The Last Sea God

by Ashley Capes

  He nodded and fell into a crouch, motioning Grav back.

  Pevin peered over the bar, his expression one of concern. There was no time to hide. Flir swore beneath her breath – they’d simply have to force their way out.

  “And this time I want proper wine in there. And some decent blankets; the caves are atrociously cold,” Mildavir was saying as he approached the door.

  “I don’t know if she’d like us changing anything, My Lord,” replied a second voice.

  “Bah, she’s not interested in that. Innkeeper, you have guests,” Mildavir hollered as he entered.

  Flir leapt upon the man, locking him into a choke-hold and dragging him from the door. He hissed and spat but she kept her grip firm, enough for him to breathe but little else as he tried to pry her arms free.

  The next soldier into the inn drew his sword after a moment of shock; he was soon joined by several others.

  “That’s far enough,” Flir said.

  The lead soldier, a grizzled-looking fellow with captain’s stripes pinned to his chest pointed with his blade. “You’re one of those freaks, aren’t you? Half of Whiteport is looking for you. Let the governor free and we’ll go easy on you.”

  “Actually, you’re all going to turn around, get back on your horses and leave. Then I’ll dump this sorry sack of refuse in the square – and I’ll go easy on you and your men.”

  The captain lowered his blade, glancing to the top of the stairs, noting Kanis, then the bar, and finally out through the window into the street where he gave the barest of nods, so slight that she wouldn’t have seen it if she wasn’t already watching.

  Flir dragged Mildavir further into the centre of the room, just as glass shattered.

  A blade whipped down into the chair nearest where she’d stood a moment ago – a soldier leaning into the common room. His eyes were wide with terror and blood was already running to the floor. The fool had torn open his own side on the jagged remnants of the window as he leant in to strike.

  “Joris!” One of the men outside cried. Joris was groaning but Flir kept her eyes on the captain.

  “He won’t last long if you don’t do something,” she said. “Now isn’t the time to—”

  The kitchen door swung open and a smiling Boles walked out. His nose was still a little squashed from his odd sleeping position, but he certainly seemed unperturbed about it. “Welcome, guests,” he said as he approached the captain. He barely glanced at Flir, his eyes offering no recognition. “Please rest here, if you would. I will send the girl to tend to your horses.”

  Flir fought down another shiver. The innkeeper had said near the exact same thing upon meeting them – that, somehow, was just as disturbing as his complete lack of concern over the stand-off occurring in the middle of his inn.

  “Don’t be a fool,” the captain shouted.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” Boles continued, still approaching the soldier. “If you like, we can discuss the fee tomorrow. Why don’t you rest? I can find you some keys... I’d say about a dozen rooms, one each, right?” Now his smile seemed a touch proud. As if he’d learnt from his last customers.

  The captain glared at the man, then reached out and hauled Boles closer, setting a knife to the man’s throat. “Now, keep still and I won’t have to cut your fool throat.” To Flir, he said, “This one dies first if you don’t let the governor go.”

  Flir eased some pressure on Mildavir, who’d stopped tearing ineffectually at her arms. “Your men seem awfully keen to slaughter innocent villagers, Governor.”

  “Kill him,” Mildavir spat.

  “No.” Flir cut off his air again, but the Captain had already drawn his knife across Boles’ throat. Blood sprayed forth, running down the man’s apron.

  Boles blinked. “Please stay calm, everyone. There’s room aplenty for you all. We can clear out the stables.” His voice had taken on a rasping quality and blood still ran from the wound that should have killed him. “It will be warm enough. We have hay.”

  The captain’s face drained of all colour and Flir felt her arms slacken. Mildavir slumped to the floor, dead or unconscious, she didn’t know.

  The innkeeper was still smiling. He turned to look back at the soldier holding him, tearing the wound a little further. His voice was distorted. “I can carry your belongings myself, Captain.”

  The soldier fell back, and Boles stumbled free. He spread his arms, as if still determined to welcome everyone. “Have I mentioned that we have a wonderful trout dish?”

  “Kill that thing,” the captain growled. His fellow soldiers lifted their crossbows – or at least, two of them did – the third was heaving the contents of his stomach onto the floor. Strings snapped, and two bolts sped across the space, knocking Boles back into the bar, where he slumped to the floor.

  “Kanis!” Flir snatched up a chair and hurled it at one of the crossbowmen. It smashed into his temple and he fell. A knife appeared in the other’s chest; Kanis’ aim was still true.

  More glass crashed.

  Flir spun, backhanding the first man into the room. Bone cracked, and he flew into the wall, crashing through the wood. The next soldier hesitated, by then Flir had already launched a kick. It whipped his legs out from under him and he crashed to the floor, striking his head.

  Another crossbow bolt twanged. Pain exploded in her ribs. She swore, hurling another chair at the man. Kanis had reached the ground floor now; he’d already dropped the Captain and now he burst into the street.

  Someone grunted – the sound coming from behind.

  Searing pain sliced into her shoulder, she spun, wrenching the blade from the grip of her assailant. Mildavir. The man’s face was red with fury. Another bowstring snapped, and the fury changed to shock as he fell to his knees, then slumped forward.

  A feathered shaft protruded from his back.

  The traveller stood atop the bar, bow in hand. He was breathing hard and his mouth was agape. “How can you still be standing, girl?”

  “I’m not a girl,” she said. “But thanks.” She raised her voice as she started toward the door, stepping over the bodies with some trouble, considering the bolt in her lower ribs. “Kanis, don’t kill them all. The governor’s dead and we need answers.”

  39. Nia

  The messenger collapsed from his horse, stumbling to the loam at Nia’s feet, so short of breath that he could not even speak. His mount too, was breathing hard, her flanks white and heaving.

  “Water!” Nia called and a boy hurried to a waiting barrel. “And someone tend to the horse.”

  A small crowd had gathered beneath the branches, worried faces but no talk as yet – it was just as Danillo had warned; the fear was starting to take hold. People were afraid that the Ulag might return but they didn’t believe it enough to say it out loud. Why would they? It was impossible, and yet the threat lingered in the form of horrible tales passed down through the generations.

  And now, the return of Pannoc in such a state was enough to unsettle them even more.

  Nia held the man’s head in her lap, accepting the flask someone handed over. She helped Pannoc drink, then hushed him when he tried to speak again, choking. “Catch your breath.”

  When he did, he looked up at her and his eyes were wide – and not from exhaustion. “An army approaches. From the south.”

  Nia tensed. “Who?”

  “I cannot say,” he said after taking another drink. He shook his head. “But they move steadily, dark shapes all of them. They carry axes and their chant is no language any of us recognised.”

  “It’s the Ulag, returned,” one voice cried.

  Nia glared at the man. “That’s not possible.”

  “But what about that corpse one of the grove-girls found?” This from a tall woman hovering to the back of the crowd.

  Nia helped Pannoc to his feet before raising her hands to quell the rush of questions. “The Ulag have not returned. But whoever this is will be met and turned away. How many, Pannoc?”

  “Pe
rhaps two thousand.”

  Nia frowned. Steep odds. She could muster maybe five hundred warriors with such short notice... but their bows would cut down whoever threatened the grove. “Go, tell my father what is afoot. Tell him to move the Autumn Grove, in case we cannot stop them.”

  Pannoc set off at a stumbling jog while someone else took his mount, her sides were still heaving too. Nia looked to those gathered. “Spread the call – I need every able-bodied warrior, each with their own quiver. Full. Meet me south of the Old Spring.”

  Nia dashed along the shady paths, calling everyone to arms, dodging green-clad men and women as she did, bearing down on the fletcher. Ceveris was resting before his workshop, soft smoke curling from the chimney.

  “Ceveris, I need every arrow you have and more. Hostile force to the south,” she shouted as she neared.

  He jumped to his feet. “On your word.”

  She flashed by, his voice echoing as he called for his assistant. Someone was spreading the shrill bird call for alarm. Good. At her own quarters Nia snatched up her bow and both quivers before mounting her steed and heading south, to the edge of the Bloodwood where warriors were already gathering.

  It did not take long for the bulk of them to arrive and she walked among her people, speaking to those who seemed most anxious, placing a hand on the shoulders of others as she passed, until Pannoc arrived, bringing with him a last score of warriors.

  “A swift mobilisation but a shame we are so few,” the messenger said, looking over their force.

  “So soon after the darkness with Efran, and even if we had the time, I doubt we could pull together two thousand from the whole forest. So many are young,” she said.

  “The Oyn-Dir is working to move the grove once more. He asked me to tell you to be on your guard. He believes something is amiss in the Wilds.”

  “Not just the army you saw?”

  “He could not be sure. He said he was still being ‘blocked’ somehow and maybe it had to do with the altar, maybe not.”

  Troubling, but one thing at a time. “Thank you, Pannoc.” She sighed as she glanced across the gathered men and women – even, to her eye, some almost too green to be along. Yet everyone had to have a first battle sometime. One young man was wrapping his forearms with leather to protect himself from the snap of his bowstring.

  “They will fight to the last, My Lady,” Pannoc said.

  “I know that, truly. I simply don’t have any inspiring words to offer and I know they will need it, with all the talk of the Ulag.”

  He blinked. “Because you are finding it difficult to hold out any hope?”

  “No. Because I don’t particularly care for speaking before crowds,” she said with a smile. “Tell me, Pannoc. Do you believe it is the Ulag?”

  His lips tightened. “The chant was more convincing to me than the axes. And they bore the look more of the dead than any living warrior.”

  She nodded. Whatever waited in the Wilds, she would stop it. Her people would stop it. Nia tapped her horse’s flanks and trotted out, stopping before her small army. Each face looked to her, expectant, some with traces of shock lingering. “I know how sudden this all is,” she said, lifting her voice. “And I have heard some of you ask me, should we have moved, or hidden once more? You know my father can, and is now, moving the grove to protect your loved ones who remained. But that is no guarantee – for no guarantees exist in life. If we fall, the army out there, if it really is Ulag, will not turn from the wood. They will search and seek until they collapse, or my father tires and they find our homes.” She paused to take a breath, then raised her voice once more. “Unless we stop them now, stop them out there before they even set foot in our forest! And we will! Our arrows will fly true! Our blades bite deep.”

  A cheer rose like a wave.

  She turned her horse and started along the old road into Wilds, Pannoc close by and behind him, Ceveris. The morning wore on and she held her reins only loosely, letting Sparrow follow the trail as she stared ahead, as if she could pierce the distance between her force and the supposed Ulag.

  But it was not too long before noon when figures appeared on the trail ahead – clothed in green. They were cresting a small rise, tree line stretching off to one side and tall grasses to the other. They were not so far from the mound where the rose altar rested.

  “It’s Dira and Klandt,” Pannoc said. “The others I sent to warn you, Lady Nia – they should be out of harm’s way at least.” He signalled to the approaching pair, whose expressions transformed from worry to relief.

  As her warriors slowed and the drum of hooves eased, a droning, deep chant reached her. An ugly sound, discordant – and it seemed purposefully so. The chant was part of their weapon, the fear it brought. “How close are they?”

  “Beyond the rise,” Dira said, her jaw set.

  “Let’s take what little high ground there is,” Nia decided, then turned back to face the rest of her warriors. “Arrows ready!”

  Nia led them to the crest.

  Below, an army of darkness was approaching. They covered the road, the grass, the weeds – nothing slowed their steady advance. Sunlight glinted on their axes, their chant echoed from gaping mouths. Nia couldn’t stop a shiver. Even decrepit-seeming, even appearing dead, they moved steadily if not swiftly, and a menace preceded them. It was not just the chant, but the history, the myths about them and their bloodlust that they carried.

  But alive or dead, they had to be killed.

  Whispering rose amongst her ranks.

  “Raise arms,” she shouted. “Take strain. Hold until I say.”

  The creatures drew nearer, the front ranks within range. A little more, a little closer – there was steel to taste. Nia dropped her arm as she shouted. “Loose!”

  Hundreds of bowstrings snapped, and arrows flew overhead in a long arc to rain down upon the Ulag.

  And not a single arrow found its mark.

  Each shaft simply passed through the bodies below.

  “Again,” Nia cried.

  The second volley flew straight and true – but struck nothing. No creature faltered, the chant did not lessen. And they walked on. Evenly. Steadily. No matter the terrain.

  “Are they ghosts?” Cerevis asked. He’d lowered his bow. Whispering had grown to muttering behind her.

  Before Nia could offer an answer, the whole array of Ulag shimmered and then disappeared, as though wiped from the Wilds by an unseen gust of wind. The droning chant seemed to linger after the shades were gone, and then it too faded.

  Cries of surprise echoed and Nia shook her head. Had the Ulag been true ghosts? Or some illusion, created by whoever made the rose-bone altar? But if they were ghosts, ghosts that decided to disappear before engaging her force, before inflicting anything more than the beginnings of fear – what purpose could they possibly have?

  No, it had to be an illusion, surely. The Ulag needed to be seen. They did not disappear until her entire force had witnessed their approach. “Someone is behind this; a true ghost would have a better purpose.”

  Pannoc snapped his fingers. “Your father’s warning.”

  “Well, he was right. Something is awry here, but what? Aside from the missing army?” She folded her arms. “There was no point to the whole exercise, if whoever was behind it was going to have us come all the way into the Wilds simply to watch some Ulag shades disappear…”

  The moment she finished the words, Nia heard them properly.

  All the way into the Wilds.

  She swore. “It’s a ruse. A ruse to get us to leave the grove.” She wheeled her horse and charged through her warriors, waving at them. “Back to the forest!”

  Once free of the press of bodies, she kicked Sparrow into a canter and then a gallop. Wind streamed through her hair and the thunder of pounding hooves behind her followed. The Wilds flashed by as she rode. Whenever she had to slow her mount she ground her teeth at the delay, but she wasn’t going to kill Sparrow to return. Father would have moved the gr
ove from the south already; everything would be fine.

  There was every chance she was wrong, anyway.

  Yet when she reached the wood and then the grove, hours later, her horse exhausted as she, there was a silence to the homes and paths. Why hadn’t Father moved the grove? She leapt from Sparrow to call and run into the houses, but no-one answered until she found herself drifting to the edge, where Autumn Grove met the amber of the Sap Grove.

  Or should have.

  People were crowded around hewn earth, earth that had once been covered by the Sap Grove. The trees with their amber veins were gone, leaving a gaping hole in the forest, where the sun poured in, glinting on abandoned chunks of amber, shattered branches and crushed leaves.

  And bodies – at least a dozen grove-tenders, their heated knives cold now, their buckets gone.

  “What happened?” Nia asked the nearest person.

  The woman turned, tears streaking down her cheeks. It was Hild, one of the Herbalists. “Lady Nia. It was terrible. They tore the trees forth and dragged them away. No-one could stop them.”

  “Who did this?”

  “I don’t know who they were,” she said. “They took the sap too, from the crates.”

  “Hild, what did they look like? Can you tell me that much?”

  She wiped at her nose. “They wore white robes and hoods, My Lady. I think they were Anaskari but I can’t be sure. How could they do this to the forest? To the trees? It was as though I felt every scream deep in my chest as each one was torn from the earth.”

  “Are you telling me they did this with their hands?”

  “Oh, no. Sorry – it was with bones. Most of them were wearing breastplates made of bone.”

  Like the Ecsoli invaders she’d heard so much about? Dark news. “Is my father safe?”

  “Yes, he’s in his rooms, I believe.”

  Nia thanked Hild and started toward the tree line. Had the Ecsoli returned and taken to wearing white instead of blue? Was something else afoot in Anaskar? Or did she need to look closer to home – to Gedarow’s Sap Born friends? Unlikely that they’d have access to Ecsoli bones of power, however. And Hild had thought they were Anaskari. Either way, the Lord Protector needed to be told.