by Morgan Rice
Duncan rode into one of his men and made out a fog walker clinging to his chest, its mouth suctioning him, and he watched in horror as the fog walker suctioned out the man’s heart. It was still pumping in the air as the soldier shrieked and fell, dead, to the ground.
A gale of wind passed through, and for a moment the fog lifted and Duncan spotted hundreds of fog walkers flying through the air, many rising from the Lake of Ire itself. His heart dropped at the sight. He knew if he did not act quickly his men would die on these shores.
“DISMOUNT!” he shouted to his men. “Take the low ground!”
His order carried on the wind, and there came a great rankling of armor as his men all dismounted, and he did, too. Duncan crouched down low to get a better angle on these creatures as they came flying at him in the wind, and as one neared, he raised his sword and slashed. His sword cut it across the torso and there came the sound of clattering bones as it collapsed into pieces all around him.
Another came at him, opening its mouth wide, and he stabbed it in the chest, shattering it. One came at him from the side and no sooner had he smashed it with his shield then another came from his other side.
Duncan spun and slashed left and right, shattering these things in every direction as their claws reached for him. Anvin found him, and the two fought back to back in the fog. Anvin swung his flail, its spiked balls swinging overhead and smashing fog walkers as they collapsed in heaps all around them.
Seavig hit the ground beside Duncan’s, rolling on his back and swinging with an axe, chopping fog walkers out of the sky. The group stuck together, guarding each other’s backs, fighting as one as they fended off the creatures.
Yet all around them the cries of agony continued, too many of their men getting killed by these things which came out of nowhere, as if they were one with the fog. There seemed to be a never-ending stream of them, as if the lake were churning them out in its vapors. Duncan spun and slashed one, sparing Seavig right before he was bitten in the back—but as he did, Duncan suddenly felt sharp claws digging into his back. He reached around and grabbed the creature and threw it over his head, stepping on it and smashing it. But as soon as he did, another latched onto him and began suctioning his arm. Seavig stepped forward and smashed it to bits with his axe—while Anvin lunged forward and stabbed another through its open mouth before it landed on Duncan’s neck.
The air was filled with the sound of bones clattering as men fought back bravely. A wind blew in and lifted the fog for a moment and as it did, Duncan saw piles of bones, hundreds of dead fog walkers littering the shores. Yet in the distance, he was horrified to see thousands more fog walkers emerging from the mist and flying towards them, howling their awful high-pitched howl.
“There are too many!” Anvin yelled out.
“To the waters!” Seavig yelled. “Into the lake! All of you! It is our last chance!”
Duncan was horrified at the thought.
“The Lake of Ire?” Duncan called back. “Does it not swarm with creatures?”
“It does!” Seavig called. “But a possible death is better than a certain one!”
“TO THE WATERS!” Duncan commanded, shouting out to his men, realizing their situation was helpless otherwise.
Horns sounded and as one, their men ran for the lake. Duncan ran with them, wading in, a great splashing noise rising up as they all could not get in fast enough. As he entered, Duncan was surprised to find the red waters to be warm and sticky, thick, as if he were running into quicksand. He waded in deeper, up to his chest, and the water grew hotter as he did, bubbling and hissing.
Fog walkers flew through the air toward them, but as they neared the water, this time they flew up and avoided them, as if afraid. They circled overhead in a huge swarm, like bats, howling in frustration. Duncan felt a moment of relief as he realized Seavig had been right: they were, indeed, afraid of the waters. It had saved them from the swarm.
Finally, realizing they could not get close, the fog walkers let out a great howl and as one, the flock flew off, disappearing for good.
Duncan’s men raised their arms in the water and let out a shout of victory, elated. Duncan himself finally let down his guard for the first time.
No sooner had he done so when Duncan suddenly felt something slimy wrapping itself around his ankles, like seaweed. His heart slammed as he tried to kick it off. He looked down, studying the thick waters, but could not see what it was. It tugged at him, all muscle, and with a sudden yank, Duncan began to feel himself being dragged down.
He looked down and suddenly saw the water teeming, alive with thousands of creatures resembling sea snakes.
Shouts arose all amongst his men as one by one, on all sides, his men began to disappear, to get sucked down beneath the murky waters, to a terrible, terrible death.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kyra’s foreboding deepened as she rode across the soggy clearing, Dierdre and Leo by her side, wind and rain whipping her face, heading for the tavern beside the gushing river. She felt a knot in her stomach, sensing this was a mistake—yet she also felt unable to turn back. Rationally, Kyra knew she should follow her father’s advice, stay clear of people, stick to the road and keep the sea in sight until they reached Ur.
Physically, though, she was just too hungry, too tired, and unable to resist the impulse that was driving her out of the rain and toward warmth, shelter, and the smell of food. After all, Dierdre had a point: there were risks involved in not finding food, especially with Ur still several days away.
As they approached, there came more shouts of drunken men, louder this time. A few pigs and stray chickens rooted around outside its walls, and a shingle hung crookedly, swaying in the wind.
“What does it say?” Dierdre asked her, and she realized her friend was unable to read. That should not have surprised her, she realized, as most of Escalon could not. She had had a very special upbringing.
Kyra raised a hand to her eyes and struggled to read in the rain.
“The Inn at Tanis,” she replied, thinking how unoriginal a name it was.
This place, named after the river, looked as if it had been constructed from the forest clearing in a few days’ time. There came another shout, and Kyra tried not to imagine the crowd awaiting them.
“You’re lucky,” Dierdre said.
“Why’s that?” Kyra asked, confused.
“Only highborn can read,” she said. “I wish I could.”
Kyra felt sorry.
“My brothers cannot,” Kyra replied. “I was the only one who insisted. I can teach you, if you like.”
Dierdre’s eyes lit up.
“I would like that,” she replied.
As they approached, Kyra reached down and was reassured to feel the gold jingling in her pocket, knowing it would be more than enough to get the provisions they needed. They would stay just long enough to thaw out their frozen hands, to buy feed for the horse and Andor, and move on. How much could happen in a few minutes’ time?
She looked and saw no sign of Pandesian horses or boats outside, and she felt a bit of relief. Fellow Escalons would likely not attack their own; after all, they were all in this war together. But travelers?
They headed around the side of the structure, searching for the front door, and Kyra found it ajar, crooked, facing the gushing river and near the wooden bridge that crossed it. Bobbing in the river were dozens of small boats, some long and narrow, like canoes, others wide and flat; to the north she saw the mouth of the harbor leading to the sea and the many large ships flying the colors of all different lands. She figured all these sailors probably stopped here for the same reason she did: to replenish their provisions and get some warmth.
They dismounted, Kyra tying Andor alongside the structure, while Dierdre tied up her horse. Andor, resentful, stomped uncomfortably and snarled.
Kyra reached up and stroked his head.
“I’ll be right out,” she said. “I’m just going to get you some food.”
Andor stomped again, as if he knew bad things lay inside.
Leo whined, wanting to join, too, but Kyra knelt down and held him in place, stroking his head.
“Wait with Andor,” she said, feeling guilty as the rain picked up.
“Let’s go,” Dierdre said.
Kyra stood, following Dierdre as they walked up the creaky wooden plank toward the door, and as they did, it suddenly slammed open, a man stumbling out so quickly they had to get out of his way. The man hurried to the side rail, leaned over, and threw up.
Kyra, revolted, tried not to look; she turned back for the door and hurried inside, wondering if that was an omen.
As the door opened, Kyra was struck by a wave of noise and by the smell of stale beer, body odor, sweat, and food. She nearly gagged. She looked around and saw a narrow bar, behind which was a tall, skinny bartender with a gaunt face, perhaps in his forties. Inside the room were dozens of men, sitting and standing, of all different appearances, their dress foreign, men clearly from all over the world. She heard languages she did not recognize, and accents she could not understand. All of them were immersed in drink.
As they entered the tavern, all the men stopped and turned, the place falling silent. Kyra felt uncomfortable as they looked her up and down, felt more conspicuous than ever. It was not every day, Kyra realized, that two women walked into a place like this alone. In fact, as she looked around at the grime and filth, she figured a woman’s foot had probably never stepped foot in here once.
Kyra looked back at their faces, and she did not like what she saw. They were the faces of drunk men, of desperate men, foreigners, most with heavy stubble, others with thick beards, few of them shaven. Some had beady eyes, many eyes were bloodshot, and most were tainted by drink. Their hair was long, unkempt, greasy, and they all had a hunger in their eyes—and not for food. It was for violence. For women.
It was exactly the sort of situation Kyra had wanted to avoid. A part of her wanted to turn and walk out, but they needed the provisions and it was too late now.
Kyra put on her toughest face and strutted through the crowd, right for the bar, keeping her eyes fixed on the barkeep and trying not to seem afraid. Dierdre followed close behind.
“Those chickens behind the bar,” Kyra said to the bartender, speaking in a loud and firm voice, “I’ll take four. I’ll also need four bags of feed, two sacks of water, and one slab of raw meat,” she added, thinking of Leo.
The bartender looked back with surprise.
“And you have money to pay for all that?” he asked, in an accent she had not heard before.
Kyra, keeping her eyes fixed on him, reached into her sack and extracted one large gold coin, which she knew would be enough to pay for all that and more. She set it down on the bar, and it rang with a distinctive clink.
The barkeep glanced warily at her and picked up the coin and examined it, holding it up to the candlelight. Kyra could feel the eyes of all the patrons on it, and she knew it was drawing even more attention than she would have liked.
“These markings,” the barkeep observed. “Are you from Volis, then?”
Kyra nodded back, her heart pounding, feeling a tension rise within her, more on guard than ever.
“And what are two girls from Volis doing all the way on the River Tanis? Alone?” came a harsh voice.
Kyra heard a commotion and turned to see a large man, taller than most of the others, with green eyes and brown hair, staring back at her as he approached. She tensed, not knowing what to expect, debating how much to tell him.
“I’m on my way to see my uncle,” she said vaguely, leaving it at that.
He narrowed his eyes.
“And where is your uncle?” he asked. “Perhaps I know him.”
“Ur,” she replied flatly.
He looked back at her skeptically.
“Ur is far from here. Are you two crossing Escalon alone then?”
Kyra hesitated, debating whether to reply. She owed this man no answers and just wanted to be out of this place.
She turned and faced him, squaring her shoulders.
“And who are you that you should demand answers from me?” she replied firmly.
A few men in the bar groaned, and the man’s face reddened.
“For a girl alone, in your situation, you should show more respect to your elders,” he said darkly.
“I give respect to those who give it to me,” she replied, not backing down. “And so far, I have seen none from you. As for being in a vulnerable position,” she added, “I daresay it is you who are in that position. I have a very fine weapon strapped to my back, and I see you have but a knife on your waist. Do not underestimate me because I am a girl. I can slit your throat before you finish speaking.”
There came a low grumble from the crowd, as the tension raised several notches.
The man stared back, shocked, and raised a hand to his hips.
“Big words for a girl,” he said. “Much less for one traveling alone.” He looked her over. “You are a brave one, aren’t you?” he asked. “I suspect you’re not an ordinary girl.” He rubbed his chin. “No, by the looks of you, I’d say you are someone important. Furs like that are reserved for warlords. What are two girls doing wearing a warlord’s furs?”
He stared back darkly, demanding a response, as the tavern quieted. Kyra decided it was time to tell them.
“They are my father’s furs,” she said proudly, glaring back. “Duncan. Warlord of Volis.”
For the first time, the man displayed true shock and fear. His expression softened.
“Duncan, you say?” he said, his voice quivering. “Your father?”
The room grumbled in surprise.
“And would he let you travel alone?” he added. “And not with a company of a hundred men?”
“My father has faith in me,” she replied. “He has seen what I can do. He has seen how many men’s throats, like you, I have already cut. It is they he fears for, not myself,” she replied boldly, knowing she must show no weakness if she were to survive this place.
The man stared back, shocked, clearly not expecting that response.
Slowly, his face broke into a smile.
“You are your father’s daughter then,” he replied. “And a fine man he is. I met him once. The boldest, bravest warrior I’d ever known.”
He turned to the barkeep.
“Everything they asked for,” he said, “double it! It’s on me!”
He threw another gold coin on the bar as the barkeep grabbed it and quickly scrambled to get the provisions.
Kyra watched, relieved and surprised. Slowly, she relaxed her shoulders and loosened her grip on her staff.
“Why should you pay for our food?” Dierdre asked.
“Your father saved my life once,” the man said to Kyra. “I owe him. Now you can tell him we’re even. Plus, I hear a rumor that your father has killed some Pandesians,” he said. “Rumor has it that war is brewing in Escalon.”
Kyra looked back him, her heart thumping, wondering how much to say.
He summed her up, and nodded to himself.
“I suspect that is what your journey’s about,” he said. “And by the looks of you, I suspect you may have already shed some Pandesian blood yourself.”
Kyra shrugged.
“There may have been one or two who crossed my path,” she said. “But nothing unprovoked.”
The man’s smile widened, and this time he leaned back and laughed.
“Anyone who kills Pandesians is a friend of mine,” he said heartily. “Don’t worry, girls, you shall not be harmed here. Not by me or any of my men!”
Kyra began to feel a sense of relief—when suddenly a dark voice boomed from across the room.
“Speak for yourself!”
Kyra turned, as did the rest of the men in the room, to see a brute of a man appear, twice as wide as the others, and flanked by several friends. They all wore chain mail, covered by dark brown cloaks, and had a yellow hawk insign
ia branded on them. They stared darkly at Kyra and Dierdre as they approached.
The other men stepped aside as they walked across the tavern, floorboards creaking, menace in their eyes, hands on swords and daggers. Kyra’s stomach tightened; she sensed this was real trouble.
“I don’t give a damn about who your father is,” the oaf muttered, coming closer. “My land lies far across the sea, and I don’t give a damn about Pandesians, or Escalons, or any of your politics. I see two young girls, traveling alone. And I am hungry. My men are hungry.”
He stepped closer, smiling widely, missing teeth, stinking, his face grotesque as he smiled, with his elongated jaw. Kyra’s heart thumped madly as she tightened her grip on her staff, sensing a confrontation and wishing she had more room to maneuver in these close quarters.
“What do you want?” Dierdre asked, fear in her voice.
Kyra silently fumed, wishing her friend had remained silent; the fear in her voice was evident, and that, she knew, would only embolden them.
“Many things,” the man replied, looking at her, licking his lips. “The gold in your sacks. And even more—the money I will get for selling you. You see, where I come from, two young girls demand a very high price.” He grinned a wide, creepy grin. “I will be many, many times richer than I was when I woke this morning.”
He stepped even closer, a few feet from Kyra, and Kyra saw the friend of her father look back and forth from her to the foreigners, as if unsure whether to get involved.
“Don’t try to protect her,” the foreigner said to him. “Unless you want to end up dead, too.”
Her father’s friend, to Kyra’s disappointment, raised his hands and backed away.
“I said I owed her father a favor,” he said. “I fulfilled it. I won’t harm her. But what anyone else does with her, well….that’s not my business.”
Kyra lost all respect for the man as he slinked back into the crowd. Yet it also emboldened her. It was just her now, and she liked it that way. She needed to rely on no man.
