There were probably slaves on the islands above the lake; just judging from the fact that the slaves were being led to and from these skiffs that climbed, and fell from the waterfalls. That is where I’ll start. I hop from branch to branch until I stop and perch on the tree closest to the lake. I hop off the branch and look toward the town. A watch tower stands guard over the glassy surface. I need to bring it down somehow, without alerting everyone. Or would I want to alert everyone? Draw their attention to that area? A plan begins to foment in my mind, as I sit in the branches and wait for night to encompass the land.

When it finally does, I hop down from the branches, and sprint across the clearing between the edge of the forest and the shadows that lined the walls as the ratman in the basket of the lookout tower above worked to light his brazier to give himself some light. This would be the perfect time. Once I press my body against the wooden posts of the palisades, I crawl along the shade until I’m directly underneath the tower. I shift out of Shadow’s form, pull the wand from my front pocket, and look around. Dried, browning shrubs poke out from the edges of the wall beneath the tower. Perfect. I pull out handfuls of them and place them in line with the brazier.

“I allow the blood of the salamanders to flow through me,” I whisper as quietly as I could. The sounds of the water lapping on the stony shores mask the incantation.

The ash catches the shards of dried shrubs, and a small fire breathes to life in the shadow of the lookout tower. To help it spread quicker, I cast Ember on the posts that hold the lookout tower up. Before it’s noticed, I slip into Shadow’s form and hide in some of the higher brush a couple dozen feet away against the wall.

Orange blares through the dark, and soon the otherwise quiet ambiance of the shoreline, and the chirping of night birds in the woods are interrupted by the panicked shouts of many voices hurrying towards the edge of the wall where the lookout tower burns like a pyre. And in the middle of the pandemonium, I scramble up the side of the wall and slip silently into the outpost.

From the wall, I land in between two tall buildings. They’re made of wood and dried; I suppose collected from the lake bed. I don’t take many opportunities to look around, however, as my target is already sitting at the loading bay at the end of the canal; an outgoing skiff, whose captain was currently part of a bucket brigade trying to quench the flames that were now spreading to the walls, and to the buildings just beyond. I sneak across the bit of clearing in between me and it, and hop into the skiff; making sure not to be spotted by any of the Efrans working frantically to quell the fire.

“Is that a cat?”

A child-like voice says as I land on the wooden deck of the boat. Inside of it; manning the oars, or cramped together near the bow of the ship, was a clustered group of ten humans. Three women, four men, and three children. Each had been shaved of all hair; from the top of their heads to the hair that probably grew on their body. They wore little more than rags; some more torn than others.

“How did it get here?”

One of the women, who was cradling close to the child says.

“Come here kitty. Tsk tsk tsk.” The child calls out as it bends down; groaning in pain as it does so.

I feel something approaching the boat from behind, so I shake free from my temporary shock, and the fear echoed in the faces of all of the people glancing toward me amplifies this feeling. I dart forward, squeeze in between the legs of some of the people gathered at the end of the boat, and press my body in the spaces between their calves and the side of the boat. One of the children reaches down and runs her hands against my coat.

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“Oh, it has a little backpack! It’s so cute.”

The callouses on her hand snags against the fur on my back. A child’s hand shouldn’t be this rough.

A large brute of a ratman climbs aboard the boat; a bullwhip curled in its clutches.

“Why’d they have to give me so many small Eartheans?” It mumbles to itself. It seems that the ‘apostles,’ spells were still in effect. Good. “Got to go up one last time before I check in for the night. Roki’s Spear; I’m exhausted.”

“What is it saying, mama?” One of the children above me asks.

The ratman snarls as he turns around. The bullwhip cracks through the air, and the child who asked the question yelps in pain. Red droplets fall to the deck of the boat and sink into the wood as the child whimpers. I grit my teeth. Bide my time.

“Annoying sounds they make. Ah. Why me? Got to get the others moving.”

Once more the bullwhip cracks. This time forming deep red marks over the backs of one of the men at the oar. That seems to be the sign they need to begin rowing, and all at once the long skiff begins to move. The fire was still burning strong; judging by the orange light bleeding into the deck of the skiff.

“Heading up?” One of the creatures at the edge of the canal who was part of the bucket brigade asked as we drifted toward the lake.

“Haven’t hit the quota yet.” Came the only reply from the ratman as we pull too far away from the one who asked.

The sky opens up as we pass through the mouth of the canal, and begin to move across the surface of the lake. Every inch we moved, the ratman cracked his whip over the back of a different oar-bearer. Each man seated on them bore a look of resigned to defeat and immeasurable pain. There was one; the first one that the ratman had cracked its whip against, that was the focus of most of the abuse. His clothes were now saturated with sweat and blood in equal measure, and it seems as if he were close to losing consciousness. Another crack of the whip fixes that disposition as he pulls the oar once more.

The abuse isn’t what drew my eyes, however. On his leg; barely exposed to the air through a tear in the hems of the ragged jeans he wore, there was a tattoo barely visible through the wrinkled folds of aged flesh. It was an outstretched daddy-long-legs with a smile on its face. Something that I had drawn as a child, and given to my father on a Father’s Day in the form of a card. He loved it so much, that he got it tattooed right above his ankle; this was all before he started drinking. And here it was, in the middle of this hell, staring back at me. On a figure so unlike him, that I could barely recognize him though he was a few feet away.

Each crack of the whip across his back drove me deeper and deeper into madness. I want to rush out and kill the ratman, but if I do that, I would no longer be able to get up to the islands and free whoever else was up there. I have to hold myself back. I have to.

The roaring of the cascades draws nearer and nearer with every crack of the whip across my father’s back. When the skiff comes to a stop, one of the children above me — the one who had been injured by the whip, presses their legs together to block me from the open sky. As we sit beneath the waterfall, no water rushes over the deck. I chance a glance out as we begin to rise, and notice that the wood of the deck had grown over to hold all of the occupants in place, and the ratman now holds a medallion in his hand. A shimmering bubble formed around the skiff as well, granting it a temporary weightlessness that allows us to float up the rushing waterfall.

Even though they no longer needed to row, the ratman still cracks his whip over and over and over. I bite my tongue with every crack and wait until the boat evens out again, and I no longer feel the pull of gravity trying to rip me off the deck, and once the skiff comes to a stop, I sprint out from my hiding space.

“Mister Kitty! No!”

The ratman turns with his whip again, raises it above his head, and cracks it forward. I shift into my own body, catch the whip with my hand and pull the ratman close. Now that the skiff was on one of the floating islands, I could let loose. With each heavy blow, I gave across the ratman’s face, the boat rocks. A dogman tries to interfere by nocking its bow and loosing an arrow at me. I barely feel the point of the arrow as it pierces my shoulder, and I turn to face the archer; fear painted on his face. I kill it with a quick cast of Earthen Spike through its body. I want to take my time with this rat, though. I grab hold of its snout and pull it off the boat. I don’t want to risk destroying it.

Once on land I, throw the creature down and lay into it again. Breaking past its pathetic defenses as blow after blow drives it into the soft, loamy ground.