Blood and Tempest

by Jon Skovron

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Hope. “Listen, I know the Northerners, and—”

  “Of course you know them!” His face was flushed and sweating now. “You … you must be a servant of theirs.” He grimaced with a strange satisfaction. “Yes, that’s it. This is where you’ve been all this time, hiding up north. You’re a traitor sent to assassinate the Jackal Lords and bring us to heel!”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Hope. “If you just calm down—”

  “Get out, I said!” He was screaming now. “And take that little monster with you!” He pointed at Uter.

  Uter stared at him quizzically, more curious than offended. Then he turned to Hope. “Is he going to be our friend?”

  “It doesn’t seem like it,” Hope said.

  “My turn, then!”

  Taking her by surprise with his speed, the little boy grabbed a meat cleaver from the kitchen drawer and threw it at Maltch. It lodged in Maltch’s forehead and the man fell over, his limbs twitching. Uter laughed gleefully as he hurried over to the corpse.

  “Uter, stop!” said Hope.

  “Just watch!” He yanked the cleaver out of the elder’s forehead and used it to cut open his own palm. Then he squeezed his hand so the blood dripped into the corpse’s gaping mouth and eyes.

  “Maltch?” came a female voice from outside. “What’s all the yelling in there?”

  The front door opened behind Hope, revealing a young woman. She stared first at Hope, then at the grinning, white-haired boy who crouched down next to the dead body of her elder.

  “What …” The woman seemed paralyzed with horror.

  “Please …,” said Hope. But what could she say?

  Then the dead Maltch began to move. Uter let out a cackle of delight. The woman gave a piercing scream.

  “Let’s go.” Hope lunged across the room, grabbed Uter, and pulled him past the shrieking woman in the doorway.

  “Help! They killed Maltch! Help!” shouted the woman.

  “She sure is loud,” Uter observed as he allowed Hope to pull him into the dirt road that ran through the center of the village.

  “She’s upset,” Hope said tersely.

  The woman came running out of the hut. “Murder! Necromancy!”

  “Why?” asked Uter.

  People rushed from their homes, looking both afraid and very angry.

  “You there! Stop!” shouted one of the men, a tall, burly fellow in a fur vest.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” said Hope. “Right now we need to get out of here.”

  They were surrounded by several men, armed with hammers and pikes. They clearly weren’t warriors and had no idea what to do with their “weapons.” But they were completely justified in their anger, so Hope was loath to hurt them.

  “What the hell did you do to Maltch?” demanded the one who had spoken before.

  “They killed him!” shouted the woman as she backed away fearfully from the hut. “Then they raised him!”

  “It was an accident,” Hope said lamely. “The boy doesn’t know what—”

  She was interrupted by more shouts of fear and anger as the raised Maltch stumbled to the doorway, the cleaver wound in his head spilling blood and bits of brain.

  The look that the villagers gave her then said that she couldn’t talk her way out of this. Not that she was particularly good at talking her way out of things under the best of circumstances. That had always been Red’s specialty.

  One of the men let out a wordless yell and swung his sledgehammer at them with both hands. Hope dropped to the ground, knocking Uter’s feet out from under him so that the swing missed him as well.

  “Run for the boat,” she told him. “Now!”

  As Uter scrambled to his feet, a different villager thrust his pike down at Hope. She knocked it aside with her clamp so that the blunt end slammed into the side of the hammer villager’s head. She then knocked it the other way so that it hit a villager on the other side, sending him stumbling back. She’d hoped not to hurt anyone, but at this point she’d settle for just not killing any of them.

  The hammer had fallen on the ground next to her, so she grabbed it and swung it in a wide arc, sweeping several other villagers off their feet. She saw Uter was already on his way toward the boat, his pale little legs pumping, a delighted grin on his face, like this was all great fun. Fortunately, the villagers seemed more focused on Hope now.

  She vaulted to her feet, dodged to one side to avoid the swing of a hatchet, then blocked the thrust of a rusty knife with her clamp. She almost had a clear run for the docks, but there was one particularly large fellow directly in front of her. He wasn’t armed and came at her with a right roundhouse punch. She blocked the punch with her left forearm while slamming the palm of her right hand into his chin. She chopped the side of her hand into his neck to soften him up further, then grabbed the back of his head and pulled him forward so that she could jam her knee into his stomach. She didn’t even wait for him to drop before she took off running after Uter.

  Uter was already in the boat as Hope neared the docks with half the village right behind her.

  “Untie the line!” barked Hope.

  Hope leapt for the boat just as Uter released the line from the cleat. When she landed, her momentum pushed the boat away from the dock and out to sea. She hurriedly ran up the sail, grateful for the simplicity of this tiny boat.

  As the wind took them away from Gull’s Cry, Hope looked back at the villagers gathered at the dock. They threw things at her and shouted curses, their fear completely overcome by frustration and rage.

  All Hope felt in return was a quiet sadness. More death. No matter how she tried to avoid it. And now she had nowhere else to take Uter except back with her to Galemoor.

  They sailed for a while in silence, with the dark gray of the water transitioning almost imperceptibly to the lighter gray of the sky. Uter had apparently taken a small earthenware cup from the elder’s hut and hidden it in the large pocket on the front of his smock. He pulled it out now and examined it curiously, tracing the paint swirls in the baked clay with his finger. He seemed completely indifferent to what he’d done back at the village. Or perhaps, merely uncomprehending.

  “Uter?”

  “Yes, Hope?” He looked eagerly up from his cup.

  “You shouldn’t kill people.”

  He looked surprised. “Why not?”

  “Because, even if you bring their body back to life, their soul is still gone forever.”

  He frowned under his white bangs. “What’s a soul?”

  She thought about how best to answer that question as she trimmed the sail. “It’s what makes you … you,” she said. “It changes and grows, just like your body. But you can’t see it because it’s on the inside.”

  “Do I have a soul?” he asked, fascinated.

  “Every person has one,” said Hope. “But when you kill them, they lose that part.”

  He frowned. “I wouldn’t want to stop being me.”

  Hope nodded. “That’s right. And most people feel the same way. You wouldn’t want someone to get rid of your soul, so you shouldn’t get rid of other people’s souls.”

  “Not even if they won’t be my friend?” asked Uter.

  “Not even then,” said Hope. “Do you understand?”

  He beamed at her. “I understand.” Then his eyes darted over her shoulder as he caught sight of something behind her. “What is that?” He stood up in the boat and pointed excitedly, making the small craft rock back and forth. “It’s a moving island!”

  “Sit down, Uter, or we’ll capsize.” Hope followed the direction he’d pointed and saw the black hump of a whale in the distance. They watched as it slid smoothly below the surface, followed by the wide, flat tail, which slapped the water with a loud splash before sinking out of sight.

  “Hey, islands don’t have tails!” He turned to Hope. “Do they?”

  “It wasn’t an island, Uter. It was a whale.”

  “A what?
”

  “It’s like a giant fish.”

  Uter shifted around excitedly, making the boat rock again. “Can it be my friend?”

  Hope sighed and shook her head. “Just leave it alone, Uter.”

  “That’s an island, right?” asked Uter as they drew near Galemoor. “Not a whale?”

  “It’s an island,” agreed Hope as she steered them into the small bay. “The biggest in the Southern Isles. Although it’s nowhere near as large as some of the islands in the north.”

  “And this is where you live?” asked Uter.

  “It’s where you’ll be living, too,” said Hope. “At least for now, this will be your home.”

  He gazed up at the brooding, black, rocky shore of the island and smiled contentedly. “Home.”

  Hope tied their boat to the small dock, then led Uter up the long, winding path toward the monastery. As they walked, Hope thought of all the times she had taken that same path as a little girl with Hurlo. Not that she had any intention of teaching Uter the ways of the Vinchen. The boy was already dangerous enough. But still, walking side by side with the boy along the stony path felt unexpectedly right to her in a way she couldn’t quite define.

  “What is this place?” Uter yelled excitedly as they approached the monastery.

  The black stone walls were still charred and cracked from when Racklock and the other Vinchen brothers had set fire to it before leaving. The wooden support beams had all been burned or torn away, leaving many of the stone structures to lean in on themselves. Hope had replaced the roof on a few of the buildings since her return, but most were still only hollow shells. That didn’t seem to bother Uter, however. Once they passed through the front entrance, he scampered around the compound in a state very close to ecstasy.

  “It’s beautiful!” he crowed, doing cartwheels across the open courtyard. “We live in a beautiful palace!”

  “I’m glad you think so,” said Wentu as he emerged from the temple that stood in the center of the compound. The old monk’s black hood was back, and he smiled serenely. “You may be the first boy to ever have that reaction.”

  “New friend!” shouted Uter gleefully. He’d somehow secreted a large hook into his smock and now brandished it like a sickle.

  “Uter, no!” Hope was too far away to stop him, and the boy was much too excited to listen to her. He closed the distance between himself and Wentu in moments. The pointed hook gleamed in the wan sunlight as he brought it down.

  But Wentu’s peaceful smile never faltered as he stepped nimbly to one side, grabbed Uter’s wrist, and disarmed him, all in one fluid motion. A Vinchen was a Vinchen, no matter the age.

  Uter stared at his empty hand for a moment, then at the still-smiling Wentu.

  “Do it again!” he pleaded.

  “Perhaps another time, my child.” Wentu turned to Hope. “It appears your trip to the island of Bleak Hope yielded unexpected results.”

  “It’s a long story,” said Hope. “And the boy and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

  “It just so happens I made your favorite stew,” said Wentu. “And you know I always make too much. Both of you come in and you can eat while you regale me with your adventures.”

  “I made friends,” boasted Uter as Wentu guided him gently into the temple.

  “Indeed?”

  “But I think Hope is my favorite friend. Did you know she has a hand made of metal?”

  “She is a remarkable woman in many ways,” said Wentu as he turned and gave her an oddly knowing smirk.

  Hope had replaced the roof on the dormitory so that they wouldn’t have to sleep in the temple. But there didn’t seem to be much point in moving the iron stove back to the enormous kitchen when it was just the two of them, so they still took their meals there.

  That night, Uter dozed contentedly on the meditation mat in front of the black stone altar, his belly full of warm fish stew. Hope and Wentu sat in the corner by the glowing iron stove, sipping from wooden bowls and talking quietly.

  “This elder … Maltch,” said Hope. “He genuinely seemed to believe that without the supposed protection of the Jackal Lords, the north would swoop down and conquer the Southern Isles.”

  “Ah,” said Wentu.

  She gave him a searching look. “It’s a preposterous notion, of course. First, the Isles are already part of the empire, so there is no need to conquer. Second, on the whole, most Northerners would prefer to completely ignore the Southern Isles. Few are willing to travel here, and then only for trade.”

  “True,” agreed Wentu.

  “So why do you not seem surprised by Maltch’s fear of invasion from the north? What am I missing?”

  Wentu closed his tired, gray eyes and sighed. “I heard a story once. I don’t know if there is any basis of fact in it. But I suppose a story can be true without being factual. It was a tale my mother told me when I was a boy on Greater Basheta.”

  “You were a boy once?” Hope asked teasingly.

  Wentu smiled. “It was a very long time ago. We were walking through the market by the docks when I saw someone from the Southern Isles for the first time. I asked my mother why he was like that, so pale, and with yellow hair. And to explain it, she told me this story.”

  He paused for a moment, as if gathering the memories, and then said, “People tell of how the great Vinchen, Selk the Brave, and the fearsome biomancer, Burness Vee, helped Cremalton unite all the islands of the Storm into a great empire. But few people talk of the other group that assisted him. A clan of angels from another world.”

  “They were mentioned briefly in that history you recommended,” said Hope. “But I didn’t really see a connection. Were the people mistaken for angels because they had yellow hair? Was it the Jackal Lords?”

  Wentu shook his head. “These people were not from the Southern Isles. They did have golden hair and pale skin, but they were from a land far away, on the other side of the Dawn Sea. These people had a knowledge of spirits and the dead that went beyond anything known by either the Vinchen or the biomancers. When they arrived, they offered Cremalton their support and were a tremendous asset in bringing some of the more unruly islands under control.”

  Wentu paused again, staring up at the stained glass windows above them. “My mother said, ‘Wentu, my boy, people will tell you that after the empire was united, the angels returned to their distant land. But the truth is, they couldn’t. They were trapped here by the prevailing currents that pushed ever westward. Not even angels can command the sea.’”

  Wentu smiled to himself, and Hope tried to picture him as a boy, standing with his mother in that market.

  “According to the tale my mother told me,” continued Wentu, “when the angels realized they were trapped, they turned on Cremalton and tried to take the empire for themselves. It took the combined power of the Vinchen and biomancers to prevent their coup. When they were defeated, the angels fled down into the remote, uninhabited islands of the south. It was there they began calling themselves the Jackal Lords.”

  “So the people of the Southern Isles today are descendants of those foreigners from across the Dawn Sea?” asked Hope.

  “It’s one story that explains these islands and their inhabitants. There are others. I recall one scholar who claimed that thousands of years ago, everyone in the islands of the Storm was as pale as the Southerners, but that in the north, they intermingled with dark-skinned settlers from Aukbontar until everyone there was neither dark nor light skinned, but somewhere in between.” Wentu shrugged. “Who can say which is true? They both sound equally implausible to my ear. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere else entirely.”

  “Do you think Maltch believed in the story of these exiled angels?” asked Hope.

  “Probably. The Jackal Lords encouraged that belief,” said Wentu. “As I recall, they talked a great deal about reclaiming past greatness during the uprising that Hurlo and I put down. There was even a song about it that we often heard them sing when they were preparing for
battle.” His eyes grew distant for a moment. “It was a strange tune, at once sad and forceful. Let’s see, how did it go …” He cleared his throat, then in his worn, cracked voice, he began to sing:

  Tumble down, ho!

  Rumble down low!

  The ground gives all our wanting.

  Tumble down, ho!

  Rumble down low!

  Now it’s time for hunting.

  For the angels talk

  So the dead can walk,

  The living will quail,

  And their courage will fail,

  When the dead come for the living.

  Yes, the dead come for the living!

  Tumble down, ho!

  Rumble down low!

  Glory has always been our fate.

  Then Uter’s voice joined in, light and sleepy, but clear as a bell:

  Tumble down, ho!

  Rumble down low!

  Glory to the Haevanton Triumvirate!

  Uter smiled, his eyes still closed, and curled up on the meditation mat as if it were as comfortable as a feather bed.

  “The Haevanton Triumvirate?” Hope asked quietly. “Vikma Bruea spoke of that as well. What is it?”

  “Perhaps the land your distant ancestors came from? What does it matter? We haven’t had contact with them for over a thousand years. Perhaps the place no longer even exists.”

  Then he gave her a hard look, which was unusual for him. It reminded Hope uneasily of Hurlo when he was scolding her. “Of course, this is nothing but a distraction for you. The Jackal Lords, the Haevanton Triumvirate, even this boy, though it was sweet of you to take him in. It’s all a way to avoid your true, and far more immediate, concerns.”

  Hope wished desperately that she could change the subject, but even now, the courtesy that Hurlo had beat into her held. She couldn’t disrespect her elder brother, so she said nothing, and instead stared into the orange glow that showed through the vents in the stove.

  Wentu’s face softened. “I’m not your teacher, and I cannot tell you what to do. But Racklock is out there somewhere, perverting the Vinchen order and everything it stands for.” He placed his wrinkled old hand on her shoulder. “I know you have suffered and lost a great deal. But you cannot hide here forever.”