by David Estes
“With Bart?”
“Who’s Bart?” Annise asked. It was strange thinking about Tarin having a past, a space in between the years that she had known him. Though he’d told her some of what had happened to him, there were probably thousands of details he’d left out. People like Fay and Bart who must’ve been important to him in various ways.
“A money-grubbing little weas—” Fay started to say, but Tarin cut her off.
“My first and only tourney sponsor,” he said.
“I haven’t seen him in many years,” Fay said. “But he was a scoundrel anyway.”
“Yes, he liked his coin,” Tarin said, “and he helped me for all the wrong reasons. But still, I owe him a lot. I owe both of you.”
Fay blinked. Though she tried to hide her feelings, Annise could sense the pride there. “Like I told you before we parted ways…” Fay said.
“I know, I know, you were just doing your job. But still, thank you for my armor, for the Morningstar.”
“And now you want to forge smaller versions of Tarin’s weapon?” Annise asked, bringing the conversation full circle.
Fay shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s just something I’ve been playing around with. The weapon loses a lot of its power when made smaller, but a normal soldier can’t wield it otherwise.”
“Are you saying I’m not normal?” Tarin asked. Annise was pleased to hear that the lightness in his tone had returned.
“A man-beast like you?” Fay said. “Perfectly normal. You’d fit right in with the ice bears of the Hinterlands.”
Annise laughed. “That’s what I’m always telling him.”
Fay smiled. “In any case. It was lovely meeting you, Your Highness. And a pleasant surprise seeing you again, Choo—I mean, Tarin. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“I want to know everything about the time after you left Castle Hill,” Annise said, as they rode back up the line toward the front of the slow-moving train.
Tarin grunted. “The past is the past. We should leave it there.”
“I don’t like not knowing things about you.”
“I thought you were attracted to me because I was mysterious.”
“About as mysterious as a tin can,” Annise said, rapping her knuckles on his armor. His hand grabbed hers and he held on, riding together for a spell. “Seriously though, your past isn’t a mystery to those who were there with you, so why should it be to me?”
“You have much more important things to set your mind to.”
“An excuse.”
“I have a deal for you. If we retake Castle Hill, I’ll tell you the whole story. Every single detail.”
Annise considered it. She could keep pressing him for more information now, but he’d probably only pull his head further into his armor, like a turtle hiding from a predator. It was the best she was going to get. “Deal,” she said.
The train rode on for another five days without seeing another of Lord Griswold’s monsters. Each day, Annise and Tarin rode the line, getting to know the soldiers, trading quips, learning their names. She was surprised how much she enjoyed it. How good she was at it. She’d always thought of Archer as the charismatic one in the family, but perhaps some of his charm had rubbed off on her along the way. Or maybe it had been hiding inside her the whole time, just waiting to come out.
She always made a point to stop at Fay’s cart to chat for a few moments. Evidently, while they camped each night, the blacksmith set up a makeshift forge and continued working on what she was calling her Evenstar design, the miniature versions of Tarin’s larger Morningstar.
Today, on the fifth day since Annise had met her, Fay had a sample ready. She handed Annise the handle, and she gripped it tightly, relishing the supple leather binding. Even the sample was of exquisite workmanship. “Can I swing it?” Annise asked.
Fay shrugged. “Why not? This one is for testing, and I’ve heard you are a strong woman.”
Tarin said, “Perhaps we should let someone else test it before the queen. Let me.”
“Is he always like this around you?” Fay asked.
“He used to be worse,” Annise said. “And then I beat off an ice bear. Now back off, Sir Worrywart.” With a mighty heave she swung the modified mace overhead. Tarin ducked as the Evenstar whipped past. Annise let out a whoop of delight as she cut a round arc in the sky, the spiked ball whizzing past like a red star. She became more daring, altering her swing to a figure eight, and then a quick snap, like a whip, the ball flinging outwards at an imaginary foe.
She lost her grip.
The Evenstar, chain and all, flew through the air, crashing into the side of a cart bearing a half a dozen seamstresses darning thick socks, who screamed at the impact. As Annise watched in horror, the heavy spiked ball splintered the wood, ripping a plank from the bottom of the platform. The two horses pulling the cart spooked, rearing back and almost toppling backwards.
Annise leapt from her mount and raced over, apologies already on her lips. “Are you hurt?” she asked the women, who looked more startled than anything.
After checking themselves, they all confirmed they were fine. Annise offered them the day off, but they politely declined. Tarin opened his mouth to say something, but Annise stopped him with a single word. “Don’t.”
“I was only going to say it was a nice shot,” he said, chuckling, once they were riding next to Fay’s cart once more.
Sheepishly, Annise handed her the Evenstar. “I could’ve killed someone!”
“But you didn’t. And you will learn from the mistake.”
“Learn?”
“Yes. For the next time.”
“Next time?”
“Yes,” Fay said, cutting in. “I want you to have the first one. I think it’s the perfect weapon for you.”
Shocked, Annise accepted the Evenstar back, though she was almost afraid to touch it. She swore it had practically jumped out of her hand the last time. “I—I don’t know…I’m usually better with my fists.”
“And snowballs,” Tarin reminded her.
“I never thought of the Evenstar’s potential as a projectile,” Fay said. “You demonstrated that very well.”
“It was an accident.”
“Some of the best inventions are discovered by accident,” Fay said.
Annise wasn’t certain whether she was just trying to make her feel better, but she did like the feel of that leather grip. “Then I guess there’s nothing left to say but thank you.”
“You are most welcome, Your Highness.”
Annise held up the weapon toward Tarin. “Now we match.”
Tarin only shook his head.
They halted the procession two days later. Not at night, but midday.
Because they could see it. Castle Hill, its white walls and ramparts shining in the sunlight through the swirling snow like a beacon.
Home, Annise thought. It felt like a lifetime since she’d been forced to flee with Arch through the sewer tunnels. Then, she had wondered whether she would ever return to the city she grew up in. At the time, she hadn’t cared. She’d hated the city, what it represented. She’d longed to leave its bounds and never return.
But now…
Now she was shocked at how much she’d missed it. Tarin said, “It’s more beautiful than I remembered.”
Annise nodded. She knew the feeling. “I think it was my father that made it so ugly,” she said.
“It seems your uncle is trying to carry on the tradition.”
Annise narrowed her eyes, staring at the high, thick walls, wondering what monsters lurked behind them. “It’s time for this tradition to change. Gather the cavalry commanders. We attack tomorrow, at first light.”
Twenty-Seven
The Western Kingdom, the Dead Isles
Grey Arris
When Grey’s small craft collided with the shoreline, he tried to jam one of his oars between the jagged rocks to hold himself steady. For a moment it worked, and his boat held firm
, but then a wave crushed him from behind, twisting the boat around and throwing him off-balance. His arms wind-milled several times as he lost the oar, which continue to stick from the rocks like an oversized pin from a cushion.
And then, when another wave swept in on a strange angle, his vessel capsized. Black, churning waters closed in around his head, punching him with an icy fist and trying to claw inside his mouth. He came up sputtering, frantically kicking both legs and waving both his hand and his stub. His head cracked against something hard, and he tried to make sense of the darkness that surrounded him.
The boat. He was inside the boat, which was upside down. Waves continued to bash into the wooden sides, which then threatened to break him in half. He needed to get away from his vessel or he would die.
Taking a deep breath that was as much salty seawater as air, Grey dove, kicking hard and trying to put distance between himself and the boat, which scraped past, borne on the swift current.
When he resurfaced, his boat was gone and he was faced with a greater danger: the shard-like rocks that seemed to want to impale him on their hardened spikes. A wave picked him up, carrying him toward the rocks at far too great a speed. He cried out, but his scream was lost amongst the crashing of the waves on the shore. His shoulder slammed against a black rock, shooting agony through the very marrow of his bones, and he tried to hang on, but the stones were slick with wet moss and his only hand slid away.
The ocean inhaled, sucking him back out to sea.
His shoulder throbbed. His knee ached, too, where he must’ve hit it on the rocks. His lungs heaved, burning with swallowed saltwater.
The ocean’s next breath was a great sigh, in unison with his own, sending him back toward the black sledgehammer that would crush him into human paste.
And then he saw it. The oar, still protruding from the rocks. He reached for it, grunting, a zing of fear and thrill sparking inside his gut. His fingers closed around the wooden shaft, even as his body was smashed like a doll slung against a wall by a tantrum-throwing child.
The world flipped but still he clutched the oar, refusing to let go. He tried to shield his head with his stub and his arm, which took the brunt of the blow.
His legs twisted and he felt something pop, but still he hung on.
The ocean retreated and still he hung on.
The oar creaked and bounced, and still he hung on.
And then, as a fine rain began to fall through the mist, he started to climb, scrabbling at the wet rock and fighting for every inch.
Until he flopped, much like a beached fish, onto the unforgiving shore, panting and crying and laughing.
Shae. I’m coming. I’m here.
The wind blew a forlorn reply, chilling him to the bone.
It was like the sun had been taken captive, barricaded behind a wall of thick gray clouds. Mist seemed to attach itself to everything: the rocks, the ocean, even Grey’s drenched clothes. Though he had hoped the rain would abate, instead it howled with laughter and fell harder, icy needles pricking his cheeks and the back of his neck. Surprisingly, he missed scrubbing the decks of the Jewel under the heat of the blazing sun.
He couldn’t walk quite right, one of his legs hitching with each step. Of course, like every other lad growing up in the western kingdom, he’d heard the ghost stories about this place, but right now, with his amputated hand and lurching limp, he was the only undead creature staggering across the barren landscape.
The thought made him laugh, and for a moment he howled along with the wind, feeling more alive than he’d ever felt in his life. He wondered whether he’d taken a hit to the head, sending him spiraling into madness.
That thought made him laugh too.
Reaching across his body, he pinched himself, trying to get control. Think. He had to think. He’d had a small amount of food and water, but both were lost when his boat was swept away. Water likely wouldn’t be a problem, given the incessant rainfall. Food, on the other hand…
He spun in a circle, seeing nothing but bare, black rocks, towering cliffs, and an endless ocean full of whitecaps.
There! He might’ve screamed the word, but if he did the wind stole his voice again.
A light flickered through the mist, elevated from his current position. Atop the cliffs? Or is it a star? he wondered. No. Despite how gray everything was, it was still daytime, there would be no stars. He saw it again, a sparkle of light fighting through the storm.
Someone else was on the island, too.
Everyone had a different opinion as to what, exactly, the Dead Isles were haunted by. Some said it was where children went if they died, transforming into something evil, feasting on the flesh of wayward travelers that were shipwrecked on the islands’ shores. Others believed it was the tip of the first heaven, the place where Wrath banished the very worst souls, sticking from the ocean as a warning to all those who would sin. There were even those who claimed the isles themselves were alive, part of a monstrous demon whose hunger was never satisfied, devouring those who were unlucky enough to step foot on its rocky skin.
To Grey, however, it was just a damn dismal place. He hated the thought that Shae might be here, shivering like him.
He hadn’t even seen a single ghost. He hadn’t seen anything, save for that light, which seemed to get further and further away with each step. Because of this, his initial excitement had faded into the mist, and weariness and depression began to gnaw on his bones like a pair of starving hounds.
But still he soldiered on, grunting and cursing as he clambered over rough, jagged boulders, making his way toward the base of the cliffs, where he hoped to find…something. Best case scenario would be a set of gently winding stairs that he could take to the top. Even a rope would do. However, when he finally reached the cliffs, what he found made him sink to the ground and close his eyes.
A smooth, sheer rock face stared down at him, grinning a devil’s grin.
Grey let himself wallow for a few minutes. After all, he’d earned it. He didn’t cry—the last thing he wanted on his face was more saltwater. But he groaned, an audible representation of all his frustration and the aches and pains thrumming through his body. Then he slapped himself on the cheek, hard enough to snap himself out of his temporary misery.
He rose to his feet and continued on, skirting the edge of the unclimbable cliffs. There is a light up there somewhere, he reminded himself. Which means someone climbed it. If they did it, so can I. And I will.
He kept repeating those words—I will, I will, I will—over and over in his head, which kept his feet moving one after the other. Eventually, as he made his way around to the perpendicular side of the cliffs, the landscape changed slightly. The face of the cliff tilted, like the back of a giant as he craned his neck to stare at the sky. Further along still, he found a trail of sorts. It was rough, not paved exactly, but hewn into the rocks themselves, switching back and forth up the side of the cliffs.
He pounded his chest with his stump, opening his mouth to drink the rain. It would be a long trek to the top, and he would need to stay hydrated.
And then he started to climb.
Grey felt like a drunk as he staggered onto the top of the cliffs. His legs were jelly, wobbling beneath him. Everything spun with whorls of black, gray, and white. And orange.
The light.
It was at the top of a craggy hill, standing before a stone structure. A torch of some kind, beckoning him.
He paused, taking a moment to steady himself, to drink more rain. He desperately wanted to sit down—better yet, to lie down and sleep—but he resisted the urge. He knew if he went down he might not have the energy to get up again.
He walked on, reeling in the light with each step, watching it grow bigger and brighter in his field of vision, vibrant against the wall of gray.
The light marked the door to the structure, a rusty iron slab with a huge metal hoop for a doorknob. The building was constructed of enormous stone blocks, each so large it would take a hundred men
on ropes to lift it. Grey couldn’t imagine this barren place teeming with enough men to build this structure. Unless, of course, some of the stories were true, and it was built by the undead, using supernatural powers.
He laughed away the thought, but then went silent when the doors began to groan.
As fast as he could with his injured leg, he hustled around the corner of the building and pressed his back to the wall, breathing. Breathing and listening. The rain fell in a sheet before him, but not hitting him because he was now under an overhang provided by long, cut stones that formed a roof of sorts.
Rainwater dripped from his clothing, from his ears, from the tip of his nose. From his fingertips and from the soaked bandages wrapped around his stump.
With a final creak, the door slammed open.
And then…
Silence.
Grey pursed his lips, waiting for a sound, anything to give him an idea of who or what had opened the door. But there was nothing, just the whistle of wind over the cliffs and the drum of rain on the rocks.
He envisioned himself sticking his head out and having it separated from his neck by a ghostly scythe. He swallowed the thought down, steeled his nerves, and peered around the corner.
Even through the mist, the color of the two figures’ robes was unmistakable:
Red.
Holy Eyes of Wrath, I’ve found them, Grey thought, ducking back behind the corner. The holy warriors were just standing there, like sentinels, staring out into the storm, saying nothing.
He held his breath and peeked out once more.
The furia were gone.
Frowning, Grey stepped out, peering further along the wall until he could see the door, which still stood open. A sound from behind caught his attention and he spun around.
A powerful fist smashed into his head, knocking him backwards, sending him rolling arse over teakettle down the rocky incline. He came to a stop when the back of his head collided with a medium-sized stone.
