by Kevin Hearne
News spread throughout the city soon after our strange audience that the king was dead and Talala Fouz had been burned down by a couple of Hathrim. The gaze of the city folk toward the Hathrim of our party noticeably turned from slightly awed but generally friendly to suspicious at the least and edging toward murderous. There were mutterings and the beginnings of some clustering, the early stages of a mob, and Olet quickly ordered all her people outside the walls and across the West Gravewater River to a hunting camp.
“We should be staging from there anyway. Let’s set up crews to start dropping trees.”
“Recruiting is going to be a bit tougher now, I think,” La Mastik said. And no sooner had she said it than one of the viceroy’s pages pushed forward with a summons to return to the skylight room.
“The viceroy needs to see you immediately.”
She asked La Mastik to stay with the folks and get things organized and set a watch, but she brought Abhi and me along to emphasize that this was not exclusively a Hathrim enterprise.
The viceroy appeared to have drunk five more cups of tea in the short time we’d been away. He was now pacing in front of his throne and flailing his hands as he talked, in constant motion.
“Hi again, yeah, thanks for coming,” he began. “Let me make sure of the facts first, Olet: You’re the daughter of Winthir Kanek, hearthfire of Narvik and Tharsif?”
“The late hearthfire, yes.”
“So you know he’s dead.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“I’m sorry for the loss.”
“I’m not. He was cruel to everyone, including me. My entire reason for wishing to do this was to live a life outside his influence.”
“Right, good, glad we got that cleared up. But there’s still a problem. See, your cruel ol’ dad killed our king. So I’m in a bit of a bind here, politically speaking. I have this city here, right, and they’re watching their proverbial pecks of pickled peppers getting loaded onto carts for an expedition into the Gravewood, maybe never to return, and if you never returned I think everyone would be fine with that, just spiffing. But I’ve got this tactician whispering in my ear, saying, ‘Hey, Naren, what if’—and this is wild, but hear me out, okay?—‘what if Olet Kanek has a plan to sucker us? We give her a bunch of our food stores—the majority of them, to be honest—and then, instead of taking off, she lays siege to the city, and her thousands of Hathrim who look like peasants are actually soldiers and lavaborn in disguise? Talala Fouz is already toast, and our garrison is pretty small here because we sent a bunch of lads off to fight Gorin Mogen, so we’re easy pickings right now. What if this is just part of a grand strategy to take Ghurana Nent down? Who knows what forces might already be striking elsewhere? Pretty clever, eh? What do you think?’ ”
“I think you should get a new tactician. It would be strategically stupid for me, or anyone, to try that here.”
“Stupid? Why?”
“If there was some grand plan on the part of Hathrir to take down Ghurana Nent—which there isn’t—it would make far more sense to try the sort of gambit you describe at Ar Balesh, so that we could cut off resupply from Rael by closing the tunnel through the Huntress Range. Then we would cut off river trade at either end, at Talala Fouz and Ar Balesh, isolating you and the other river cities in the middle, effectively beginning a siege without coming in range of the walls. Only when either end was secure would we move against the cities in the middle, and by the time we did so, you’d be weak and cut off with no hope of reinforcement.”
“Holy balls, that’s scary,” the viceroy said in a tiny voice.
“But we’ve given you our boats, and I am the only person in our party who owns a decent set of armor. We are not fighters. Our desire to found a new city with people of all nations and kennings is genuine.”
“If it helps, Viceroy,” I interjected, “I can vouch for Olet’s desire to live far from her father’s sphere of influence. She hatched this plan with Jerin Mogen well before the Battle of the Godsteeth. I was there.”
“Oh, that’s super comforting. She had a conversation once with the son of another hearthfire who actually invaded us and killed thousands of Nentians. Thanks, bardy bard! How about you, hunter boy? You got any vouching to do for Olet here?”
“Well,” the plaguebringer said, startled to be addressed and clearing his throat. “She has not asked me to take part in any attack on Ghuli Rakhan. All our conversations have been about establishing a city in the north.”
“Oh, so she couldn’t possibly be using you, then? Lying to you? You’re not a prop she’s brought along to bolster her case?”
“If I am, then I’m unaware of it. I just want to go north.”
“Yeah, hey, why is that? Huh? Handsome guy like you with fancy khernhide boots, you ought to be ass deep in melons at the market, know what I’m saying? Khul Bashab wasn’t good enough for you?”
“I’ve already seen all the animals down there,” Abhi replied with a shrug. “I’m excited to explore and see something new.”
“Plenty of something new in the Gravewood, for sure, yeah, no doubt. But you know something new might eat you, right?”
“I do. So far, though, everything that’s tried to eat me has failed.”
“Aha ha ha! Yeah. Good answer, kid. Okay, so look, Olet. I still have to do the ten things I said earlier, but now I have a hundred more because your father killed the king. I want to trust you, and, hey, I do, all right? But the situation is that I have some people who need proof you’re not here to kill us all, and I need to shut them up. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to send some guys to inspect your people, and they’re going to be looking for war material.” He finally stopped moving and met her eyes. “You got any of that on you?”
Olet nodded once. “We have axes for cutting timber and a few war axes like the houndsmen use, because we have some of Gorin Mogen’s former houndsmen with us. We have some bows and arrows for hunting. I have a sword, and I expect most everyone has a dagger or belt knife of some kind. But we have no shields and no serious armor apart from mine—the houndsmen all surrendered theirs at Baghra Khek— and we have no hounds. I am the only lavaborn of any skill. My priestess of the flame is only a sparker. What your men will largely find among my people are plenty of personal effects and lots of tired eyes.”
Viceroy Khusharas sprang into action again, pacing and gesticulating as he spoke. “Fantastic. Okay, so I’ll send a couple dozen guys, and your Raelech bard can watch them as they search, to make sure they behave and don’t steal or pick fights. You watch your folks to make sure they don’t start anything either. As long as I get a good report and none of my guys gets set on fire, we can proceed as before and I’ll be able to tell my tactician he owes me a beer or ten. Sound good? I really hope it does, because if you say no it’s going to make this bad day even worse.”
“Sounds good, Viceroy.”
“Good. That’s great. Thanks, Olet. Thing is, for all my complaining, I want to do this, and I want you to make it, you know? Because my king—he was an actual buddy of mine, you know? No, you didn’t know, of course you didn’t— Anyway, I was looking forward to writing my buddy a letter and telling him what a jerk he was for making me give you a fucking ton of meat. I mean, I’m pretty sure he wrote that in there just because he knew it would chap my ass and it made him laugh. And now I can’t write my buddy the king a letter, and if I slow down here that’s going to catch up to me and I won’t be able to function. The thing is, Olet, the thing is, he wanted you to succeed in this venture and your absolutely huge ass of a father didn’t. That’s reason enough for me to support you right there. So between you and me, let’s hope this all works out. I don’t want my buddy’s last act to turn out to be a con job, you know? I’d rather he be remembered as a visionary who placed a bet on you and won.”
“I un
derstand, Viceroy. I’m very sorry to bring such grief to your door. I hope to give you only good news from now on.”
“Fantastic. That was a perfect thing, that thing you just said. So get out of here and give me only good news from now on. My guys will meet you at the bridge.”
He had already turned to his chamberlain to ask what was next before we had a chance to move, but we exited as quickly as dignity would allow.
Abhi spoke to me in low tones as we made our way to the bridge. “Have you ever heard of the lizards in Forn that can change the color of their skin to match their surroundings? They’re called chameleons.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of them. I’d love to actually see one someday.”
“After witnessing that performance, I think grief can be thought of as a chameleon. It can change its color or pattern, but underneath it all it’s still an ugly lizard on a branch, waiting patiently for the right time to strike.”
“You realize that every time I’m sad from now on I’m going to think of chameleons?”
“You are? Kalaad, I didn’t mean that—”
“It’s all right, Abhi. Because then I’ll think of you and that will cheer me up. You’re hilarious, you know.”
“I am?”
“When you said, ‘Everything that’s tried to eat me has failed,’ I almost died trying not to laugh out loud. He still has no idea you found the Sixth Kenning.”
“Yeah.” Abhi’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I feel a bit guilty about that now. He seems like a nicer fellow than the other viceroys I’ve met. I mean, he’s still weird, but not in a malevolent way.”
“There was no way to know ahead of time. Cheer up. You can write him a letter when we get where we’re going and tell him everything from a very safe distance.”
The plaguebringer chuckled. “As in ‘By the way, Viceroy, I forgot to mention…’? Yeah, okay. That’s a good idea.”
* * *
—
Fintan dispelled his old self and said, “It’s time to check in on Koesha Gansu, whom we last saw in search of the northern passage and her sister, Maesi. We pick up a day or two later, after she’s started to survey the northwestern coast of our continent.”
We round a peninsula and find a large bay shining in the sun, its shores barely visible but populated with stands of timber, deciduous species mixed in with the evergreens, and some talkative seabirds calling overhead, occasionally plunging into waters and coming up with silver spinefish in their beaks. The lookout spies a break in the wood and we draw closer, confirming that, yes, indeed, we have found fresh water, and we are all happy again. There will be baths, by the goddess. I keep myself busy charting the bay’s contours while I talk to Haesha and Leisuen Korsu, my bosun, about work details.
“I want wood collected and the cook’s cauldron boiling all the water before we store it. We cannot trust the purity of anything here. I know it’ll take time, but we’ll be safe that way.”
“Aye, Zephyr.”
“I want an armed watch for the water detail and also for the bathers—we’ll do that in shifts. We don’t know about the local animals here.”
We’re giddy as we step off the rowboat, booted feet crunching on a soft carpet of needles and old leaves, feathered ferns nodding at us as a gentle breeze filters through the forest. Scouts armed with bows precede us upriver, looking for a likely place to bathe and, farther upstream, a place to fill the barrels and boil the water.
One of the scouts, Baejan Moesien, returns all too soon, the happy smile vanished from her features. “Zephyr, there’s a boulder up ahead you should see.”
“Lead the way.”
I don’t question her for details, because I’ll find out soon enough when I see it. But my senses sharpen, searching for danger. Is there a scent of blood or decay in the air? No, only freshness. Are there rustlings in the trees, growls of some predator nearby? We hear some birdcalls and some chittering of small forest creatures but nothing large enough to threaten us.
But when we step past the trunk of a particularly robust evergreen on the bank and I see a large gray boulder sunk in a sandy bend in the river, a perfect place for bathing, I know immediately why the scout fetched me. The rest of the scouts are there, facing out, looking into the trees nearby, not only alert but on edge.
The boulder has been carved, or chiseled, and the carvings painted. Not in some foreign language but in our own.
FETCH WATER QUICKLY AND RETURN TO SHIP, it reads. DO NOT SLEEP ONSHORE. DANGEROUS ANIMALS HERE. EATERS OF PEOPLE. WATCH THE TREES. That explains why the scouts are skittish.
Below that is a list of names and dates under the heading of ZEPHYRS. Some of the dates are from long before I was born—even before my parents were born. How is that possible, I wonder? I’ve never heard of this place before; there are no tales told of it. What horrors lie in wait for us ahead if this clear evidence of Joabeian discovery is here but not a single one of these zephyrs ever returned home to report it? Or did they try to return but weren’t able to make the crossing safely? Did they remain too long? Is my best course, then, to return to safety now, report this find, and wait yet another year for the seas to clear to make a similar short trip? Will continuing be a mere repetition of the errors of those before me?
I did not expect to be confronted with such a grim monument.
“Have you seen any burial markers?”
“No, Zephyr.”
That doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Or it might mean there were never enough left alive to do the burying. Or enough time to raise a marker. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
The paint is still somewhat fresh; someone had renewed it, probably just last year. I should do the same to make sure it remains visible. I skip to the most recent entries, where I begin to recognize the names of some zephyrs who left when I was a child. And there, near the end, is Maesi’s name. Two years ago to the day. We had left Joabei two years apart and landed on this alien shore two years apart. What happened to her next? She obviously didn’t die here; even though the figures are chiseled, I still recognize her hand. Am I to meet the exact same fate? I can’t suppress a shiver at the thought that Maesi stood in this same spot and had to make the same decision I must: Go on or go home.
The name beneath Maesi’s is not one I recognize. That zephyr must have come here from our other island and had taken time to refresh the paint.
“Bathing is canceled.” The scouts’ shoulders droop a little, but they say nothing. “We are getting water only and returning to the ship. I don’t want to lose anyone. Form up on me. Archers with eyes on the treetops. We’re going to return to the boat and rethink the day’s agenda.”
“Aye, Zephyr,” Baejan says.
I spin on my heel, drawing both the Bora and the Buran, the straight and serrated daggers Shoawei used when fighting the fire demons, subduing them to her will. Together we advance in the half-crouched spring step, ready to attack or defend, eyes darting into the forest that no longer seems so welcoming.
Stepping around the broad trunk of the ancient evergreen we’d passed on our way in, I see that Haesha and Leisuen are approaching us without concern, some thirty lengths along the path. Movement in the trees above them makes my heart fill my throat.
“Knives out!” I call to them. “Look up!”
There’s a shadow shifting in the branches of the pines—not a single animal, but a churning cloud of birds. We’d heard them chirping but hadn’t realized there were so many. As Haesha and Leisuen draw their weapons, the swarm shrieks in a frenzied pitch and dives at them. I break into a run to help them, the scouts following me, but the birds get there first.
They’re the size of songbirds, but they’re not settling for a worm here or a grasshopper there. They’ve realized at some point that they can go after larger prey if they work together.
<
br /> Swarming behavior in birds, fish, and insects is supposed to be a defensive mechanism against larger predators, to protect individuals and reduce the number of victims. But these birds have learned that it can work as an offensive strategy as well. They lead not with their talons but their beaks.
Haesha and Leisuen slash at them with their daggers, knocking some out of the air, but others pass by unscathed and do some scathing to my most important crew. The women disappear in a screaming cloud of feathers and steel, and I belt out a battle cry as I approach, waving my daggers in an attempt to distract and terrify the birds. The scouts join in and it appears to work—that, and the efficient slaying that Haesha and Leisuen conduct even as they’re getting attacked. The cloud of feathers dissipates as the birds retreat to the trees, leaving two bloodied sailors and a lot of avian corpses behind.
Haesha has lost part of her left ear, has chunks missing from her arms, and has divots in her shoulders and back. Leisuen has lost the top of her right ear and bears similar wounds. Their defensive actions kept their faces and vitals unharmed, but the birds were all after mouthfuls of meat, and many of them got it.
The archers form up around us and take some shots at the surviving birds, which have not entirely fled but remain in the upper branches of the pines, watching us.
Haesha kicks angrily at the bloody corpse of a bird. “What kind of flying devils are those?” she says. “Why are they even allowed?”
