweighed his disgust for the Watch helmet and he angrily yanked the haugaeldr carcass over his head. Instantly, Keltin regretted his decision.

  The scene was illuminated like daylight, albeit a daylight tainted with a sickly yellow hue. Behind the boat, the floating blocks of ice had moved into the distance, but what had taken their place left Keltin stunned with terror. Less than twenty strides away, something three times the length of the boat swam just beneath the surface. As its enormous, oval-shaped body moved upward, it caused the water to bulge and form tiny waves that spread out on both of its sides. Then a long tentacle shot from the front of the bulge and slapped the water where Wyand’s oar had just been.

  That’s what was beneath the ice? Keltin said to himself in disbelief, but his amazement shifted to horror when he noticed three more of the beasts drifting up from the depths—one from his right, two from his left. Their tentacles probed the water curiously, then fixated on the boat as they moved closer. Suddenly, he had an idea. “Hirst, do you have any of those thunder stones with you?” Keltin asked as he turned away from the group of creatures.

  The Pathshaper looked confused for an instant, then nodded excitedly. “Only a few,” he replied as he pulled his oar up and began rummaging through the bags of supplies. “I don’t think they’ll work just by hitting the water, though.”

  “Then we won’t hit the water,” Carnan declared as Hirst removed one of the deadly spheres and passed it back to him. “Everyone keep rowing. We need to gain as much distance as possible.” Keltin rowed furiously with the others as Carnan readied the thunder stone. One of the four creatures broke through the surface of the water several dozen strides away, and it was in that instant that Carnan attacked.

  Keltin watched the orb arc through the air; he realized just before it struck that he should shut his eyes. If he hadn’t, the flash that followed would have blinded him, because the thunder stone exploded as hoped when it collided with the animal’s flesh. In the aftermath of the furious burst of light and sound, a hideous shriek follow
ed, along with the noise of the tentacle thrashing through the water.

  When Keltin opened his eyes, the results were far more destructive than he could have imagined: the first third of the creature’s upper body was missing and the rest was consumed by flames. The tentacle slapped against the fire and tried in vain to fling water at it as well, but the movements grew weaker after only a few seconds. As Keltin watched, the creature fell still, and the other three beasts were suddenly upon it. Their tentacles latched onto the fallen one’s corpse and the image of the grim feast sank quickly into the shadows below.

  Keltin rowed as hard as he could for hours, desperately trying to escape whatever else might be waiting in the deep water, until Carnan at last brought the boat to a stop. Panting inside the Watch helmet, Keltin glanced at the Stonebrother worriedly. “We have to keep going,” Keltin said between breaths.

  “We will, but you and the others need time to regain your strength first. We’re safe to float here for a while,” Carnan replied, then he removed his Watch helmet. Keltin did the same after pulling in his oar and realized that dawn was fast approaching. The ice was nowhere to be seen on the northern horizon and the wind’s frozen sting had all but vanished, yet Keltin’s body still shook from the chill that felt as though it had seeped into his bones. Too cold and tired to do anything else, he closed his eyes and prayed that the sun would send its heat to him soon and that this day would be blessed with a cloudless sky.

  43

  Ryna apologized again as the Axebrother winced from her efforts; at last, the new bandage was tied and she stepped back. “There. Forgive me for any pain I caused you, Rislan,” she said caringly.

  “Somehow, I think I’ve had worse,” Rislan replied with a wry smile as he lifted what remained of his left arm towards her. His hand and everything leading up to his elbow had been severed during the worst of the attacks by the Smokedwellers in recent days, yet somehow the Axebrother stayed remarkably optimistic. “You did well, Ryna,” he went on. “Besides, I’m not worried about more pain unless Eyrie gets tasked with changing my wraps again.” Eyrie glanced up from the wound she was cleaning on a neighboring Stonesister and gave a faint sigh; still, it was impossible not to smile when faced with Rislan’s positivity.

  Ryna chuckled to herself as she moved on to her next task, but her brief moment of levity vanished like a drop of water falling onto glowing coals. From one of the makeshift beds in the darkened corner of the sick tent, a woman stared at Ryna with a look of pure hatred—a look that Ryna sadly knew was well justified. In the heat of the attack in which Eyrie was injured, this woman from Dism Slyde had charged into the sick tent expecting effortless slaughter. Instead she was met by Ryna, who cut the woman’s fury short through a quick swing of two isen.

  Ryna’s actions had been necessary at the time, but she was reminded of the all the pain and loss she had caused that day any time she glanced at the Smokedweller’s bandaged arms. Handsister Thirna was hopeful that the woman might recover from her injuries, but she also warned that any hint of infection would mean immediate amputation. Constantly seeing the damage was bad enough, but the woman’s accusing looks and bitter silence made Ryna question her acts of violence.

  A hand touched Ryna’s arm, and she turned away from the Smokedweller to find Eyrie standing beside her with a sympathetic frown. This wasn’t the first time Ryna had become lost in her own thoughts since the day of the first attack, and Eyrie knew exactly what she was thinking. “You know I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done exactly what you did,” Eyrie said quietly. “None of us would have survived, including you. If anything, she should be grateful to still draw breath.” Eyrie’s eyes darted in the direction of the Smokedweller.

  Ryna nodded after finally pushing her self-doubt aside. “Thanks,” she whispered. “You’re still not supposed to be out of bed. You know that.” She glared sternly at Eyrie, who was quick to lift the edge of the simple field shirt she had worn since removing her Sreathan plate.

  “My bandages are still in place and—as you can see—not a drop of blood today,” Eyrie smiled proudly. Ryna knew it was pointless to argue with the stubborn Bloodsister, but she felt it was her duty to keep Eyrie safe as she healed. Still, it was good to have someone else she knew helping with the injured; none of the other Handsisters or Handbrothers were willing to speak to Ryna unless it was necessary. Eyrie lowered her shirt and moved towards the next bed. “I kept still for almost a week. I think I’ve earned my freedom. Besides, there’s no shortage of work that needs doing,” she added.

  Ryna had to admit that she was right. The Penitent Faithful had attacked three times since their main push more than a week ago, and though their later assaults were minimal, they always led to more injuries, more pain, and more death. The Order of Hands had brought dozens of healers into the camp, but that still wasn’t enough to keep up with the ever-increasing list of fighters in need of help. Ryna knew that taking on even the simplest of tasks to free up one of the Handsisters could be enough to save a life, so she reluctantly stepped aside any time Eyrie offered to assist.

  Healing has many forms—Ryna had learned that fact over the course of the past nine days working in the sick tent. Where the Handsisters applied soothing creams and brewed miraculous cures, the Voice of War offered comfort and encouragement to those suffering, and she did so with a stunning level of commitment. Every day, Tilia was in the sick tent for at least two hours in the afternoon, and that included the days when the additional attacks had occurred. Ryna marveled at the woman: in one instant, she was a decisive leader, swift and methodical, in the next, she was kind and nurturing to those who needed reassurance the most. The healing effect Tilia had on her people was astonishing, and Ryna knew it was mostly because they could see that she genuinely cared about their well-being.

  Beyond the shortage of trained healers, supplies were beginning to dwindle within the camp; it was a growing concern for everyone, but it was seldom mentioned in anything louder than a whisper. The fight with the Penitent Faithful had stalled—that was clear—but what no one understood was why the scrid convoys brought less and less with them from Cynmere. Perhaps other camps needed the provisions more, or perhaps the Smokedwellers had somehow restricted the passage to Cynmere. Whatever the reason, it made it increasingly difficult for Ryna to remain optimistic as days slipped past with no improvement.

  This was why the sound of a commotion outside the sick tent immediately seized Ryna’s attention—from the excited shouts, it seemed that a convoy had arrived at last. She glanced at Eyrie, and they both sped through their current tasks before hurrying outside. They had agreed that the Handsisters shouldn’t be distracted by something as trivial as retrieving supplies, so Ryna and Eyrie handled the process each time a convoy arrived with anything that could be used in the sick tent.

  Squinting through the afternoon sunlight, Ryna saw that a crowd had already gathered around three scrid that were in the process of lowering their transport cages. Once the cages were down, the riders leapt from their mounts and began hauling sacks out onto the ground. Ryna watched curiously as a rider pulled something large from one of cages, then she suddenly realized it was a person. A tall man in the dark grey clothes of the Penitent Faithful stood and calmly surveyed crowd, his tattered black cloak fluttering in the cool breeze.

  This man wasn’t the first Smokedweller to be captured since the fighting began—far from it, actually—but he was the first to be brought into this camp by a convoy. Ryna frowned and turned to Eyrie, but the Bloodsister’s stunned expression only fueled Ryna’s curiosity. “Eyrie, who is that?” she asked.

  “That…his name is Ansund. Draeden Ansund,” Eyrie stammered, shaking her head as she stared at the man. Ryna didn’t recognize the name, but she knew the title and the fear that it carried among the Cynmeren. This man was one of Dism Slyde’s fiercest and most elusive warriors, yet somehow he had been captured in the midst of the standoff. Looking closer, she noticed that he wasn’t in restraints of any kind
and had even been permitted to keep an isen with him. Seeing that was enough to send a chill of terror up Ryna’s spine, and she slowly drew the isen from her sash before the Draeden had a chance to strike.

  Ryna wasn’t alone in her feelings of alarm—from the hushed crowd around the scrid, dozens of spiked oars and drawn arrows glistened in the sunlight as they pointed towards the Draeden. “What’s happening out here?” the Voice of War called from the entrance to the sick tent. “I thought there was…” She trailed off as she saw the focus of everyone’s attention. Ryna watched the old woman as she made her way through the crowd, expecting to see anger or fear, perhaps even a look of victory on Tilia’s face, but instead finding only tearful disbelief.

  The Cynmeren were silent and still as they, too, studied the Voice of War and waited for whatever command she might give. Without a word, she lifted her hands slowly and motioned for everyone to lower their weapons. Tilia’s focus never wavered from the Draeden, though, and a look of pure joy lifted the weight of her war-hardened face. A sudden flash of blue and green shimmered within Ansund’s eyes as he regarded the old woman and he tilted his head to the side. “I know you,” he said with quiet certainty. “Whether from memories or Visions, I’m not yet certain, but I know you.”

  Tilia smiled warmly as she appeared to be struggling for breath. “Yes, Ansund, you know me. You’re the one who gave me this,” she pointed to the long scar on the right side of her jaw. “But you knew me long before that.” Standing less than a stride from the confused Smokedweller, the Voice of War then flung her arms around him in an embrace that surprised the Draeden almost as much as the stunned crowd.