A Home in the Hills

by Robert J. Crane

  “I did not hear with my ears,” she said. “These walls are not so thin. I have other means.”

  Longwell made a derisive noise. “Accursed magic.”

  Huanatha ignored him. “I will warn if anyone should get close enough to hear our conversation. For now, we are safe. Proceed.”

  “All right,” said Longwell. He turned to Jasen: “Speak your mind.”

  “We must free the men of the Lady Vizola,” Jasen said.

  “Of course we must,” Longwell said. “But that is no easy task. Perhaps not even for me … if I had my spear.” He screwed his face up. “Without it—without Tanukke,” he added, nodding at Huanatha, “I fear it will be difficult indeed.”

  “Yet it must be done,” she said fiercely. “The whispers of the dead fill this vessel. I hear them, lingering here … tortured souls the Prenasians have killed, agonized in their last earthly moments, their business here unfinished and their spirits too troubled to move on.” She closed her eyes, perhaps listening to them now.

  Jasen wondered what it must be like—a swirl of voices, perhaps, echoing as though they came down a great long hall, or floating on the wind? How many were there? How many had these Prenasians and their trolls killed, like Hamisi upon the deck just yesterday? Was his voice among those Huanatha could hear?

  Longwell‘s face paled as he watched Huanatha. Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he pursed his lips and looked away, like he’d happened upon something he should not set eyes on, and rolled his helm between his palms.

  Jasen looked back to her.

  Then—

  A white spot opened. Directly in front of his pupil, it blotted Huanatha’s shoulder from view, an eroded hole in the world to a pool of pure white underneath.

  He blinked, forcing it away—

  And, for just a fraction of a second—he saw them: the dead. There were so many of them, all clustered around Huanatha, vastly more than could reasonably occupy this room. They overlapped, layered one over the other. So many—and their faces! Sadness upon all of them …

  They were gone just as quick as they’d come.

  Huanatha watched him.

  Jasen’s breath had caught in his chest. He let it out, slow.

  She knew. Jasen didn’t know how, exactly—perhaps she had shown it to him?—but Huanatha knew what he had seen.

  She said nothing.

  And Jasen did not ask. There was little time for questions. He’d found the measure of Rakon, and the Prenasian people by extension; and he knew that, inevitably, if they were not saved, the Lady Vizola’s crew would join the dead stuck upon this ship, riding it endlessly in death.

  “The Prenasians will use them up,” he said, “the Lady Vizola’s men. They’ll die.”

  Huanatha nodded. “The Prenasian war machine grinds all men who cross it into dust.”

  “That may be so,” said Longwell, “but there are … an awful lot of trolls,” he said. “And arguably worse are the Prenasians themselves.”

  “They’re cruel, no doubt,” Jasen said, “but how can they be worse than those trolls?”

  “The men from Prenasia,” the dragoon said slowly, “are of a species that was wiped out on Arkaria. They built an empire ten thousand years ago, only to be rendered extinct by their own hand—by the hands of the greatest among them, specifically, cleansing their own people from the land in order to maintain their own superiority.” He set his jaw. “They became the gods of Arkaria to us lesser beings, until they, too, were wiped out. All that remain of that entire race now are their offspring with humans—the dark elves.” He shook his head. “Or so I thought, until I laid eyes on my first Prenasian. Their race lives on in other lands, apparently. Let us hope they do not share their Arkarian brethren’s skill with magic, for the Ancients, the gods …” He let a small shiver. “They were the fiercest enemies I have ever faced.”

  “There is a strong magic here, I sense,” said Huanatha quietly.

  “Great,” said Jasen. His heart sank. “Are you suggesting it’s impossible, then?”

  Longwell sighed. Again, he massaged the bridge of his nose. “No. But there are other difficulties to consider. If we can wrest this vessel from the Prenasians—and that is a troll-sized if—we have no idea where we are. Rakon has not shared our destination with me; we could be anywhere now.”

  “We‘re only a few days’ travel from the isle of Baraghosa,” said Jasen. “And Burund could tell. If we supplant the Prenasians, beat them and their trolls, we could give the ship over to him.”

  “A fine prize, for all he has been through,” said Huanatha.

  Longwell was quiet. Knuckling his chin, he said, “Many will die to see this done.”

  “Many will die if it’s not,” said Jasen. “Perhaps more.” And Burund and his crew would remain enslaved, Jasen thought guiltily.

  “Perhaps that is true. But do you know what you ask? Honestly, truly?” Longwell leaned forward, fixing Jasen with a hard look. “We will have to murder, in stealth, as many of the Prenasian crew as can we can. We will have to slit their throats in the dead of night, in perfect silence. You will have blood on your hands—like a butcher, slaughtering animals. But these will be people—your fellow men.”

  “These are animals,” Huanatha growled, teeth bared in a sneer. “They are lower than that, less worthy of mercy.”

  “But they are men,” said Longwell. “Their skin is different to ours, their beliefs, their capacity for what we perceive as evil … but they are men all the same.”

  “They have decided they are better than other men,” Huanatha replied. “That they are worthy above others to exercise control over the lives of free men. By seeking to crush others beneath their boot, they deserve the sword that descends on the back of their neck.” She folded her arms in front of her.

  Leaning back again, Longwell gave Jasen a long, cool look. “Then we are agreed. This is what must be done if we are to achieve what you propose.” Longwell stooped a little lower, his eyes finding Jasen’s in the shadowy cabin. “Do you realize what this will do to your soul? How it will coarsen you?”

  Jasen considered. He could see it, almost, now—see himself standing behind a Prenasian captain, perhaps even Rakon, and dragging a blade across the man’s neck; could almost feel the hot gush of blood as it poured out of him, flowing over his hands, and the man bucked, gurgled …

  Yes. Longwell was right. This would fracture him deeply, breaking him in ways he could not imagine.

  But he could justify it. This—saving the men of the Lady Vizola, no matter the cost—it was right. Just as he knew it was right to stop Baraghosa, whatever his malevolent plans were.

  “These Prenasians are men,” Jasen said, “but so are the crew of the Lady Vizola. I owe Shipmaster Burund my allegiance, and more. His men—and he too—will die unless we do this. And if need be …” He paused, and the image came back to him, Rakon’s throat split open and a river of dark liquid pouring out of him, soaking his wrists. “… I will slit their throats myself.”

  Huanatha and Longwell traded an uncomfortable look, fraught with significance.

  “You will not,” said Longwell at last. Rising, he strode to his armor. Resting a hand on the breastplate, he seemed to steel himself, inclining his head in a short nod. “I will do this. I will go to the crew cabin of this ship, and I will kill these men myself.”

  Huanatha joined him, touching his shoulder. “And I will join you.”

  But Longwell shook his head. “No. Someone must be on the deck. Otherwise they might close the hatches and attempt to trap me. You must listen—and when things begin to get loud … then you will know what to do.”

  Jasen expected Huanatha to argue; she was so fierce, so ready for battle, at all times. Yet she did not. She simply nodded, and exchanged a look with Jasen, silently asking if he were in on it too.

  Jasen confirmed with his own resolute nod. “We will know what to do.” A hesitation. “But … your spear. And Tanukke. How …?”

  “Le
ave it to me,” said Longwell. “I believe I know where they are stored. If not … there will be other weapons.”

  “The Prenasians carry swords,” said Huanatha.

  “And I am proficient with them.” At her surprised look, he said, “What? You expected me to be useless with anything but my spear?”

  “Yes,” she said plainly. “You refuse to wield anything else. Why would I believe you capable in swordplay when you cling to the lance like it is all that tethers you to this world?”

  Longwell flashed a macabre grin. “I look forward to ruining your measure of me.” Looking again very serious, he looked from Huanatha to Jasen. “So it is decided then. We will do this—no matter the cost.”

  “Yes,” said Huanatha.

  Jasen nodded. “No matter the cost.”

  It was decided. They would do this. And if it fractured Jasen’s soul, blackened it with a taint that could never be healed, for as long as he lived …

  Well, he would not live much longer anyway.

  12

  The plan was set, and it would happen that day—almost as soon as they were done speaking, in fact, when the sun had lifted high enough to paint the deck with morning light. The shift changeover would not have long occurred, the overnight workers returned to their quarters and the day shift distracted with the tasks they had to carry out at the very beginning of the day, yet more still in the mess halls. This, Longwell said, was the best opportunity for him to reclaim his spear and slit the throats of as many Prenasians as he could.

  “What should I do?” Jasen asked, rubbing his fingers against the thin, blond hairs on his arms.

  “Take to the deck,” said Longwell, “with Huanatha. Await me there.” To her, he said, “I will locate Tanukke and bring her back to you.”

  She nodded. “My thanks.”

  Longwell returned a curt smile.

  Then they parted.

  Jasen and Huanatha strode through the ship’s interior, he in a kind of daze. It was happening—it was happening now.

  “You are troubled,” Huanatha said.

  “I’m accustomed to a little more planning than this,” Jasen said.

  She laughed, a quiet, deep chuckle. “Life is not always so kind as to allow you to plan. But this is a blessing too, for it does not allow you time to fear, either.”

  That was true, although Jasen felt the fear there, lingering in the back of his mind in a dark corner. If he fed it—and he could—then it would quickly grow and overpower him. A strange thought to have, for he hadn’t felt the same fear inside of him at battling Baraghosa. But then, Baraghosa had been one man, and Jasen’s fear had been overpowered by his furious desire to do what was right and avenge the people of his village.

  The Prenasians needed to be defeated as well. The Lady Vizolans should be set free. But here, Jasen felt room for doubt. Baraghosa had to be defeated, would be. The Prenasians, these warmongers from another land … they were like the scourge: viciously cruel, spreading like a plague to consume and overtake the lands they set their sights upon—and numerous. Almost more numerous than the trees, it felt, at times.

  Ah, there it was, the fear.

  Stop it, he told himself.

  It is happening now.

  He hadn’t the time to fear.

  Huanatha had memorized the ship’s layout impressively, featureless and repetitive though its walls were. It was part of being a warrior, Jasen supposed, particularly one so accomplished, having an attention to detail that most men did not possess.

  She led them to the stairs up to the top deck, pausing only once to check Jasen and Alixa’s shared room. Alixa still was not there. Scourgey—Niamh—remained, lying on the bed in a curled, misshapen heap. Her head rose when Jasen opened the door. Coal-lump eyes regarded him blankly. She didn’t make any move to follow though.

  “She knows what is coming,” said Huanatha quietly when they’d closed the door and moved on. “She senses it.”

  Jasen wondered how. He did not ask though. Some things in this world, he did not think he could understand.

  “I hope Alixa is somewhere out of the way,” Jasen murmured.

  “She has kept to herself much of these past days,” said Huanatha.

  “How do you know?”

  “I see her, here and there—we pass each other. She is very wrapped up in the things that cloud her mind. It is written, very clearly, upon her face.”

  “Do you know where she goes? I hardly see her.”

  Huanatha shook her head. “Somewhere else. I have not asked.” At Jasen’s furtive look, she added, “Do not worry. She will not be caught up in this.”

  Would she not? But what if Longwell was detected? He could not kill an entire ship by stealth. If he were caught, and things below the deck went south, and Alixa were nearby … as one of his wards, she would surely be punished, perhaps snatched up by the Prenasians and held captive until he stood down. Or worse, Longwell could become an example, the way Hamisi had—and Jasen and Alixa would both be examples with him.

  He could die today. Both of them could. Perhaps all of them.

  He was feeding it again.

  It is happening now, he told himself again, as he and Huanatha clambered the steps leading topside. It is too late to fear. All I can do is hope for the best.

  The sunlight streaked across the deck, painting long shadows beneath the masts.

  No land in sight. Jasen was, quite suddenly, acutely aware of that fact. Because if this went wrong, if they were cast out into the waters, there was no one in the world to help them. Longwell, Huanatha, the Lady Vizolans, Jasen himself—they were alone and perilously outnumbered.

  The Lady Vizolans were out already. Their chains spilled out around them, coiling like great steel snakes. There were a good couple of meters between each of the clasps around a man’s ankle—enough to maneuver and to spread out. It gave them the space to work on the tasks the Prenasians foisted upon them: this morning, scrubbing the deck under the watchful eye of a brutish troll who held a cane. Even as Jasen strode past the line, the troll cracked it across Chaka’s back with a noise like lightning cleaving the air.

  Chaka yelped. The strike of the cane between his shoulder blades caused him to stumble, and the broom he had been holding clattered upon the deck.

  He fell victim to the pain for only a moment—then he was scrabbling onto his knees, grabbing for the broom—

  The troll grunted something in whatever language it spoke—if indeed if had the capacity for language at all—and cracked the cane across him again.

  Chaka jolted. In that moment he seemed not just to arch his back but turn elastic, like the force of the whipcrack had caused all his bones to convert to fluid, the strike rippling across him like a wave.

  “Akh-huna! Ren akh-huna!” he cried, snatching up his broom.

  The cane cracked across him again, curving so far it was hardly believable that it did not snap. Chaka staggered, pulling the chains forward. Beside him, Kuura was yanked forward—

  Beads of red liquid danced in the sunlight like a handful of tiny rubies thrown skyward.

  “AKH-HUNA!” Chaka cried.

  Rakon, upon the top deck, overseeing proceedings from where he’d spoken with Jasen this morning, chuckled. So did the small handful of Prenasians out here. Enjoying their morning’s entertainment.

  Jasen’s blood ran hot.

  Huanatha gritted her teeth as the cane cracked yet again. “Stop apologizing, you fool,” she muttered. “It only fuels their cruelty.”

  Another crack.

  Jasen’s fists clenched. His jaw too.

  Chaka stumbled again. Kuura was dragged—

  Kuura whirled around. His teeth gritted and his fists tight around a broom of his own, which now he brought up between him and the troll, he was an impressive sight.

  He brandished his broom at the troll. “Un-de no Chaka! Taliss un-de!”

  Chaka began, holding up a hand to wave him off. “Enh, Kuura—!”

  Then the tro
ll grabbed the broom in Kuura’s hands and shoved, so hard and fast that the rod slammed Kuura across the forehead.

  He staggered backward.

  The troll wrenched the broom from his grasp and flung it aside.

  Before it had even hit the deck, the troll grabbed Kuura about the shoulder. He lifted him, in front of his face—he loosed a roar—and then he threw him.

  The chains stopped him traveling far, but he slammed the deck, hard, on his back.

  Jasen started forward—

  Huanatha stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. “No.”

  “But Kuura—”

  “You would be slaughtered.” Shaking her head, lips pursed, she went on quietly, “Stay back. I will have words with Rakon. Let me defuse this. Do not move from here, do you hear? It will be over soon anyway.” And across the deck she strode, past the Lady Vizolans, toward the upper deck where Rakon watched with undisguised relish.

  “Ah, the former queen,” he greeted as he caught sight of Huanatha passing the men of the Lady Vizola. “Come to watch this morning’s theater, have you?”

  She replied, though what she said, Jasen didn’t hear. He was utterly, entirely focused on Kuura and the troll—the yellow-skinned beast was not letting up. Kuura had hardly risen from his near-back-breaking impact before the troll grabbed him up again, by the neck this time, then shoved him down, hard, face into the deck like a man might punish a misbehaving dog.

  The troll rumbled something.

  Kuura winced.

  Chaka, alongside him, looked terrified. So did all of the men from the Lady Vizola. How much had they endured these past days already? Raking eyes across them, Jasen saw plenty of bruises, great welts running along their backs and across their shoulders where the cane had struck them. Burund had taken a lashing across the chest, two red, blistered streaks of skin forming an oozing cross on his sternum.

  The troll was barking at Kuura, something Jasen couldn’t understand. But Kuura seemed to, for he lifted his head, pushing back against the grotesquely large fist pressing down upon his shoulder blades, and retorted something through gritted teeth.