I stand at the water’s edge, salty sea breeze on my face and the call of gulls overhead. Sul has become a busy place since Vezitar’s declaration of war. The White River clan arrived two nights after the feast, their Chief Torgul agreeing with Rend and Braniel’s plan to attack Isren. Now all three clans dot the island, training drums and the clack of wooden weapons forever on the wind. I’ve been busy myself, training a group of boys a summer or two my juniors. Typically boys that young wouldn’t join a fight like this, but Uncle says we will need all hands for what’s to come.

“You’re a right bastard,” Briar says, his cheeks red and his breathing ragged. “Making us run like this. It’s inhuman.”

“Stamina is one of the only things we can improve in the short time we have,” I say, smiling at seeing him so flustered. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have skipped out on so many morning runs back home.”

Briar glowers at me but says no more. Behind him the other boys appear down the beach. Talia is among them barking encouragement as they struggle their way down the dense sand. I almost feel bad that I’m about to order them to run the whole way back to the village. But I’ve tasted battle now and I know just how tiring it can be.

I adjust the collar of my fur cloak, a sense of pride warming my chest. Uncle gifted it to me after things calmed down, said it belonged to my father when he was my age. I am a warrior. Saying it no longer feels hollow. I’ve killed four men now, two in duels. And there will be more killing on the horizon, but I no longer fear it. I look forward to storming Isren, to wetting my blade on the throat of our enemies.

“Look at you standing there all self-important,” Brair says, his breathing returned to normal. “He wins one real duel and all of sudden he prances about like some southern lord.”

Heat flares in my chest, but I snuff it out. “I’ve earned what I have, Briar. I’m sorry if that troubles you.”

“Earned it by being your daddy’s son? Nephew to the chief?” He spits. “Doesn’t sound like you earned shit to me.”

I turn on him with such intensity he takes a step back, his heel catching a rock. He falls hard onto the sand, the air leaving him. “I’m no longer a boy, Briar. I will take no other insults from you.” I think about drawing my sword, about teaching the fool one final lesson. But I stay my hand. He’s been like this since we were children. Perhaps when he sees real combat he’ll change. I offer my hand to him, but he swats it away.

“I’m done training with you,” he says, rising to his feet. “I tried tolerating you for Swordfather’s sake, but you’ve become insufferable.” He glances at Talia and the others who are a dozen or so paces away. “Have fun with your new woman.” And he marches off.

“You finally scare him away?” Talia asks, her blonde hair waving in the sea breeze.

“Not quite.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Part of me hopes he doesn’t return from Isren.” I look at Talia, her Hazel eyes meeting mine. “Does that make me cruel?”

She leans to the side and watches Briar sink into the forest. “Maybe, but I can’t help but agree with you.” She smiles. “He’s probably still mad he can’t match up the mighty son of Bracken the Ham.”

“Hammer,” I say, correcting her for the tenth time. She just giggles and steps into the surf, letting the frothy water wash over her feet. Watching her, I feel a familiar nipping in my gut. No one has directly approached me about it, but they all know I chose the easier option for the duel during the feast. The older Silver Serpent is still alive, being held for reasons no one has bothered to reveal to me. But each time I see Talia, I expect her to bring up the duel, but she’s been merciful so far.

“Please tell me there’s not to be more of this damned runnin’ about,” a small but familiar voice says.

“Jarell,” I say turning on my heel, sand scraping beneath my boot. “I’m afraid there is.”

Jarell falls to his knees, his red hair sweat dampened and flattened to his forehead. “Please ya got to understan’, these legs were made for standin’ in the thick of it not,” he gestures at the other boys, some of whom are vomiting. “Whatever the hells this is.”

“Well, you need stamina to reach the battle quickly and stay there,” I say, kneeling down and helping him up. He’s one of the few boys from Sul who will be joining the war. He’s also one of the youngest, just recently reaching his thirteenth summer. The others have treated him as something of an outcast so far. While Sul has produced good fighters, Uncle tells me none yet have been worthy of the Great Wolf’s gift. Jarell, despite his small stature and lack of training, has proclaimed he will be the first.

“Ugh, this heat,” Jarell kneels in the waves, his arms thrown out wide. “Take me oh great mother of the sea.”

I stifle a laugh, Talia doing the same. “C’mon, on your feet.”

The boy rises slowly, the others gathering closer. I’m about to give them their next orders when I spot Einer coming from the forest. “Einer!” I wave at the senior warrior, the dark rings around his eyes worse than they were yesterday. “What are you doing all the way out here?” Sul island isn’t big, you could run all the way around it in less than a day. But seeing him out here is still a bit of a shock.

“Wanted to talk, if you have the time.”

“None of us got time what with this one giving us the runaround,” Jarell says, leaning on his knees.

“Talia, do you mind handling things for me?” I ask.

She puffs out her cheeks. “So long as you owe me one.”

I nod and give her a light push on the arm. “Just don’t train them too hard. They’ve got sparring in the morning.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She turns and points back down the beach. “On your feet. We’re running back to Sul and I don’t want to hear one complaint.” The boys look at each other with pale, horrified faces. “I said run!” And they’re off, Talia right behind them, Jarell already moaning about seeing the farworld.

After a few quiet moments, Einer settles down on a nearby rock. His dark hair blows across his face, settling here and there on old scars. “I wanted to talk about the war.” He rubs his hands together, his eyes downcast.

“What about it?”

He looks out over the waves, the tide lapping against the silence. “There will be no turning back from this.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” he says. “Do you truly?”

“Is this about all that business with The Fall?” I settle on the rock beside him, elbows resting on my knees.

“What if it is?” He laughs, empty and hollow. “Even if their God isn’t real, it doesn’t matter. Arthan, Pendrath, and even Bladoria believe in the legends. They will join with Zandalor and take Hafthan.”

“They’ll never,” I say, hand reflexively falling to the sword at my hip.

He shakes his head. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it us who will slaughter them.”

I stare at him for a long while. He was such a proud warrior once, brave and true. Now he looks like a frightened dog, waiting for the back of his master’s hand. “Why did that Vezitar frighten you so?”

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“Did I ever tell you about my time as a mercenary?” Einer grins, the expression flat.

I nod, wondering where this is going. “That is when you learned the sword styles of the south.”

“I did much more than that.” Einer leans down and reaches his hand toward the waves. There’s a strange pull in the air, like the wind has suddenly changed direction. Then the waves before me recede, flowing away from us. “And I was not always just a simple mercenary.” His face drips with sweat despite the breeze. “I was an apprentice once, to an old and very eccentric man.” He retracts his palm, orbs of water flowing around his fingers. “He taught me how to use this gift, and with it we killed one of the Apostles.”

I remember Vezitar, the way he choked me without moving. The terror I felt then still speaks to me in the night. “Who are the Apostles?”

“Agents of an old order, scions of a lost god. Really depends on who you ask.” The orbs of water splash into the sand, Einer’s face suddenly pale. “They are old. Very, very old. And near immortal.” His eyes grow distant, his mouth drawn into a hard line. “Thirty of us entered that storehouse, and only six walked out.” He shivers as if taken by a great chill. “We had to cut him up and burn the pieces. It was then that I left and took up mercenary work. But master’s teachings about The Fall stayed with me. Make no mistake Kaster, Gods or no, The Fall is real. A tide of war and blood has come, and I don’t wish to see you drown in it.”

“I won’t,” I say straightening my back. “No Bladorian warrior or Zandalorian wizard is going to cut me down. I won’t let them.”

Einer smiles then, true warmth in it. “I must be getting old,” he says rising to his feet. “I never used to worry so much.”

“Well stop it,” I say giving him a stiff smack between the shoulders. “We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Worry more about where you’ll put your spoils of war.” I give his shoulder a tight squeeze, the kind he used to give me when I was faltering.

His body relaxes, the tension on his face melting. “Thank you, Kasten. I fear my run in with Vezitar opened old wounds.” He grabs my arm in the warrior’s grip. “But I would ask you to keep what you saw and heard here today between the two of us. I’m not proud of my past, and I would like to leave it buried wherever possible.”

“I won’t tell a soul.” Well, maybe Bear-sister Ryka. But I’ve got a feeling she must already know. “But I might call on you if I ever get thirsty.”

Einer laughs. “It doesn’t work like that. Besides, both my master and I did our bodies great harm when we fought the Apostle. My aspirations of adding magic to my swordplay ended then. Feats of sorcery are sadly beyond me.” He gives me a playful shove. “Now, why don’t we head back to Sul and get a few rounds in, eh? That should lift my spirit.”

“And I’ll be winning this time,” I say, setting off down the beach. “Today’s the day I finally beat you.”

*

The wooden practice blade tumbles from my hand and hits the dirt with a pathetic pat.

“And that’s four strikes to Einer!” Chief Braniel says, leg of mutton sticking out of his mouth.

“Fine then, you win,” I say shaking out my throbbing wrist.

“You’ve gotten better,” Einer wipes down his face with a length of dark cloth. “Battle has improved your reflexes.”

Apparently not enough. I snatch up my practice sword and walk from the grass ringed practice circle. Briar snickers as I pass and I want nothing more than to introduce his nose to my boot.

“Should we really be watching such distractions this close to our attack?” Chief Torgul says with a faint wave of his hand. He sits beside Uncle Braniel and Chief Rend along the sparring circle’s edge. Sitting between the two men, Chief Torgul looks even smaller than he does up close. He’s short with a balding head covered in whisps of white hair, his beard tied and looped with silver rings. A blue tattoo takes up the left side of his face, his eye white and parted down the middle by a thick scar. I used to be scared of him when I was a little, always feeling like that dead eye was watching me. But I would be lying if I said something about him didn’t still unnerve me.

“Gah, learn to live a little you old goat,” Uncle Braniel says between gulps of wine. “When was the last time we had such fine young warriors gathered together like this.”

“Being gathered doesn’t mean we must watch them sweat away at each other.” Torgul’s good eye looks to one of his young clansmen. “Thanen, I believe it is your turn in the circle.”

“Do I have to?” The big lad asks. He’s only a little older than me but he’s nearly as big as Chief rend. I wouldn’t want to be his opponent.

“Apparently. Now put down your food and get in there.”

“My Talia will take him on,” Chief Rend says leaning back, his oak chair groaning.

I glance at Talia, but the girl doesn’t look shaken in the slightest. If only I had your confidence. I’m about to find a nice spot to watch from when Bear-sister Ryka grabs my elbow. “Kasten, I need you for a moment.”

“It can’t wait?” Talia takes to the circle, Thanen looking a giant across from her.

“It’s Sarl, he’s awake.”

“That’s great news,” I say, reluctantly tearing my eyes from Talia. “I’ll let the chief now.” But her grip on my arm remains.

“He’s asking for you.”

“For me?” Sarl is a member of my clan, but we’ve never been particularly close. The man spends more time on Sul than he does back in the village. “What could he want with me?”

“I’m not sure. His fever hasn’t completely broken but the first thing he did after waking was ask for you.”

No one thought Sarl would make it a single night after he collapsed the day we arrived in Sul. But he’d pushed through, waking in fits here and there. But he’d never been alert enough to ask for someone specifically.

“Fine, I’ll go.”

“That’s one for Thanen!” Chief Braniel calls, nudging a slightly less sour Torgul with his elbow.

Fighting my urge to turn around, I follow Ryka into the maze of tents that leads back to the village.

*

Sarl’s room is dimly lit, a single candle in the corner fighting a losing battle to the oppressive darkness. There’s a shuttered window beside the bed, but the waning afternoon light does little to lighten the room. The air tastes of salt and smells of decay. Sarl himself sits withered in his bed, pillows piled up around him. His flesh is waxen and hangs from his bones, his eyes two sunken dots of blackness. He smiles when he sees me, his lips thin and purple.

“Kasten,” he rasps.

“I’ll wait outside,” Ryka says. “Call if you need me.” And then I’m alone.

“You asked for me.”

“Yes, I thought it important that we should speak.” He coughs violently, his hand drawing away from his mouth slick with blood. “Sister Ryka tells me I’m lucky to be alive. That not even she knows what foul ailment took me.” He laughs, the sound grating and harsh, like his chest is full of rocks. “Tell me Kasten, do you believe in luck?”

“Can’t say I’ve thought much about it.”

“The youth rarely do,” he leans back. “I never did, not until my Norn went down in your father’s boat.”

There’s something in his voice that sets me on edge. “It was a great tragedy.”

“Was it?” Sarl laughs again, his body taken by a coughing fit right after. Once it’s over, he wipes the blood from his lips and continues. “Hafthan ships are study things. Made from blessed Ironwood, there is very little that can fell them. But there is one thing that can. Do you know what that is?”

I shake my head.

“Treachery.”

A cold pit forms in my gut. “What are you saying?”

“Your Uncle is not who you think he is.” Sarl sinks further into his bed, his voice growing weaker. “Your father was about to surpass him and become chief, and not only that.” With great effort he pushes himself upright. “He had eyes for my Norn, wanted her for himself. That’s why he brought the boat down. Sabotaged the vessel before it left the coast.”

“You’re lying.” He has to be. Uncle Braniel would never stoop so low.

“Am I?” He falls back, his breath wheezing. “And now Braniel drags us into a pointless war, all because of his stupid pride.”

“Zandalor forced us into this. They are the ones who declared war, pulling the southern realms with them.”

“How little you know, Kasten.” He locks eyes with me. “Tell me, why have we been burning villages, hmm? Why not just sack them like we’ve always done. No, you know something more rocks the tide. And I won’t let Braniel and his deals sink Hafthan with him. He must be dealt with.”

“Are you threatening the chief?” I rest my hand on the pommel of my sword, heart racing, sweat forming on my brow.

“Not a threat, but an observation.” Sarl relaxes, his eyes drifting to the shuttered window by his bed. “This attack will fail, Kasten. Isren is too big for just three clans to siege. I say this out of respect for the great man your father was. Leave. Go home to Hafthan. This war will only see you and the rest of us ruined.”

I take a step forward, each word precise. “I am a warrior, Sarl. And warriors must fight.”

“Foolish boy, you will regret this.”

I turn and head for the door. “If you threaten the chief again, I’ll kill you myself.”

He snorts. “Sounds like a fine deal.”

I linger for a moment before I march down the hall, my head and heart shrouded by doubts and questions.