Vezitar stands with his arms behind his back, a patient smile on his face. The Hafthan warriors around him don’t look nearly as pleased. They sneer and hurl questions, but all seem to fall silent at the newcomer’s feet. I’m still too stunned by his sudden appearance to move. As I watch him slowly approach, the cut on my cheek and arm pinch, the wounds burning hot. Wincing at the pain, I look down and realize my boot is still on the dead boy’s chest. I remove it, blood seeping from my deathblow. But it’s strange. Looking down it him I feel…nothing. No sadness like with Alden, but also no sense of triumph. Whatever rush possessed me only moments ago has fled, leaving me empty and yearning for a warm bed.

“Declaration of war?” Chief Braniel repeats. “A declaration from who?”

Vezitar stops a few paces from me, his eyes a bright shade of green. “God.”

I back away from the strange visitor, my sore legs dragging across the bloodstained floor. His face is still calm, serene even, but his smile has vanished.

“And which God would that be?” Chief Braniel asks.

“The one true God.” Vezitar unfurls his hands and produces a sealed scroll from his long, purple sleeve. “The high priestess of Zandalor has declared your people heretics.” He turns, looking the men that surround him in the eye one by one. “Your barbaric raids have gone unpunished for too long. My fair lady has requested the southern nations of Bladoria, Arthan, and Pendrath to aid us in your extermination.”

The three nations he speaks of I recognize, the Hafthan have raided them for generations. But Zandalor? I know very little about it. The Arthans worship their God, but I don’t know why the other southern nations would listen to them. But the older warriors have all gone pale. Even Uncle Braniel and Chief Rend have waxen faces, sweat beading on their brows.

“And have any accepted the high priestess’ call to war?”

“Pendrath has bluntly refused, and Arthan bickers with itself. But I’m sure King Alun can sway his people. Our temples are quite popular in Arthan.”

Braniel adjusts the color of his tunic, his other hand scratching at his beard. “What of Bladoria?”

Vezitar’s smile returns. “They have accepted. Though I believe they were already readying themselves for war.”

“The cowards would never!” Chief Rend’s face is puffed up and red, his fists clenched. “War? With us?”

“Count Tanner already has made moves against us. I hoped it was he alone who plotted, but it looks like the rats have finally found their courage.” Braniel stands tall, his shoulders proud. “But why do they send you and not one of their own?”

“Would a Bladorian vessel be safe in these waters?” Vezitar motions at the gathered warriors. “Would they be able to contain their bloodlust if a Bladorian was here in my stead? No, I think not.”

“And you think you’re safe? Coming in here, ruining my Talia’s naming. You—” Chief Rend starts forward, but then he stumbles, his hands clawing at his throat. His eyes bulge as the air around him starts to ripple.

“Make no mistake. If my lady willed it, I would have come with an army and ended your entire clan myself.” Chief Rend coughs, then falls to his knees. “But she and God are merciful.” The air around Rend returns to normal, and the big man flops to his side with desperate breaths. “Surrender the island of Sul to Bladoria and the island of Panros to Arthan. Do this, and we will take back our calls for extermination.”

“You think you can just walk in here and make demands?” The words come out before I can leash them. “Attack one of our Chiefs with some kind of sorcery?” The younger warriors in the crowd nod in agreement, Talia included, her axe slipping from her belt. “What gives you the right?”

“God gives me the right, boy.” An invisible hand clamps around my throat. “For generations your kind have lived in the muck, raiding each time the frost melts. But the world has moved on without you.” I fall to my knees, hands digging at my throat, clawing for air. “I arrive on this island and the first thing I see is one child standing atop the corpse of another.” The world blurs, the edges of my vison blackening. “Your people’s deaths can’t come swiftly enough.”

“Enough.” The pressure on my throat disappears and I suck in air, each breath swallowed like a stone. “Leave now and do not return.” Einer stands behind Vezitar, his great sword held out in front of him. But something is different about it. The light around it swirls, steam rising from the blade as it turns scarlet.

“Ash-Maker,” Vezitar turns slowly. “To think she would end up here, in a filthy place like this.”

Einer’s grip on the weapon tightens. “I know what you are, Apostle.”

Vezitar recoils at the word, all softness on his face gone. “And you still think you can order me?”

“I can just kill you if you prefer.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Vezitar laughs, the sound seeming to seep from the walls of the longhouse. “If you know what I am, then you know that blade can’t kill me. Nothing can.”

“Perhaps,” Ash-Maker ignites, multicolored flame erupting from the blade. “But I’m up for trying.”

Vezitar watches the blade intently. “You are braver than your fellows.” No one else, not even Chief Braniel, dares move. The whole room is frozen, all eyes on Einer. “It’s a shame you’ve chosen the wrong side.” Vezitar turns on his heels and bows at the two stunned Chiefs. “I bid you farewell.” He strides toward the longhouse doors, warriors parting as he passes. When he reaches the entrance, he turns, his face soft and his smile warm. “May God have mercy on your wretched souls, for we will not.”

***

I sit with Chief Rend in the dim longhouse, Talia and Einer across from me. Chief Braniel paces nearby, several Wolf-brothers of the Sea Claws and Yellow Tusks by his side.

“What will we do?” Einer asks. “An open war with Bladoria is trouble enough, but if Pendrath joins, or Arthan…”

“Then we will be forced on the defensive,” Chief Rend finishes. “We must consult the other great clans. A moot is in order.”

“A moot would be too late.” Braniel stops pacing, his eyes wild. “The White River clan should be done with their first raid soon. They’ll be stopping here to resupply. If our three clans combine our warriors, we can strike first.”

“And what would that accomplish?” Einer asks. “No, we should pull back to the islands. Arthan ships are one thing, but the Bladorians can’t hope to match us in the water. If we can catch their ships before they—”

Braniel’s fist crunches into the table. “I am chief, not you.” There’s an edge to his voice I’ve never heard before. “To gather all the clans at this time of year would be impossible. We will send messengers to them, but I will not call them back to Hearthhome. Not when the Bladorian’s could be making ready to attack Sul. I will defend this place.”

“Then what are we going to do?” I ask, scratching at the fresh bandage on my arm. “Three clans won’t be enough to crush Bladoria, even I know as much.”

“He’s right,” Talia adds. “But we can’t let them gather strength.”

“I propose we strike Isren, like we originally planned,” Chief Rend looks each of us in the eye. “The port there connects with the Hylek River. Removing it could halve their ability to mobilize. And let us not forget the Silver Serpents. If they still sail for Isren, raising the city might send a message to the vermin, one that says we’re not to be trifled with.”

“But what if Pendrath or Arthan attack while we’re away?” I ask.

“Pendrath is still a land of many Gods. The true God of Zandalor holds little sway there. But Arthan is another matter,” Braniel scratches at his beard, red welts on his neck. “Temples to the prophet dot Arthan, and the people will be easily whipped into a holy war. And their knightly orders are not to be trifled with. There’s a reason we restrict raids on Arthan’s coast.”

“But their odds of attacking that quickly are low. Arthan is ruled just as much by the merchants as it is by the temples,” Rend says. “And war is costly. Even if they join Bladoria, it will be many moons before they gather for an attack.”

“Will Zandalor be sending troops?” I rub my neck, the flesh still sore to the touch. "And that man, Vezitar, are there others like him?" The power he wielded was terrifying. Even now I can feel my throat clamping, my hands grasping at nothing.

“They don’t fight in the open,” Einer says, eyes downcast. “Sorcery and shadow are their weapons. They hide behind the southern nations, sending their puppets at their enemies. No, they will send no troops. And the Apostles like Vezitar are few in number. They are powerful and nearly immortal, but I know they can be killed. Though they may come for us in the end.”

“But why attack us? What did we even do to them?” Einer shifts at my question, his hands tucked under the table and his shoulders slumped.

“The Fall,” he says. “It has come, and their God’s resurrection with it.”

“Superstitious nonsense,” Rend says, shaking his head. “The Fall is a myth.”

“The Fall?” Talia asks, glancing at me for answers I don’t have.

“An ancient legend.” Braniel leans onto the table, the old wood groaning. “Of a war in the heavens, one started by man’s own bloodlust. A war that ends with the world torn asunder, swallowed by a beast from beyond the stars.”

“Why do you think The Fall has started?” I ask Einer, a chill forming in my gut.

“Our raid on the Bladorian village several nights ago. I felt something standing in the ashes, a shift in the sky above.” Einer looks up to the vaulted ceiling, mouth growing slack. “The priests in Zandalor study the stars. They will know the time has come. That is why they call for war, to hasten their God’s rebirth. For there is a goblet above the world, one that fills with each drop of blood spilled. It’s been filling since man first began killing, but it’s full now. I think the night we burnt that village down finally sent it over the edge. Now the bloods got nothing to claim it, and so we all shall drown in the coming tide.”

“Einer…” Is this what he wanted to speak to me about?

“You’ve lost your mind,” Rend crosses his arms. “The Fall didn’t start because it’s not real. You know what’s real?” He clenches his fist. “Blood and steel, fire and bone. Braniel, how many of your warriors have supped from the Great Wolf’s veins?”

“A little over forty, though some are still coming to grips with the blessing. Why?”

“Twenty of my warriors have the gift, and the White River clan will have just as many.” He stands, his chair screeching across the stone. “Sixty Wolf-brothers and sisters, plus the glut of warriors at our disposal. With this, we can defeat any obstacle. Even this fake God of Zandalor.” He looks at Einer. “The only thing drowning in blood will be the Bladorian rats hiding in Isren. The city burns. Do we agree?”

Talia nods, and I follow suit. Einer is next, though he does so without enthusiasm. Finally, Chief Braniel gives his approval. “It’s settled then. Once the White River clan joins us, we will sail down the coast and set Isren ablaze.” His hand grips my shoulder. “I want the rest of you training in the meantime. This will be a bloody battle, and I will need all of you to be ready.”

I sink a little in my chair. More fire, more blood. I somehow thought I could escape it for a little longer. But we all must fight. I take a slow breath and let my shoulders relax. Tonight I rest, for tomorrow I ready for war.