Dawn of Mist

by Helen Scheuerer

  She peered into the turquoise depths below. No sign of the Battalonian trout yet, not from where she was standing. No, she needed to see further out. Passing Senior at the wheel, she plucked his spyglass from his breast pocket and headed to the mast.

  With her usual surefootedness, she scaled the structure easily and settled in the crow’s nest. Holding the spyglass to her eye, she gazed out at the expanse of sea, watching the choppy current churn across the glassy surface. She adjusted the lens and focused, looking for shadows beneath the clear waters. They couldn’t be far behind the shoal of trout now.

  ‘How are we tracking?’ Bren called up to her.

  Bleak nearly dropped the spyglass and swore under her breath. But with a glance down at her friend she answered, ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘We can’t be far off,’ he said.

  She chanced another look in his direction, surprised to find a green tint to his skin, his face lined with discomfort.

  Before she could say anything, Senior cut in. ‘Give us another quarter hour, Half-Pint,’ he called. ‘Gotta cover a bit more distance first, should be on ’em soon enough. Butter Fingers, drop the nets, will ya?’

  She watched Bren tuck his fair hair behind his ear and roll his shirtsleeves up before he threw the last of the nets overboard. Tentative relief flared in Bleak as she watched Bren go about releasing the nets. He looked a little queasy from the stronger currents, but he’d spoken to her. That had to mean he was okay, that they were okay. For the moment at least.

  Yes, she thought. We’ll be fine.

  Movement up ahead caught her eye, and Bleak cursed herself for not paying closer attention to her duty. She brought the spyglass back up to her face and peered through, her pulse quickening.

  ‘Senior,’ she shouted as soon as her eyes fell upon the foreign vessel. ‘Senior!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘There’s a ship ahead. I don’t recognise the crest.’

  Senior remained calm. ‘How far?’

  ‘A half-dozen leagues or so …’

  Senior frowned. And you’re just seeing this now?

  Bleak ignored his mental quip.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bren asked, joining Senior at the wheel.

  Senior merely pointed.

  ‘That’s not a Battalonian flag …’ Bren murmured, squinting at the red rectangle of fabric waving in the wind.

  ‘No,’ agreed Senior. ‘It’s not.’

  Following their gazes, Bleak focused the spyglass on the flag. They were right. It wasn’t any flag of Battalon she recognised. It didn’t have the required stitching anywhere she could see. Instead, the flag showed the hand-painted face of a woman. It was none of the goddesses Bleak knew. And the ship was now heading straight for them.

  Bleak climbed down the mast swiftly. There was nothing more she could do from the crow’s nest. ‘They’re coming,’ she said.

  ‘We’re not doing anything wrong.’ Bren turned to Senior. ‘Haven’t caught any Battalonian trout yet, so they can’t claim we’re breaching trade agreements, right?’

  ‘Nets are down, lad. No hiding our intentions now … But I don’t think it’s that type of ship …’ Senior narrowed his eyes at the approaching vessel, glancing back up at the strange flag.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Bleak. This was all her fault.

  Senior shrugged. ‘We wait.’

  They didn’t have to wait long. The foreign ship rivalled The Daybreaker for speed easily. Before Bleak knew it, the vessel was pulling up alongside them, its crew staring the trio down.

  ‘Greetings, sailors,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Bleak scanned the crew until she found the source leaning against the mast, hands outstretched before her.

  Definitely not Battalonian, Bleak thought as she took in the woman’s elaborately embroidered shawl and pale skin.

  ‘Greetings to you as well,’ Senior said from beside Bleak, hiding his surprise. It wasn’t often a woman was found at the heart of a ship.

  ‘Bit far north to be fishing for Ellest, aren’t you?’ the woman said, approaching the side of her ship and taking in the Ellestian colours marking their flag.

  ‘Got caught in a rip,’ Senior said casually. ‘Yourself?’

  ‘Returning to Qatrola after a leisure visit to Belbarrow.’

  Bleak noticed Bren’s utter stillness beside her, his thoughts milling freely into her mind. She followed them across the way to the weapons each of the crew clutched.

  Weapons? Bleak had to stop herself from gaping as her eyes swept across the shortswords and daggers. Why would the entire crew have weapons?

  ‘Begging your pardon.’ Senior bowed his head. ‘We’d best be turning home then.’

  Bleak’s stomach squirmed as the woman blatantly assessed her. Her gaze lingered on Bleak’s odd-coloured eyes.

  ‘I would ask that you wait a moment,’ she said. It wasn’t a request. A threat laced between each of her words. ‘My lady may wish to speak with you …’ she added, flicking her hand in the direction of their captain’s cabin.

  ‘Yer lady?’ Bren cut in. ‘Who is yer lady?’

  Bleak winced at the demand in his voice, and heard Senior’s thoughts mirror her own. A tone like that wouldn’t do them any favours.

  The woman smiled, a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘You don’t strike me as the sort of fellow who would be familiar with nobility.’

  From the corner of her eye, Bleak saw Bren’s face flush scarlet.

  Serves you right, she thought, glancing nervously at the opposing crew.

  Half-Pint. Senior’s voice filled her head. If something should happen, don’t fight them. Don’t reveal what you are. If there’s a chance to escape with Butter Fingers, take it. With or without me.

  She swallowed hard, but gave Senior a subtle nod.

  One of the crew members addressed the woman. ‘Madame Farlah,’ he said. ‘Our lady does not wish to delay. She asks that we leave the travellers and depart now. She is eager to return to Qatrola.’

  Bleak didn’t dare exhale the breath she’d been holding. Not yet.

  Madame Farlah’s eyes slid back to hers, once more pausing on Bleak’s hazel and blue irises.

  A humming sound buzzed in Bleak’s ears, gradually infiltrating her mind. It grew louder and louder. She strained to keep her facial features neutral as the noise became a painful intrusion, demanding her acknowledgement.

  What. Is. This? She gritted her teeth and tried to breathe steadily through her nose. She couldn’t hide it for much longer. Couldn’t —

  A hand slipped into hers. A calloused thumb ran over her middle knuckle. Bren.

  He squeezed her hand and the sound retreated, fading into the background. Another squeeze of his hand and she could feel her feet beneath her, feel the cool breeze on her face once more.

  Madame Farlah was staring at her. A dark, piercing stare that sent a shiver down Bleak’s spine. The woman tilted her head slightly, and then adjusted her shawl across her shoulders.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘As our lady commands, then … May the seas be kind to you, travellers.’

  She heard a soft sigh of relief from Senior. Bleak dropped Bren’s hand, her pulse still racing.

  As the foreign ship departed, the strange red flag billowed in the wind, giving them one last glimpse of the illustrated woman’s face. A wave of goosebumps broke out across Bleak’s arms, and she crossed them over her chest, turning to the men.

  ‘Well, that was different,’ she said, her voice not nearly as steady as she’d intended.

  ‘Different’s one word for it,’ Senior muttered.

  Bren suddenly made a mad dash for the side of the ship, and was violently sick. Beads of sweat broke out across his brow and he vomited again.

  Bleak glanced at Senior, who was trying and failing to hide his smirk.

  ‘Not feeling so good, eh, Butter Fingers?’ he said. ‘Told you these waters are rough enough to turn any sailor’s gut …’

  Blea
k gave Senior a shove and went to Bren. She rubbed his back as his body heaved again. Gods knew he’d done the same for her countless times.

  Senior was chuckling to himself as he set about getting The Daybreaker back on course.

  Bren went down below with a bucket for company, and Bleak escaped once more to the mast. Her mind wandered back to the painful hum that had broken through her thoughts. And then Bren’s touch, and how it had grounded her, brought her back from the pain. She had so many questions, and no one to voice them to. While she loved Senior with all her heart, he didn’t have the answers she needed. With a sigh, she pressed the spyglass to her eye and gazed out across the churning waters again.

  A dark shadow flickered below the surface. A seamless movement. A shoal of Battalonian trout.

  ‘Senior,’ she called out, jumping to her feet. ‘They’re straight on! We’ve got them!’

  She and Senior scrambled to the nets, watching as they began to fill. Beside her, Senior’s body sank with relief. The tension of the day lifted from his shoulders.

  ‘I wouldn’t have left you, you know …’ Bleak told him, not taking her eyes from their catch.

  Senior put his arm around her neck. ‘You never were one for doing as you were told.’

  Before long, the nets were sagging with fresh Battalonian trout. Bleak and Senior reeled them in from the sea, water cascading onto the deck.

  Bren reappeared, letting out a low, appreciative whistle as the flapping silver bodies spilled out across the deck. He looked pale, but no longer carried the bucket with him.

  ‘Reckon we’ve earned ourselves a decent supper, Butter Fingers?’ Senior said, nodding to one of the fatter fish.

  Bren laughed weakly. ‘Maybe once we’re back on Ellestian waters …’

  The waters calmed as they sailed south, back into the familiar currents of the East Sea. Colour came back to Bren’s cheeks, and he smiled at Bleak from across the cooking fire, his hands busy descaling a fat silver trout.

  She smiled back. We’ll be fine, she thought again.

  Night fell once more and they anchored not far from the coast of Angove. Bleak bit into the smoky Battalonian trout and took a swig of dark ale. She watched the lights flicker from the cliffs. Mrs Clayton and the boys would have supped long ago now, and Van and Hutch, the youngest, would be tucked up in bed. The others would be drinking and talking around the kitchen table, likely with Mrs Clayton simultaneously chastising and laughing at their bawdy jokes. That was, unless Mr Clayton was home.

  Senior left to get more ale, and Bleak looked to Bren again, his fair hair falling over his eyes as he gathered the empty plates.

  ‘I do think about it, you know,’ she heard herself say. ‘What might have happened.’

  Bren glanced up, surprised.

  ‘I do think about it,’ she said again.

  Her friend smiled warmly and nodded. ‘I know,’ he told her. ‘Our story’s only just beginning, Half-Pint … No need to rush it, eh?’

  She felt a smile break across her own face. ‘No need to rush it,’ she agreed.

  Senior rejoined them, pouring fresh ale into their mugs. ‘Next time you two suggest sailing up north, remind me to knock yer heads together,’ he said.

  Bren laughed. ‘Won’t be suggesting that again in a hurry …’

  Bleak clapped him on the back. ‘Never seen someone turn so green before.’

  ‘I was not green.’

  Senior scoffed. ‘Were so, lad. After all that malarkey about being a seasoned sailor too, eh?’

  ‘Imagine what your brothers will say …’ Bleak teased.

  ‘Ya wouldn’t …’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Cut it out,’ Senior barked. ‘Can’t an old man enjoy some peace and quiet on his own damn ship?’

  Bleak and Bren stifled their laughter and went to the bow of The Daybreaker, gazing out onto the black waters ahead. Finally, the day was behind them. Now they would only look forward.

  The Valian Way

  The bitter cold of Havennesse had plunged its teeth into fourteen-year-old Henri’s bones and latched around her heart. As she sank into the deep snow and buried her ice pick into the side of the mountain, everything hurt. Around their unit of eleven, the winds screamed, whipping snow into their eyes and stinging exposed skin. Despite her layers of palma furs and winter leathers, Henri couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. She hauled herself up and swung her ice pick again.

  Upon their arrival in Wildenhaven, they had been received by an ageing King Stellen, who had apologised for the absence of Princess Eydis and Prince Jarel. Both were off in the hinterlands, training a new litter of wolfdogs. Henri hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment, but the king assured her and Sahara that his unruly royal children would be here upon the Valians’ return from the mountains.

  They had trained hard in Wildenhaven before they set out, completing brutal drills and hikes in varying degrees of snowstorm. Somewhere along the way, Henri and Sahara had celebrated their fourteenth name day. Allehra’s gift was an additional five drills of hand-to-hand combat in the frozen arena. Henri had pushed through it with gritted teeth. The thought of seeing one of her oldest friends was what kept her strong.

  After four weeks of training, they had finally begun their trek up the Kildaholm Alps: the coldest and harshest mountain range in the realm. A sheet of white stretched as far as Henri’s eyes could see, punctuated only by jagged mountain ridges and peaks; steep, savage and desolate.

  ‘It will test the limits of even your endurance …’ Allehra had said.

  Well, Henri thought, she got that right.

  They had been climbing for almost three weeks now. Three weeks of utter exhaustion and no reprieve from the freezing conditions, all the while racing other Valian teams dotted around the ranges. The first unit to retrieve the Valian flag at the summit would be the team from which Allehra selected the heir’s elite kindred. Henri had never wanted something so much in her life … but she’d also never been in this much pain. She looked to her companions. Sahara, Athene, Petra, Marvel, Tilly, Addi, Greer and Keegan were all suffering as well. Addi had developed a hacking cough, though she was doing her utmost to conceal it from their mentors, Makena and Quinn. Henri had noticed, though. She’d also noticed how Addi’s steps had become shorter, the swing of her pick weaker. Beside Henri on the slope, Sahara followed her gaze and lowered the scarf wrapped around her face.

  Henri shook her head frantically. She knew what Sahara was thinking, but she couldn’t —

  ‘When do we make camp?’ Sahara called out over the howling winds.

  If she’d had the energy, Henri would have slapped her sister. Sahara knew better than to question the leadership of a Valian mentor. The whole point of this training exercise was to showcase their endurance, their hardiness. Requesting a break was suicide.

  ‘When I say so,’ Makena’s stern voice shouted from above. ‘Do you want to win this thing or not?’

  ‘Of course we want to win. We don’t need to stop,’ Athene yelled. She climbed just below the sisters, bringing up the rear of the unit.

  Henri didn’t miss Sahara’s glare, or the spray of snow she sent down over Athene.

  ‘Watch yourself,’ Athene snapped in her direction. Henri should have rounded on Athene for speaking to their heir like that, but truth be told … Sahara was making life more difficult for all of them.

  Addi, however, after another muffled coughing fit, gave Sahara a sad yet grateful smile. But her gratitude didn’t matter. Not here. They would not be stopping for some time yet.

  Darkness fell like a heavy blanket over the craggy ridges and gullies. It wasn’t until hours later that the Valians sought shelter, tucked into the side of a ravine. Numb, starving and exhausted to the core, they set up their tent in silence. Inside, they huddled around a small fire, its feeble flames doing little to bring warmth to their frozen fingers. Henri forced herself to chew the grain bar that had been pressed into her hand. She didn’t wan
t to eat, but she knew her body needed the sustenance now more than ever. Across the fire, she watched Sahara give her own steaming cup of broth to Addi.

  ‘She’s slowing us down,’ Athene whispered in Henri’s ear. ‘Her and Sahara’s sympathies.’

  ‘Athene,’ Henri warned.

  ‘You know I’m right.’

  As though sensing she was the subject of their murmurings, Sahara’s head snapped up. ‘Something to say, Athene?’

  Athene lifted her chin. ‘Nothing you’d care to hear.’

  Henri scowled, resisting the urge to shove her friend. ‘Stop it,’ she hissed. ‘Sahara is our heir.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’ Athene turned away from Henri, leaving her food untouched.

  Henri pushed the canteen of broth towards her. ‘You need to eat something.’

  But Athene shook her head. ‘Can’t stand the smell of that.’

  Makena cleared her throat as Quinn unfurled their map. ‘We’re less than a day’s climb from the summit,’ Quinn told them, scanning their faces. ‘If my estimates are accurate, we’re an hour or so ahead of Allehra’s unit. We’ll rest here for three hours, then start the final ascent before dawn.’

  Three hours? That’s all the rest we get? The others’ faces mirrored Henri’s thoughts. But no one protested, no one complained. That was the Valian Way.

  Henri dozed fitfully, her mind littered with strange dreams of dogs barking. Addi’s cough worsened during the night and her hacking noises kept them all from sleep. Almost as soon as Henri had managed to warm her frostbitten toes, she was roused by a rough shake from Makena.

  ‘Up,’ was all the mentor said, before moving along to wake the others.

  They had to chip the icicles from the tent before they packed it away in the blistering gale. Henri’s body was aching before they even started moving.

  Less than a day till the summit, she reminded herself. As she shouldered her pack and sank into the knee-deep snow, she imagined the feeling of victory they’d experience as they clutched the Valian flag in their hands on top of the world. It will all be worth it, she thought. It has to be.