Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  The rope! she remembered, gripping the length tied around her waist and following it up to air.

  There was a flash of white again. Bleak had no idea what she’d do when she reached Bren, or if she’d reach him, but she had to try, or she’d die with him. Bren and Senior were all she had – she wouldn’t go back to Angove without one of them. But it was the face of Mrs Clayton that appeared in her mind then: how she’d look when they told her she’d lost her son. It was her face that forced Bleak to find that strength, that power inside her, and forge on through the pounding sea.

  When she reached Bren, he was face down.

  ‘Bren,’ Bleak screamed, turning him over, floating him on his back. ‘Bren!’

  She struggled to hold him against her, his shoulder blades pressed to her chest as the waves continued to slap against them and drag them under.

  ‘I’m here now, Bren, I’m here,’ she said into his ear, gripping the rope around her waist with her free hand.

  What now? We’ll drown here. Bleak cursed herself for not waking Senior, but there had been no time. She turned back to Bren’s motionless form. How could she get them both back up on deck?

  Is he even breathing? Bleak tried to feel his breath, but she was so frozen she couldn’t feel anything, not even her own limbs. Her teeth were chattering so hard she could barely think.

  It doesn’t end like this, she told herself. It can’t end like this.

  She eyed the swollen fishing nets at the hull.

  That’s it.

  With everything she had, Bleak dragged Bren through the current, near-drowning as his heavy frame tugged her under. She choked and spluttered, water filling her nose and lungs and stinging her eyes, but she kept going, kicking and gasping for air. At last she reached the nets, which were brimming with fish. Her limbs were like rocks and her energy was sapped. Sobbing, she worked Bren’s limp body into the nets with the fish, deliberately tangling his arm so that his drooping head remained above water. He had to survive – they had to survive.

  Bleak took a deep breath. Her lungs rattled with fluid and her heart hammered against her frozen core. This either worked, or they died. It was simple.

  The only thing simple in our time is life and death. Senior’s words came back to her as she gripped the rope tied to her middle and began the climb. Her muscles screamed. She tried to use her feet to redistribute some of her body weight, but she couldn’t feel her feet, and the length of rope below flapped about wildly. Bleak hauled herself up, inch by inch, pain lancing through her body as the wind chilled her skin and her bones. The effort tore through her biceps. But she kept going. She didn’t know how high she’d climbed, only that the railing of the ship was now in sight. In one final surge of energy, she threw herself up over the railing, gasping. But it wasn’t over.

  Bleak scrambled to her feet, unsteady as a newborn filly, but it didn’t matter. She had to get to the nets, to Bren.

  Senior emerged from the cabin, his face draining of colour at the sight of her. She shoved past him, darting to the stern. Her fingers fumbled with the pulleys. Butter Fingers. The name filled her head and steadied her hands as she worked the ropes. Senior was there, unable to understand her but helping her anyway, realising that something was terribly wrong.

  Together, they worked the pulleys. The bulging net rose up into the air, into the rain and wind, weighed down by hundreds of fish, and somewhere, Bren’s unconscious body.

  ‘Bren!’ The broken voice was Senior’s this time, shock and terror etched on his lined face as he spotted the boy’s pale arm sticking through the ropes and fish.

  The net swung over onto the deck and landed with a thump on the timber, flapping fish spilling from its confines. There was Bren, amidst the glimmering rainbow scales. Bleak rushed towards him, shoving the netting aside and hauling Bren’s head into her lap. His lips were blue, his tanned skin deathly pale. Bleak slapped the side of his face.

  ‘Bren,’ she said and slapped him again. ‘Bren!’ Her voice cracked and her breaths came in quick, short bursts.

  Senior rubbed Bren’s chest, heating the skin over his heart. ‘Come on, Butter Fingers,’ he murmured, rain dripping from his nose as he leaned over the unconscious boy.

  ‘Lie him flat,’ Senior said suddenly, and Bleak obeyed, shifting Bren from her lap, placing his head gently on the wet timber planks.

  Senior knelt beside Bren’s body and lay his hands on Bren’s chest, one on top of the other. He started to pump Bren’s heart from the outside.

  ‘Please, Bren,’ Bleak whispered, gripping his shoulder hard. She couldn’t feel the cold anymore, or the pain. All she felt was desperation for him to live, for him to be alright.

  Senior pressed on Bren’s chest again and again, his jaw clenched, his eyes focused.

  ‘I will not bring a body back to your ma, Butter Fingers,’ he ground out.

  Suddenly Bren’s eyes flew open and his chest heaved. There was a rattling gasp for air as he fought to breathe. Bleak’s heart leaped, and she rolled him onto his side. What seemed like half the sea emptied from Bren as he vomited and spluttered, rasping for breath.

  Relief. Utter relief flooded Bleak, warming her chilled bones. Her body sagged. She was so, so heavy. But she was fine, better than fine, Bren was alive.

  Bleak felt herself slide as everything went black, and her head hit the timber deck

  The smell of freshly baked damper filled Bleak’s nostrils, and she realised that she was no longer cold. Eyes still closed, she wriggled her toes and joy rushed through her; she could feel her toes again.

  ‘Ya could’a died,’ growled Senior’s voice from beside her.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Damn fool, Half-Pint,’ he said, a warm hand closing around her arm.

  The cabin was filled with soft light from the portholes. Bleak squinted up at Senior.

  ‘Bren?’ she croaked.

  ‘The lad’s fine. A little battered, with a bruised ego, but fine. Thanks to you.’

  Bleak exhaled a shaky breath. ‘What … what happened?’

  ‘Says the storm hit suddenly. Thought he could handle it. Got thrown overboard, hit his head on the way down.’

  ‘But he’s alright?’

  ‘Butter Fingers is fine. He’s up there making breakfast, if ya got the strength.’

  Bleak pushed herself up into a sitting position, every muscle protesting. She winced and leaned back into the cushions.

  ‘I dunno how ya did it,’ Senior muttered, gazing at her in wonder. ‘I dunno how ya got there in time, or how ya managed to survive in that, let alone bring him back with ya. I don’t understand any of it.’

  Bleak shook her head. There was only one thing she understood. ‘I heard him,’ she said.

  ‘But Bleak —’ Understanding spread across Senior’s face. He touched her temple with two fingers. ‘You heard him, up here?’

  She nodded.

  It was Senior’s turn to shake his head. ‘I told ya it was a gift, Half-Pint. An absolute gift.’

  Senior helped her out of the cot, put her arm around his shoulder. Together, they shuffled to the ladder.

  ‘You sure you’re up for this?’ he said.

  She nodded. By the looks of the cabin and the clothes, plates and mugs strewn about, she’d already spent a lot of time down here.

  The ladder was harder to climb than she imagined – her legs were agony. But she made it out into the daylight. At the cooker stood Bren, turning golden loaves of damper over the grill, yellow rays of sun catching in his fair hair. He looked up and saw her there.

  Bleak froze. What now? Had something changed between them? What would she say? She nearly buckled under the the weight of all her questions, and the recollection of the terror that had filled her at the thought of losing him. Bren must have seen each feeling pass through her, because he didn’t rush to her, didn’t splutter an emotional thanks. Instead, he grinned.

  ‘Finally gracing us with yer presence?’ he said.

&
nbsp; ‘Ungrateful oaf,’ she retorted, moving towards him and swiping a piece of damper from his plate.

  Senior’s knees cracked as he sat down by Bren and rolled his eyes.

  ‘What happened to the catch?’ Bleak said, suddenly remembering the hundreds of fish spilling across the deck.

  ‘The rain helped there,’ said Senior. ‘We salvaged most of it, and whatever we lost we’ll re-catch on the way to Heathton.’

  ‘So you’re not making us go back?’ Hope flickered.

  ‘I wanted to turn back to Angove,’ the old fisherman said, glancing up from his food, ‘but Butter Fingers here insisted that you’d want to continue on to the capital.’

  Bleak couldn’t hide her surprise.

  Bren shrugged in her direction. ‘I know there’s something you want in Heathton.’

  Her eyes widened.

  But Bren just smiled. ‘Whatever it is, I want to help you find it.’

  Bleak looked from Bren to Senior, and nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want to go to Heathton.’

  Viper’s Kiss

  ‘Pull back!’ Commander Dimitri Swinton bellowed over the rain of arrows. ‘Pull back!’

  The hot sand shifted beneath his boots as he slid down the other side of the crest they’d returned fire from. The skirmish was not going to plan. The desert rebels weren’t the foolish commonfolk King Roswall of Battalon had claimed them to be.

  An arrow skimmed across Swinton’s armoured shoulder. ‘Pull back,’ he yelled again.

  His men were scattered, not faring well in the foreign terrain. The village they’d attacked had been transformed into a military stronghold, one that Swinton’s forces were yet to breach.

  ‘Fi,’ he called, spotting his bulky Battalonian friend knocking a lone rebel fighter to the ground. ‘Tell the men to retreat.’

  Captain Murphadias nodded and signalled to his band of men. Swinton did the same. Divided, the Ellestian forces withdrew to the temporary barracks they’d built on the outskirts of the village. They hadn’t expected to be here for long, and now, the camp offered little to no shelter. Swinton gritted his teeth as he helped his men. Arrows stuck out from more than one soldier, sweat and blood coated exposed flesh, and the muffled moans of pain became a chorus. Swinton dragged Stefan towards cover. The young squire, who shouldn’t have been out in the field at all, now had an arrow protruding from his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, Stefan,’ Swinton muttered. ‘It’s only a flesh wound.’

  ‘It’s worse.’ Fi came up beside them, lifting Stefan’s other arm around his shoulder. ‘We need to remove the arrow and wash the wound out, fast,’ he said. ‘These have been tipped with viper venom.’

  Swinton swore. ‘Lennox,’ he called to the nearest able soldier. ‘Anyone who’s got an arrow wound is to be brought to the medic tent immediately.’

  ‘Yes, Commander.’

  The medic tent offered no reprieve from the heat or the stench. Swinton and Fi pushed Stefan onto a cot and held him down as a healer eased the arrow from the wound. Stefan cried and clawed at Swinton’s arm, but Swinton held him steady.

  ‘Serves you damn right for disobeying orders,’ he snapped.

  Fi grimaced. ‘Maybe wait until he survives before you start on the lectures, eh, old friend?’

  Swinton glowered as the tent filled with over a dozen men nursing arrow wounds. ‘The village is impenetrable with the force we have,’ he hissed at Fi. ‘We need to change tactics.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Meet me in my tent in ten minutes.’

  Swinton left Fi to direct the healers. He had to think. But the desert muddled his mind. He hated this place. He hated the blazing heat that pressed down on his armour. He hated the fountain grass that concealed deadly serpents. And he hated the way the sand constantly shifted beneath his boots, making him unsteady on his feet. But what he hated most of all was being dragged into a neighbouring king’s fight.

  King Roswall had raised taxes for agriculture outside of the capital, and as a result, two of the desert clans had rebelled against the crown. So far, the rebels had killed three separate Battalonian units who had come to bring them the king’s justice. They knew the desert better than any city soldiers, and used the elements and terrain to their advantage. At his wits’ end, King Roswall had sought the aid of King Arden, who had sent Swinton and his men to deal with the rebels.

  Now, Swinton trudged heavily across the sand, ignoring the stench of unwashed bodies and festering wounds. War camps just about anywhere left much to be desired; war camps in the desert were foul on another level entirely.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow with a rag, he entered his tent. He removed his breastplate, the cotton shirt beneath sticking to his skin. The armour had left a red indent on his sternum. Rubbing the welt mindlessly, he went to the table and surveyed the strategy sketches he’d made the night before.

  Useless. Utterly useless. The rebels had fortified their walls to withstand just about anything, and from what Fi had said, they had supplies to last months. Swinton massaged the bridge of his nose. As the newly appointed commander of the Ellestian army, he needed to end this quickly and quietly, before he lost too many men. Before his chance at knighthood slipped away.

  ‘Don’t look so defeated, old friend,’ Fi said, striding into the tent.

  ‘Well, it’s not looking promising. How are these rebels so organised?’

  Fi shrugged. ‘Never underestimate the hardiness of those who live in the Janhallow Desert. It takes a certain kind of people to flourish out here.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Swinton muttered. ‘How’s Stefan?’

  ‘He’ll live.’

  ‘Good. Your king didn’t see fit to warn us of the viper venom, then?’

  ‘It’s unusual that a clan would have it …’

  Swinton exhaled a heavy breath. ‘If you hadn’t been here … we would have lost those men. Would have lost Stefan.’

  ‘Good thing I’m here, then.’

  ‘Indeed …’ Swinton paced the tent. ‘You say it’s unusual for a desert clan to have a store of viper venom?’

  Fi nodded. ‘A large store, yes. Which they clearly have.’

  ‘Which means they can pick us off with arrows every time we charge. Even a shallow graze could be fatal …’

  ‘We need to breach their walls. In close quarters, we could defeat them – they’re not skilled warriors. They have good archers, but other than that …’

  Swinton stopped. ‘Where do they get the venom from?’

  ‘Judging by the stores they have … they’d need dozens of vipers. Maybe more. Only a small amount can be milked from the fangs at a time. They would have a farm.’

  Suppressing a shudder, Swinton continued to pace, while Fiore sat down and poured them both drinks.

  The Battalonian took a long swig from his cup and looked to Swinton. ‘They wouldn’t keep the farm in the village …’ he said slowly.

  ‘No?’

  Fi shook his head. ‘Too dangerous to keep that many vipers so close.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘It’ll be around here somewhere, still within range for them to top up their stores.’

  ‘So we cut off their supply?’

  Fi stood and pressed a cup into Swinton’s hand. ‘We can do better than that …’

  They waited until nightfall, when the desert transformed from a sweltering red plain into a dark, cold abyss. Swinton and Fi rode out alone, their horses whinnying anxiously, as though they sensed what lay at the end of their search. Swinton himself still wasn’t convinced it was a plausible plan, and the idea of playing with a bunch of vipers didn’t exactly set his mind at ease.

  ‘It has to be within riding range of the stronghold,’ Fiore said over the soft thud of their horses’ hooves. ‘But it will be guarded.’

  ‘Heavily?’

  ‘I doubt it. They don’t have the men to spare.’

  Swinton nodded, urging his horse to keep up with Fi’s. In the pal
e moonlight, the desert looked like one big blanket of dust to Swinton, but Fiore knew the lay of the land well, and led them across its vast plains with ease.

  ‘You smell that?’ Fi asked, halting his mount.

  Swinton inhaled. ‘Lantern oil.’

  ‘We’re close. Take it on foot from here. We want to see them before they see us, old friend.’

  They left their horses. As Swinton unsheathed his battleaxes, he said a silent prayer that the mounts would be there upon their return. He could think of nothing worse than being stranded out in the Janhallow Desert.

  ‘Quick, quiet deaths,’ he said. ‘Under no circumstance can an alarm be sounded.’

  Fiore palmed his fighting knives and said nothing.

  Up ahead, peering over the crest of a dune, the pair spotted half a dozen lanterns illuminating a single building, and three sentries.

  ‘I don’t mind those odds,’ Fi said. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘What?’ Swinton hissed, watching in disbelief as Fi removed his jerkin embroidered with the Ellestian royal sigil.

  ‘It’s better this way,’ he said. ‘Trust me, old friend.’ He left Swinton in the shadows, watching on, bewildered.

  Fiore approached the trio with open arms. Swinton couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying in his native Battalonian tongue. But the sentries appeared receptive. Before Fiore struck.

  He had them out cold in an instant.

  Out cold, Swinton noted. Not dead. He said as much upon approach.

  ‘They are my brothers,’ Fiore said. ‘I cannot kill them in cold blood, Dimitri. They’re only doing their job.’

  Swinton bit back a retort. He couldn’t ask his friend to slaughter his own people, but he knew … One of these days … Fiore’s sympathies would come back to haunt him.

  ‘Let’s just get a move on,’ Swinton ground out, following Fi to the building.

  He heard them before they opened the door. The low hissing, en masse. Swinton’s skin crawled. He wasn’t partial to any deadly creatures, least of all Battalonian desert vipers. Fi passed him a handful of hessian sacks.