by Rena Barron
I open my eyes again, and they immediately adjust to the dark. “Is there ever a time on this ship someone’s not bedding someone else?”
“Your senses are quite improved, Rudjek.” Fadyi paces the cargo hold, pointedly ignoring my question. “Though, you have yet to heal the cut on your leg or free yourself from bondage.”
“Go easier on me,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m a baby craven—haven’t even seen my first birth day. Would you expect a baby to crawl out of the womb on his own?”
Fadyi clasps his hands behind his back. “Cravens can walk and fly within moments of birth.”
I cock an eyebrow at him, but he shows no sign that he’s joking. I groan again. It’s easier to be a human, with our dull senses, slow healing, and lack of shape-shifting . . . but I’m not human anymore. With all that’s happened, I haven’t had time to consider what that means.
“Why do I still appear human?” I ask, my mouth and throat parched. “Shouldn’t I have changed to be more like . . .” My voice falters. To be more like the monsters from the fairy tales, with tree bark skin, horned noses, and deadly claws. More like the monsters that Oshin Omari had supposedly killed in a glorious battle. “I don’t mean to offend.”
“Physical appearances are irrelevant to us.” Fadyi smiles, and the skin crinkles around his eyes. “Cravens are whatever we want to be: a tree, a frog, a whale. This beard gives you the impression of authority. My kind eyes portray a sense of trustworthiness. But these are only projections. The version of ourselves from your stories is how we have chosen to appear to humans to keep them out of our forest.”
“You became the monsters they feared.” I bite my lip. “But if Re’Mec created cravens to fight the demons alongside humans, what happened? We were once allies.”
“Would you believe me if I told you that humans are greedy and have a knack for taking more than they need to survive?” Fadyi asks.
I don’t think long before answering, “Sounds about right.”
“Once the gate between worlds closed, and the war was over, we retreated to the Dark Forest.” Fadyi leans against a barrel of grain. “There, our people lived in peace until Oshin Omari attacked.”
Oshin Omari, celebrated hero, craven slayer, the stuff of legends. The man who I thought was my ancestor turned out to be a drunk who got himself killed. Someone should pen a play on that—it’ll be a hit among the royals and common folk alike. We’ll call it Oshin Omari: The Rise and Fall of a Drunken Fool. It’ll be a parody for the ages. “Tell me about my real ancestor—the man who took Oshin’s place.”
Fadyi looks to my wound, almost healed now, and nods as though satisfied. “Caster of the Eldest Clan. His mother, Cassa, was our leader when Oshin Omari and the Kingdom invaded the Aloo Valley. The stories say Caster was brave, kind, honest, and a bit boisterous at times.”
“So, he was nothing like me, eh?” I bite back the pain as I struggle to pull my hands through the shackles. I vaguely remember Re’Mec telling me about Caster and the clans when I woke from my human death. Those first days, I drifted in and out of consciousness, my mind foggy. The sun orisha first made the cravens by pulling energy from his own body and altering it to be the opposite of him. Anti-magic. The first two craven he named Elder and Eldest. He made many cravens after them, but Elder and Eldest ruled their people together.
“Like most from the Eldest clan, Caster could see glimpses of the future,” Fadyi explains. “He foresaw that his bloodline would one day father a king of craven and human lineage to unite our people.”
“Come again?” I stop struggling against my chains. “You do know I’m not a king.”
“You’re the son and chosen heir of the Almighty One, aren’t you?” Fadyi says nonchalantly, as if it should be obvious.
“You’re forgetting the fact that my father shouldn’t be on the throne,” I say. “Prince Derane will likely start a civil war to get it back.”
Fadyi inhales a deep breath, making it a point to be noisy. “Your chains, Rudjek.”
I redouble my efforts to slide my hands from the metal cuffs latched on my wrists and ankles. The muscles in my arms and shoulders burn, and the chains have rubbed my skin raw. Did Caster feel nervous strolling into Oshin’s camp, or facing the Almighty One for the first time wearing Oshin’s face? He faked his way through court, and no one was the wiser. Maybe that’s what I have to do—fake it as commandant until I figure out what I’m doing. I can’t let my battalion see their leader look like a fool.
“Did he . . .” I stare intently at nothing as a bone cracks in my left wrist. Sharp pain rages through my hand. I grit my teeth and snatch my limp hand from the cuff. “Did Caster see a queen by my side in his vision?” I’m getting ahead of myself, but I want to know if he saw Arrah with me.
Fadyi pushes himself off the barrel as I free my second hand. “I don’t recall the mention of a queen in the stories.”
Not the answer I was hoping for, but it doesn’t mean anything. I refuse to believe that her magic and my anti-magic will be between us forever. Once this mess is over with the demons, we’ll have more time to figure things out. I’m just glad that Arrah’s safe in the tribal lands, far away from Shezmu and the demons. I work out the pins in the cuffs around my ankles, then slip back into my shoes and wriggle my fingers at Fadyi. “All free.”
“Next time, do it without injuring yourself.” He shakes his head. “You must take your training seriously, Rudjek. The demons will target you if they think you’re weak.”
“I am, my friend.” I pat Fadyi on the shoulder. “I’ll do better next time.”
“See that you do,” he lectures me, like one of my old scribes.
I slip out of the cargo hold into a narrow passageway, and I catch a whiff of something burning in the galley. Fadyi and I pass soldiers belowdecks who stop and press themselves against the wall when they see me. I’m nervous about our impending arrival in the North. “This is all too convenient, isn’t it? Shezmu and his army pick a town in Zeknor to hide in plain sight. A country that has a shaky relationship with the Kingdom, and we’re arriving with five hundred gendars? It seems like an obvious trap. One misstep, and we’ll find ourselves with the Zeknorians at our throat.”
“Let us hope that the Zeknorians are reasonable,” Fadyi says from behind me.
I squeeze my wrist, feeling the ghost of the pain from only moments ago. What other option do we have if the demon army is in Zeknor? We can’t wait to ask for a formal invitation—not when Shezmu could decide to open the gate at any moment.
As soon as we climb above deck, the burning smell grows stronger, and I wrinkle my nose. Gendars shout as Majka and Jahla face off against each other—him with one of his shotels and her with two long knives. Majka grins as he gives her a flourishing bow. Then they spar, blade against blade, circling each other like hungry vultures. Jahla dips low, sweeping her knife a breath from his stomach. Majka dramatically swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, and when Jahla attempts to sidestep him, he lurches forward and pins her to his chest.
“Yield!” Majka says, out of breath.
On the surface, they are unevenly matched. Majka is a head taller than Jahla and twice her weight. He’s got a wicked swing, but she is quick, nimble, and deadly. Months ago, when I’d gone in search of Arrah, led astray by false information, Jahla had been the one to best me. I traveled to the Aloo Valley by boat and found the abandoned camp outside the Dark Forest. It smelled like Arrah—sweet and intoxicating.
Perhaps it had been part desperation and part audacity that led me to charge into the forest, intent on rescuing her. Within moments the cravens had surrounded me in their nightmarish form: bark skin, ivory horns, razor-sharp claws, and for good measure, eyes of blackest night.
Five stepped forward from various places in the circle. Later I would find out it was Fadyi, Jahla, Raëke, and the twins, Ezaric and Tzaric. They formed a smaller circle and bent on one knee, their heads bowed. It baffled me then, and of course, I thought
, Well, yes, I am the descendant of the great Oshin Omari, craven slayer. But then they’d attacked, the five of them at once—shotels against claws. Twenty-gods, I shudder to remember how quick they were—blurs of bone and bark. Still, I held my own for a time until Jahla parried one of my blows, dropped into a crouch, and clawed out my guts.
Now she tilts her head up and leans in closer to Majka, her teeth bared. He gazes down at her hungrily, and she knees him in a compromising place. He hunches over, groaning, while the men cheer and exchange coins. “Ouch,” he whines as she sheathes her knives and pats him on the back. “That hurt.”
“You’re not the worst-looking man I’ve beaten.” Jahla smiles down at him. “And you lasted much longer than the others.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” Majka croaks out. “Considering that I have but a scrap of dignity left.”
Fadyi looks between Jahla and Majka, amused. “Does he know that she can smell his intentions toward her? His odor has been quite obvious for some time.”
“I think Majka knows.” I watch as the two of them lean against the hull, laughing. “You don’t approve?”
“I don’t disapprove,” he says with an uncharacteristic shrug. “I find the dance of courtship curious, though it’s not something of personal interest to me.” Fadyi glances around the deck. “It’s been quite tiresome to keep fending off would-be suitors since we started the voyage. Humans are . . . needy.”
“Needy is a quaint way of putting it.” I rub the back of my neck, embarrassed. “Say the word, and I will make sure it stops.” I may not be able to ever repay him, Jahla, and Raëke for sticking by my side since the Dark Forest, but at least I can keep my soldiers in check.
“I might take you up on that offer.” Fadyi’s attention shifts to Captain Dakte, who’s headed straight for us.
I bite back my irritation and keep my face neutral. “Crown Prince,” says my appointed second in command as he reaches us. I swear he goes out of his way to annoy me.
“Commandant,” I correct him, projecting my voice so others will hear. “Address me as such.”
“My apologies, Commandant.” He gives me a little bow. “The crew has spotted land—we’re almost off the coast of Abezer.”
“Good—”
“Not good,” Captain Dakte says. “The town is on fire.”
I peer across his shoulder to see smoke rising in the distance. The smell from earlier hadn’t been from the galley. It was Abezer burning. Fadyi nods like he’d been waiting for me to figure it out on my own. I would have eventually guessed it, if I’d been paying more attention.
Behind him, Kira clings to the crow’s nest on the highest point of the ship with a spyglass pressed to her eye. “No movement on the ground.”
“Stay outside firing range,” Captain Dakte shouts. “Gendars at the ready.”
I push through soldiers hastily putting on breastplates and helmets and strapping on their scabbards. When I reach the bow, I don’t need a spyglass to see the coast. Abezer is mostly a pile of charred buildings and smothering ashes. There’s no sign of life, people or otherwise. “The trap.”
“We should take the ship up the coast and find another place to disembark,” Captain Dakte advises, following me. “The last thing we need is the Zeknorians thinking that the Kingdom is responsible for this.”
“No.” I stare at the black smoke curling up from the town. “That would be a mistake.”
“With all due respect, Commandant,” Captain Dakte says, his voice stiffer than usual, “your title is honorary. You have no field experience. I know how to handle this situation.”
I grip the railing along the bow, my nails digging into the wood. “Yet I’m the one who’s fought a demon army and won.”
Captain Dakte’s fingers twitch at his sides. “What are your orders, Commandant?”
“We need to tread carefully.” I stare at the port town again. “A show of force is not the answer. You and I will take a third of the men ashore by boat to investigate the situation.”
“Yes, Commandant,” Dakte says, turning on his heel.
Soon I’m beneath layers of armor with my faceplate shoved back as the men row boats toward the shore. I ordered Majka, Kira, and Jahla to stay behind in case the demons send a ship from behind the cliffs and attack. The frigid air chills me to the bone as the boats slosh through sheets of ice floating in the bay. It seems to take hours to navigate the empty harbor and disembark.
“Send out scouts,” I tell Captain Dakte, who barks the order to his second. The scouts spread across the town, but I already know what they’ll find. The acrid smell of charred flesh twists in my stomach as we march from the docks. We cross an empty market of rotten fruit, maggot-covered meat, and moldy bread dusted in snow. Fadyi is with me, and he and I exchange a look, following where the strongest scent of death leads. We discover a field of half-burned bodies in an open stretch of land on the edge of town.
Captain Dakte kneels and takes a fistful of dirt, letting it sprinkle back to the ground. “Mother Nana, god of earth, have mercy on these poor bastards’ souls.”
“They don’t believe in gods, you know.” Re’Mec appears out of thin air, yet not one of the gendars seems to notice when it happens. He’s wearing a gray robe, looking like an ordinary human.
“You should’ve stayed on the ship, scribe.” Captain Dakte grimaces, fooled by his appearance. “I fear we’ve walked into a bad situation about to get worse.”
Across the field of broken bodies, soldiers crest a slope, marching straight for us. The Zeknorians are tall and wide shouldered, and wear fur-lined armor and broadswords. Many have bushy beards—some coarse, some curly, some straight. They possess the sort of ashen skin that can only be seen on people who get little sun year-round. Just beyond the dead, archers drop to one knee and nock their arrows. Behind them, soldiers drag forward shields large enough to protect the front line. Another third of their forces ride horses draped in chain mail. I immediately regret disembarking the ship without our full complement.
“Formation!” Captain Dakte commands. The gendars shift behind us, outnumbered three to one.
“Hold for my word,” I bark when the men begin to draw their shotels. Maybe I’m a fool for thinking that we can still come out of this without a bloodbath, but I have to try. The Kingdom isn’t going to war with Zeknor under my command—not if I can help it.
I inhale, and the sting of rot and decay burns my nose and overwhelms my senses. It makes my stomach queasy. Even after seeing so much death, I will never get used to it, nor do I want to. “We’ll make them see reason.” I rest my hands on my shotels and step forward to address them.
“Let me handle this,” Captain Dakte says, moving up alongside me. “This is not your expertise. . . . We can’t afford to make another mistake here.”
I can almost feel the gendars’ sharp gazes cutting into my back. I’m supposed to be their leader, to give them direction—and I led them straight into the path of the Zeknorian army. “What do you propose?” I ask at the same time Re’Mec pushes himself through the gendar ranks and steps forward.
“We come in peace, barbarians,” Re’Mec says in the Northern common tongue as he raises his hands. The words are clipped, direct, and efficient. He delivers them as a native speaker would. Growing up, Adé made sure that my brothers and I learned the trade language of the North. Barbarians is not a term of endearment. “We mean you no harm.” There is so much contempt in his voice that it oozes from each word.
“Stand down, scribe,” Captain Dakte spits through gritted teeth.
Ignoring him, Re’Mec opens his arms wide and offers the Zeknorians an earnest smile. “We come with the grace and blessings of the gods, who, though you have forsaken them, still watch over the lot of you on occasion.”
“And why would we care about the Kingdom’s false gods?” comes an answer from a man on a horse as white as the snowcapped mountains behind them.
Re’Mec scoffs and switches to Tamaran. “I don’t kno
w why I even bother.”
Captain Dakte loses his last shred of patience and pushes Re’Mec aside. “We don’t know what transpired here—”
Before the words are entirely out of his mouth, an arrow cuts through the air—one of the Zeknorian archers has let off a shot. I react without thinking, and time shifts around me, rippling like torrid waves. Everything slows down. The arrow inches its way closer and closer, straight for Captain Dakte’s heart. I can smell the sickly sweet poison on it.
“It will pierce his armor and kill him,” Re’Mec says, looking particularly bored. “Let him die. His very presence undermines your authority.”
“And start a war?” I pull my shotels. “You can be awfully cynical at times.”
Re’Mec shrugs. “I’ve been called worse.”
When the arrow is close, I deflect it with my sword. The wood splinters at impact, and shards scatter. Captain Dakte ducks out of the way of the debris and pulls his shotels.
“That was a very bad idea.” I project my voice across the field. “Do you really want to die today?”
The man on the white horse trots forward a bit more, his sword in hand—further showing that he is in command. I let the question linger in the air between us. He is the one I must convince to stand down. “If we were here to do harm,” I say, “why would we linger in a decimated town?”
“Who is to say why the Kingdom does anything?” the man shouts back in accented Tamaran. “Especially if the rumors are true.”
“What rumors would those be?” I can take a guess, but it’s best to keep him talking.
“That your Ka-Priestess and her army single-handedly brought the Kingdom to its knees,” the man says. “That doesn’t bode well for a country that prides itself on its military prowess.”
“I wouldn’t say single-handedly,” Re’Mec grumbles. “She had help.”
“That’s the thing about rumors, isn’t it?” I smile. “They are full of half-truths and lies. The trouble that has befallen our lands is the same one that destroyed this coastal town. The demons are back.”
