"Be brave, Skye."
The voice that calls her name sounds heavy and sad. Though she has not spoken to him in over a year, she recognises it as her father's almost immediately.
"No matter what happens, know that I'll always love you."
In her mind she sees him – though she knows this is a false memory – his weathered face set like flint, his blue eyes hard. She sees him as they set the Circlet on his head, biting back a scream as its molten metal sears his skin.
Be brave. Show them no fear.
Another false memory.
In truth, he had screamed.
And she would never forget that sound.
***
Where should we begin?
***
In the beginning, there was an island. And on that island lived the gods. Eternal, formless, unshaped by the whims of mortal beings. They lived in a constant state of measured flux, in harmonious change.
Then came the first man. Whole, finite, yet full of potential. An entity that embodied chaos, yet sought balance.
The man appeared before the gods and made a wish. Then, everything changed.
***
On the seventh day of their journey, the ship passed through a terrible storm. Freezing rain and towering waves lambasted the weary vessel from all sides, while lightning cackled ominously low overhead.
Twice, the crow's nest caught aflame, only to be put out nearly immediately by the torrential rain. Several of the crew and more than a handful of passengers stupid enough to be on deck were thrown off board. No attempts were made to rescue them.
None of this was a surprise to the ship's captain, of course. Like his father before him, Captain Bucklewort had made this very same voyage every year for the past three decades. This year was no different, save for the fact that he was now older than he had ever been, and an arm and a leg shy of becoming a quadriplegic.
Facing the elements, Bucklewort stood steadfast at the ship's helm, his hands–both the good one and the mechanical appendage gifted him by the Island after his third voyage–gripping the wooden spokes of the rain-slick wheel with all their might. In between barked orders to his crew, he uttered invocations of protection and safe passage under his breath. Old seamen prayers, if they could be considered as such.
He watched as the sea continued to claim more passengers, and some of his men. He wasn't particularly concerned for the latter. These were vagrants he had picked up from the city, Castellan outcasts with nowhere to go. He had been plain with them, told them exactly what they'd be signing up for. Yes, there would be much to celebrate if they survived–the Islanders were nothing if not generous–but surviving was another matter altogether.
Nonetheless, faith was necessary when crossing the Godsveil. This was, after all, no ordinary storm, but a test. A means in which to sieve out the unworthy. The captain had survived for twenty years. That meant the gods still saw value in him. He would survive this voyage, too, and the storm would pass once more.
***
Skye watched the roiling sea from her cabin's porthole. It wasn't the worst storm she'd encountered, but it was pretty bad. Already, water had started seeping into the ship's lower decks. The cabin was flooded up to her ankles, as water continued to drip from multiple cracks in the ceiling. Behind her, Wynn had planted her face firmly into a bucket. The retching sounds she made were all but drowned out by the crashing of waves and near-constant roar of thunder.
"We're almost there," said Skye, bracing herself with one hand against the rusty wall as the ship lurched and shook.
Wynn looked up from the bucket, her eyes watery, her usually rosy cheeks drained of all colour. The bucket undoubtedly contained a bulk of the heavy breakfast she had in the morning, and possibly the pigs trotters from the dinner before.
"How can you tell?" she asked, her voice weak, her words slurring.
"'The Island lies beyond the tears of gods and the blood of men'," said Skye. "This is it."
Wynn did not respond. She had returned to topping up her bucket of vomit.
A wall of water rose with such sudden force that it made Skye jerk back. The wave snatched up two shadowy figures, swallowing them whole.
Many more will die tonight.
Despite her best efforts, she couldn't help but take some comfort in that thought.
***
As if by the mercy of some radiant sun god, the storm cleared, almost miraculously, at daybreak. As soon as the first rays of sunlight eked out from over the horizon, the winds ebbed, the clouds parted, and the waves subsided, leaving the waters mellow and calm.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Of the hundred and twenty passengers who had first boarded the ship from Castella, only ninety-two remained. These gathered on the upper decks once the storm had passed, to take in the new sight before them. Skye stood among them, craning her head to see.
"Behold, lads and lasses," said Bucklewort, his voice hoarse from a night of shouting and screaming. "The Island lies before us."
A patch of green had emerged in the horizon, partially obscured by a low fog. In the distance, Skye could make out the silhouette of densely packed trees, and the vague outline of a mountain range that could have been clouds.
The Island, where the gods lived, and mortals fought to earn their favour.
"That's it?" asked Wynn. Colour had begun returning to her face, though she still remained a little hunched over.
"What did you expect?" asked Skye.
"I don't know. Sea serpents and magic birds, maybe? A magic beam shooting up into the sky? A volcano?"
"Oh, there is a volcano."
Skye and Wynn turned to face the man who had spoken. A bespectacled fellow with short, dusty brown hair, he wore a light blue robe with long, billowy sleeves. He reminded Skye of the monks from her hometown in Azura, only much younger. His face was in that awkward transition between boyhood and manhood, acne-speckled and sharp in all the wrong places. He couldn't have been older than fifteen.
"Mount Vulcan, where the great artificers craft various fabled items you can find on the Island, is actually an active volcano," said the young monk.
"Artificers, huh?" Wynn said. "I've always wanted a magic chopper. Do you think they've got that?"
She turned to regard the boy. He was about her height, which wasn't very tall for a boy his age (Skye was easily half a head taller). Her emerald eyes met his dark brown ones, and his face flushed hot red. He whipped his head away immediately.
"Yeah, sure, probably!"
"What's your name, kid?" asked Skye.
"It's Tang," he replied. Then, softly, he added, "And I'm not a kid."
Skye asked, "You're Sennese?" He didn't look like one. His hair was coloured too light, his features too severe. His eyes were the right almond shape, though.
"On my mother's side," said Tang, still averting his gaze.
"I'm Skye, and this is Wynn," Skye said. "What else can you tell us about the Island?"
“Well, the Island is split into three main sections. The tribe that hosts the Battle Festival resides in the East. That’s where the ship will dock,” said Tang. He seemed to grow more confident as he spoke. “The middle sector’s the largest, interspersed with small villages and dangerous wildlands. And finally, there’s the western region.”
“Where the gods reside,” said Skye.
Tang nodded. “No one knows exactly what you’ll find there. Only a handful of people have ever made it to the Godseye.”
And even fewer have made it out alive, thought Skye. She made a mental note to keep Tang close. It was probably a good idea to gather some allies before the Battle Festival kicked off, and the boy seemed knowledgeable.
“What’s in the bag?” Tang asked, pointing at the comically large haversack on Wynn’s back.
“Oh, this old thing? This here’s our secret weapon,” said Wynn with a wide grin that made Tang blush again.
Skye couldn’t help but smile. She said, “It’s cooking equipment.”
Tang raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“I figured we’d get hungry during the Battle Festival,” said Wynn. “And besides, a frying pan can always double as a warhammer in desperate times. The Island's Invitation placed a limit on the number of weapons we could bring, but there’s no such restrictions on crockery.”
Wynn launched into a raucous guffaw that drew looks from everyone within a few feet of them. Tang’s face grew several shades redder. Skye couldn’t tell if his gawking expression was drawn from confusion or attraction. Probably both.
Placing a hand around Wynn’s shoulder, Skye said, “Wynn’s a cook. She really loves food.”
“You bet!” said Wynn, patting her generous tummy with both hands. “Got the belly to prove it too.”
Skye sensed the man's booming footsteps and lingering odour before she heard him speak. He said, “What’s a fat bitch like you doing at the Battle Festival, huh?”
The gruff voice came from the direction of the ship’s stern. Skye turned, scanning the crowd of gathered participants, one hand instinctively reaching for the retractable staff tucked into her waistband. The sea of people parted as a hulking mass of bone and muscle approached. The towering figure stopped a foot before herself, Wynn and Tang. He had a pug-like face, with a flattened nose and multiple scars running across both cheeks and lips. His arms and legs were like tree trunks made from taut, burgeoning muscles. He wore a tattered tunic that was clearly too small for him, and an obscenely tight pair of hide pants.
“Are you gonna serve us up a meal, fatty? Is pig on the menu tonight?”
“Back off,” said Skye, her eyes meeting the giant’s.
The looming figure laughed. “Are you her bodyguard? You’re like a little twig compared to the piggy.”
Skye extended her staff to its full length.
"I said, back off."
She felt Wynn’s hand on her arm, quietly warning her off, and a vague awareness of Tang–the boy seemed to be shaking at the knees at the sight of the monstrous newcomer, who now sneered at Skye.
"The name's Ogred, little twig," he said. "And you better learn some manners."
"I'm not a twig," said Skye.
Her staff shot up, striking Ogred in the nose with such speed that he could barely react. Blood gushed out from both nostrils as the giant stared dumbly at Skye. Around him, many of the ship's passengers, including Tang, looked equally dumbfounded.
Skye smiled. "I'm a splinter."
The blank expression on Ogred's face imploded into rage, then. He let out a bellowing roar and raised both his arms as Skye braced herself for the strike.
A gunshot rang out across the clear morning sky, prompting the passengers to duck down. Only Skye remained standing.
Never turn away from an opponent as they're dying, her father once taught her. It is the utmost disrespect.
Ogred's body slumped onto the deck, the bullet still lodged in his thick skull. Blood spurted everywhere, including on Skye's face. When the giant finally hit the floor, the entire ship trembled at the immense mass.
"No fighting onboard my ship," said Captain Bucklewort, the tip of his dragoon pistol still smouldering. "Save it for the Festival."
He stowed the pistol into his belt and turned away, adding, "Get the hell off my main deck and start packing. We make land by nightfall."
The crowd began to disperse, leaving Skye, Wynn and Tang alone with Ogred's corpse.
Wynn squeezed Skye's arm. "You didn't have to do that for me."
Skye shook her head. "No, I had to. And now I have to do this."
She pulled away from Wynn and knelt beside Ogred's body. It smelled of ash and cheap alcohol, mired with human waste. Then, with words her father once taught her, she began to pray.