Next, she approached the barrels to see what was inside. The first barrel did not look promising; flies covered it and Trista could smell the stench of fish. She opened the lid and saw scraps of fish still on the bottom. The flies buzzed around it and maggots crawled inside. This was clearly the bait barrel.
Still hopeful, Trista opened the second barrel on the other side of the mast, her heart making a small jump of joy. The barrel was half-filled with water. A spoon roughly constructed from a piece of leather and a twig hung from the side. She quickly took a sip.
“It’s stale, but freshwater,” she said excitedly.
“That means you won't have to go to the village, right?” said Decan, hopeful.
The boy did not like the idea of splitting up from his sister again, even if it was only for a little while.
“It would be easier if we had some water bags, or a bucket, too, but I’m not going to ignore the water goddess’ gifts and push our luck,” said Trista.
“I found some stuff over here, too,” said Dalkeira, who had been wandering around the cove looking for things to eat.
Trista hurried over. A small wooden chest was hidden under one of the rocks. She pulled it out and opened it.
Thank you, Goddess.
One by one she pulled out a bucket, a set of flints and a knife. There was also a bunch of dried wood in there, as well as a metal pot for cooking. It seems that Moran’s son had made sure he could make a campfire and cook in case he ever needed to spend the night near the boat.
“Good eye, Dalkeira! Now we just have to stay hidden and wait for the tide to come up and the sun to go down,” said Trista.
“If we are to wait, I would appreciate it if you could assist me in finding some food. I am still so very hungry…”
Dalkeira had spent the entire day—walking or flying—looking for her next meal, but it had not been enough. Trista did her best to provide for the blue dragon, but it was becoming clear that she might not be able to give Dalkeira enough to still the growing dragon’s hunger. She felt bad about it, but they were all hungry now. Besides, she had to take care of her brother, too.
It left her torn. She felt the bond pressuring her to focus on the dragon, but no matter how strong the link was, the promise to her mother and father to keep Decan safe was constantly reminding her that another needed her help.
She did not know that Dalkeira was in turn growing more annoyed by the fact that Trista was not providing her with ample amounts of food. It was one of the main reasons the dragon had chosen to link with her. The boy had not been an option; he was still much too young as far as the dragon was concerned, barely capable of catching his own food, let alone food enough for a dragon. Trista clearly had the skill, but now it seemed that Dalkeira had to share the red-haired woman’s attention with the boy.
“You did do a decent job of cleaning me yesterday. That, at least, is something,” said Dalkeira as she checked her scales and wings and rubbed her nose on a spot that had developed an itch.
“What was that?”
But Dalkeira did not repeat the remark.
As they walked around the bay, the dragon noticed that Decan was busy offering Rudley some moss and seaweed to eat. It meant she had Trista to herself for a few moments, which immediately lightened her mood. She darted past Trista, halted as she reconsidered her hunting chances and then stalked the last few feet to the shoreline to see if there were any fish to catch. As she noticed her own reflection in the water, she pondered about how little she actually knew about the world.
“Have you ever seen another dragon?” she asked Trista.
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“But there are bound to be some to the west, yes?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I've never heard anyone speak of a dragon before. Not my father, nor the sailors of the trade ships. But the mainland is a large place. It could very well be that there are others like you.”
Trista thought about it for a moment. “Is that why you want to go west?” she asked the dragon.
“Perhaps. I do not know precisely. It is like someone…something is calling, but the sound is just out of hearing range.”
“Well, at least you have us,” said Trista, trying to make the dragon feel better.
The dragon’s deep blue, sparkling eyes briefly looked toward Decan and the goat before lingering on Trista herself. Without a word, Dalkeira turned her head away and jumped into the water after a fish, leaving Trista to wonder if she had said something wrong.
Trista shivered. The storm from two nights before had brought the colder winds from the north. The drop in temperature was increasingly noticeable as the sun went down, enhanced by the fact that the nights had gone by without a single cloud. But they could not have asked for a better night to make their escape. The constant spray of the warm ocean waters created small floating water drops in the cooler air above it, and a thick sea mist had formed across the water. Flurries of fog were floating up onto the island, wrapping everything in a white haze. Somewhere within, the sound of rocks clattering to the ground could be heard. Startled, Trista looked up, listening intensely.
It was not uncommon during the summer season to have these foggy nights, but with enemy soldiers stalking the island, it gave the damp silence of the mist a very eerie feel.
“Probably nothing,” whispered Trista when no other sounds followed. “Ready to go?”
She and Decan were pushing the boat toward the water. Dalkeira and Rudley watched together from inside the boat, doing their best to keep their balance as the boat rocked back and forth. Nervously, Rudley gave a bleat in protest at being stuck in the same place as the winged predator.
“Shhh,” Trista soothed.
“But how do we know where to go?” asked Decan softly. “We can’t even see the moon and stars.”
“I can see the moon and stars just fine,” commented Dalkeira inside Trista’s mind.
“Dalkeira can guide us. She can still see the moon and will make sure we stay on course. The mist will give us cover from any soldiers on watch. If we don’t go now, who knows when we’ll have the chance to get away unseen?”
Trista saw the doubt in her little brother’s eyes. Decan was eager to make their escape, but he had never been off the island before. The unknown world out there was as scary as staying.
“Look, I know there’s a lot we don’t know, but we can’t stay here. Our home is gone. You saw what they did to Landon, Sterak and the other villagers. They enjoy making people suffer. If we're caught, they’ll toy with us first, just for fun, before killing us. I promised Mother and Father I would keep you safe, and that means getting out of here right now,” said Trista, almost reading Decan’s mind like only a dragon could.
The boy gave a hesitant nod and jumped in the boat as it started floating freely in the water. Trista took the oars in hand and began rowing toward the natural bridge and open ocean.
“A little more toward the right…no, my right,” said Dalkeira, steering them clear of the overhanging rocky bridge.
Trista heard the splashing of waves against the boat change ever so slightly.
Open water.
Sweat mixed with the mist on her skin. The boat was of reasonable size, sturdy enough for the open sea, but it also meant that rowing took a fair amount of energy, especially this first part as she moved against the waves.
Ignored, Rudley had given up her protest and now lay in the bottom of the boat. Dalkeira sat behind Trista, keeping an eye on the moon and correcting their course when necessary while Decan sat at the rudder, steering the boat so that Trista could focus on rowing. Trista's muscles were already beginning to burn, but with no wind she had no choice but to make use of the oars and get as far away from the island as possible.
The coast was quickly swallowed up by the mist and it was not long before Trista completely lost all sense of direction. Everything was wrapped in a silent, white blanket. Checking behind her, she noticed Dalkeira staring at the heavens. S
he followed the dragon’s gaze, trying to see if she could spot the moon god traveling the sky.
“Stop!” hissed Decan suddenly.
Dalkeira spun around to see what had made Decan react.
“Oh, hold on!” said Dalkeira as the hull of a large sailing ship loomed.
On reflex, Trista pulled in her oars to prevent them from getting stuck between the two boats. Their own little ship slammed into the side of the larger hull, sending a loud thump to carry across the water. Startled, Rudley let out a bleat.
Shouts emerged from the larger ship’s deck, but the mist was too thick to actually see the handrail above them. Trista quickly put her finger to her lips, softly shushing the goat. But it was no use; Rudley moved nervously from side to side, as if just deciding she no longer wanted to tag along with them.
The goat bleated again. Trista saw the faint light of oil lamps moving above them, as if the soldiers were trying to see what was out there. The sound of the goat echoed across the water, where it was drowned in the constant sloshing of the sea and then muffled by the mist. Trista hoped that meant the soldiers would be unable to pinpoint where the sound came from.
“Keep her quiet,” she whispered to Decan.
The boy quickly moved over to the goat. He started scratching her chin and ears to calm her down while whispering soothing words to the frightened animal, but the constant movement of the boat upset the goat more with every sway. She let out another shrill bleat, resulting in more shouts from above and feet stomping around on the deck.
Their own mast did not even reach two-thirds of the height of the ship, but Trista did not want to find out if the soldiers on deck would be able to see it. She quickly moved to the side of their boat and started pushing them forward along the large ship’s hull.
THUMP.
“Behhh!”
Another shock ran through their boat as it bumped into the black ship again. Decan was trying his best, but the goat was beyond calming. She started thrashing around, trying to get away from Decan’s grip and drawing in the lights on deck with the resulting racket.
“I knew I should have eaten it earlier,” said Dalkeira.
Before Trista could react, Dalkeira leaped nimbly across the boat and sank her teeth into Rudley’s neck. Blood sprayed across Decan’s face as Dalkeira tore out the panicking animal’s throat. Immediately, the bleating stopped.
The boy’s eyes were wide as he fell backward into the boat. Trista knew the scene in front of him was triggering all the memories of the last few days at once: the killings, the torture, the savageness. She saw him open his mouth to scream, but Dalkeira locked eyes with him before any sound came out. Decan froze, breathing heavily, the terror from the last few nights no doubt rushing through him.
Dalkeira’s eyes swirled back and forth as she took a step toward him, only for Decan to quickly back away from her in shock.
Tears streamed from Decan's eyes. Dalkeira turned around and leaped back toward the front of the boat, where Trista was once again struggling to pull them forward without bumping into the other ship’s hull.
Decan lay down on his side and pulled up his legs toward him, crying softly as the shouting from the deck approached the handrail above them.
“We need to get out of here or we are sure to be discovered,” said Dalkeira to Trista. The dragon swiftly took one of the heavier ropes tied to the boat between her jaws and silently slipped into the water.
Swimming in front of the boat, the dragon pulled them forward while Trista kept them from bumping into the hull again. As they moved away, Trista saw an oil lamp on a rope being lowered from the deck, but by the time it was at water level, they had already moved from the immediate vicinity of the enemy ship. As the incomprehensible shouting of the soldiers on deck dissipated behind them, their little boat quietly slipped away into the thick blanket of mist.
“Let’s try not to do that again,” whispered Trista, taking the oars back in hand. She started rowing with all her might. “Keep going, Dalkeira. Time to put some water between us and this place.”
Trista felt a pleasant tingle shoot through her body as the boat jolted forward. The dragon seemed happy that they were doing this together.
Chapter 6
Tal'Kabur
The clang of metal rang out as High General Corza Setra looked out of the window. The castle offered an excellent view over Tal’Ostar, the capital port of Tal’Kabur. Its main street ran in a spine-straight line from the front gates all the way down to the harbor. Beyond the city, lush forests covered most of the island, with a handful of settlements and larger cities spread out along the coast.
The large street was used as the main vein for cargo transportation. Iron rails ran in the center of it, allowing mine carts to move along them. Coal, ore, iron, merchandise, anything that could be transported. Going uphill was done with the help of huge muscular oxen that equaled the finest of their Doskovian warhorses in strength.
At the top, a large plaza allowed the carts to be turned around while cargo was loaded on or off. Several iron rails branched off the main track to allow carts to pass each other. The way down was simply powered by gravity. A clever brake system on the carts made sure none of them could run rampant, even if the person guiding the cart lost control over it.
I wonder how many people were killed before they got that one right, Corza thought with morbid fascination.
Tal’Ostar had never been a clean city. With a third of the working population being blacksmiths and another quarter manning the iron smelters, the city was buried under a constant layer of grime. But the clouds of black smoke Corza now saw everywhere were not from the ovens; part of the city had caught fire during the fighting.
When they had tried to go up the main street, Talkarian forces had pushed carts down the iron rails on both sides. Some were filled with soldiers with crossbows, others with liquid iron. By rigging the carts to crash on purpose, the Talkarians had ensured numerous Doskovian soldiers were maimed and killed by the hot liquid metal. The Talkarian troops had even managed to take down one of the ghol’ms.
But the biggest blunder had been committed by one of Corza’s captains, who had sailed his ship close to shore to quickly offload their troops. Small ramps were present near the edge of the water, complete with the iron rails that ran up the main street. Neither the captain nor the troops had thought much of it, but as the fighting broke out, a cart full of hot liquid iron had raced down the street. As soldiers jumped out of the way, the cart ran its intended course and flew off a ramp, launching into the air. It had crashed into the waterline of the anchored ship, where the rapid cooling of the iron caused a giant explosion, ripping open the ship’s hull. The ship had quickly sunk to the bottom of the harbor, taking a platoon of soldiers and the fifteen ghol’ms still on board with it.
Corza silently berated those responsible as he watched the mast of the sunken ship sticking up out of the harbor water. They would have to figure out a way to get the ghol’ms above water again. His informants were going to pay dearly for providing such incomplete information on the fighting tactics of the Talkarian forces. And if the captain of the ship had still been alive, Corza would have executed him on the spot as an example of where carelessness could get you.
“Honestly, I don’t know why you all keep fighting, King Baltor,” he said out loud.
He looked next to him, where the king of Tal’Kabur stood with a tense look on his face, watching the general’s every move.
“Your men fought valiantly, soldiers and commoners alike. But your alleyways are littered with corpses. Our ghol’ms have smashed their way through your defenses and filled your gutters with blood. I would not be surprised if half the harbor water has turned red by now.”
Leaving a path of destruction in their wake, the Doskovian forces had flanked the plaza at the top of the main street. There, together with the fireballs dropped from their windships, they had cleared the area of enemy forces. As the Talkarians recognized their imminent defeat, t
hey hastily retreated into the castle, taking position on the walls to rain down arrows upon any who dared come close.
The man beside Corza said nothing.
“Oh, come on. Not a word?” Corza continued to torment the man. “Your castle was barely a challenge for our windships’ bombardments. The doors were easily ripped out of their hinges by our ghol'ms' hands. Even now your men are dying down there in the barracks, and you do nothing? Say nothing?”
The Talkarians had made small victories, like the two windships that had been unable to avoid the arrows coming from the higher towers. Both vessels were forced to retreat, but the ships would not be out of commission long; they were currently being fixed down in the harbor.
Corza let his gaze slide over the dead enemy soldiers on the main plaza in front of the castle. He had to admit the two-sword fighting style made for fierce opponents, but with skin of stone and the strength of at least five men, there was little that swords could do against the ghol’ms.
There were still pockets of resistance in parts of the castle and city, but most of the Talkarian armed forces had been decimated whenever the Doskovian army had encountered them.
Soldiers rushed across the plaza, spreading out further into the city. At the waterfront, a group of men was being organized to haul water into the city, as per Corza’s order. If they were going to make use of the ovens and smelters, the Stone King required the city to be intact as much as possible. A large group of ghol’ms had been put to the task of tearing down any burning buildings until the fires were under control. Thankfully, the Talkarians had been wise enough to erect their houses from stone, a necessary precaution when working with hot, melted metal, so Corza expected it would not take too long before things were under control again.
The Stone King. Even the name gave Corza a bad taste in his mouth. For years, he had been working himself up in the ranks of the Doskovian army to get close to Lord Rictor—the Stone King’s real name. Only after becoming one of his supposedly trusted advisers did Corza learn that the Stone King did not really trust anyone.
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