The storm is estimated to span more than two hundred miles from east to west. Although it does not push inland and the northern coasts are free, there is little sunlight anywhere on the island now. The light is feeble and choked by perpetual cloud cover. There are concerning reports of famine in the chiefdoms of Dail and Lairi. – Scribe Luka’s Report to High Chieftain Aile, year 438.
###
Odrin’s great longhouse contained rooms, but Amon knew exactly where he’d find the wounded messenger. It was practically the only room Odrin occupied these days.
He moved quickly along the hallway, keeping his head down as he passed other thralls going about their daily tasks. A strange thrill pulsed through him, an excitement he hadn’t known for a long time. It was the thrill of taking part in something important.
He wondered how the other thralls would react when he came bearing such significant news, whatever it was. They would look at him differently, they would –
“Amon,” Lucia hissed in his ear.
He flinched. He’d been so focused that he hadn’t noticed her approach from behind. That was unusual. He had almost a sixth sense for her. It was impossible for her to be near him without him being keenly aware of it, or so he’d thought. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer, instead grabbing him by the arm and yanking him into a nearby guest room, smelling of damp and musk.
His annoyance flared up. He really couldn’t afford this right now. He would miss whatever the messenger had to say if he didn’t move quickly. “What is it? I’m busy, Lucia. I need to go. Really.”
Lucia crossed her arms, fire behind her eyes.
How was it that she looked so good, even when she was angry? Especially when she was angry.
She gave him a shove, enough to send him back half a step.
Finding himself alone in a private bedroom with Lucia was a rare occurrence, one he lamented to abandon even, but now was not the time. “I don’t know what you’re pissed about, but I don’t have time for this. I need to go.”
He tried to move past her, but she put herself between him and the door. “Where are you going?” Her Cassadan accent gave her words the same sing-song quality as Vestro, although this song was far sweeter to his ears.
“Vestro needs my help,” he said and tried to sidestep her, but she moved again to block him.
“Vestro works alone. He never asks for help. He only delegates tasks he deems beneath him. Your words.”
Precious time was passing. With the state that rider had been in, they would take her to Odrin right away. “Well, this time he did!”
Lucia scoffed and narrowed her eyes at him. “I know you, Amon. I know that look in your eyes and I know you’re planning something. I was barely able to save your ass last time because you kept me in the dark, so this time I’m coming with you.”
She was referring, of course, to the events of the last Moon Festival, when Slaine had caught him among the crowd. He’d snuck into the feasting hall to listen to one of the traveling Druids, face painted half white and half black, recite the legend of Dunlei the Mad. Amon shouldn’t have been there, of course, but even thralls were allowed a ration of mead during the Moon Festival. It had given him just enough courage to go where only his superiors belonged. He’d only wanted a taste of what they had, to remind himself what it was like. A bold enough move that no one had noticed or questioned him until a drunken Slaine stumbled into him.
The bruises still hadn’t gone away entirely.
Enough of this.
As non-violently as Amon could manage, he forced his way past her, letting his height and weight do the work.
Lucia wasn’t going away, though. She followed behind like a banshee. “Someone has to stop you from doing stupid things, Amon.”
Now true anger arose in him. Didn’t she understand? No, of course she couldn’t. How could she possibly know? He needed this. He was so tired of feeling impotent, lower than dirt. “Get away from me,” he said, spinning so quickly she nearly ran into him. “If you get caught, they could drown you.”
“Same for you. Which is why I’m coming with you. Remember you’re not just risking your life this time. You’re gambling with both of ours.”
Amon bit into his lip and tasted a trace of salty blood. There was no way to be rid of her and no more to argue. So be it. “Keep quiet and follow me. If anyone asks, I’m helping you get furniture from the loft.”
“What furniture?”
“I don’t know, so you better think of a better excuse.”
They moved quickly and quietly. She followed closely. Thankfully most of the thralls had already ended their tasks for the day, already heading back to the thrall village on the outskirts of Beckhead. Only a handful would have stayed behind to help for the evening so they ran into no one as they moved.
They climbed the ladder into the southern loft, where in the farthest, dustiest corner one could peer and hear through a small gap into Odrin’s antechamber.
It was stiflingly hot in the loft, made hotter still by Amon’s annoyance and their proximity. She put a hand on his arm, as if to reassure herself. Her breath was coming like a soft whisper. She gave him the slightest hint of a smile, squeezed his arm before withdrawing her hand.
He was scared, too, but for a moment it didn’t matter.
Only a moment, though. They could be killed for what they were doing. He didn’t mind himself, but he hated that she’d inserted herself in the middle of this.
Below, in the antechamber to Odrin’s sleeping quarters, two thralls brought in the rider.
They squeezed themselves close together to peer through the small gap.
###
The storm is over.
The news rang strangely to Slaine, like nonsense words that sounded real yet signified nothing. He wasn’t sure he’d heard them correctly at first, but that phrase had echoed across too many lips by now for him to have misheard. The rider had uttered them and it was already racing and rippling.
For a few moments he stood at the edge of the yard, watching the two thralls help the rider off the ground and into the longhouse. A light, giddy feeling started to wash over him. He suspected most people felt such excitement regularly, but for him it was a rare delight. Mostly he didn’t feel much of anything, but now he felt like a gleeful child as the news became more real.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
But was it true? How could it be so? The sky above still held its iron shade.
The rider had nearly died carrying those words across the Jall Mountains. Her masters wouldn’t have sent her to spread a pointless lie. On this side of Illia one couldn’t see the storm directly, but she would have confirmed it with her own eyes if she truly had come from Karrakdun. She would have no reason to lie, no reason to nearly perish in the attempt if it were false.
The storm is over.
If it was true, the gates to Cassada lay open once again. The land of untold fortunes. A chance to earn a place among the Illia’s most vaunted, fodder for the kind of stories the druids told at moon festivals and in the halls of the great chieftains.
The light, giddy feeling grew stronger, spreading a smile across his face. He felt weightless as he drained more of the wine, sweeter than he ever remembered it tasting.
If the seas were open and sailable, the dragon ships would soon take to the waves. He’d be at the prow of one, commanding at least a half dozen others, two hundred loach warriors at his back.
It was time for the sea wolves to hunt again.
Kessen took the wine skin back. “They’ll take her before Odrin now. The old basted will want to hear it from her.”
That soured his rising excitement, as if he had been gifted a sack of gold only to find himself in a den of thieves. It was rare that Kessen added anything of value when it came to analyzing a situation. His skills lay more in a capacity for unsavory tasks and a hound-like loyalty.
Still, he was right. Odrin would of course see the girl right away. Slaine needed to be there, too. He wouldn’t let Odrin cut him out of this, like he tried to do with all other matters of management.
He left Kessen and stepped into the longhouse.
Roda, the head of Odrin’s loachs, stood just outside his antechamber doors. The greybeard was nearly as old as Odrin himself, though he could still bear a shield and swing a blade, at least. The man never flinched and his gaze never seemed to stray. Today was no exception. They said he’d rowed all the way down the Galo River with Aod’s war party to the heart of Cassada, had been there for the sacking of Bresca. What a glorious day that slaughter must have been.
He didn’t flinch, yet he did tense as Slaine approached.
Slaine gave an exaggerated sigh. He was growing tired of the childish games they played around here in Beckhead. He would transform it soon enough. He made a shooing motion at Roda and walked straight ahead as if he expected the old warrior to slink away.
But of course Roda didn’t. His expression showed only the barest hint of the contempt that lay within. His hand didn’t quite go to the short sword at his side, but it hovered not far away. “Not today, Slaine.”
Slaine kept walking, putting himself at an unconformably close distance. Too close to pull a sword free, but room enough for the dagger at his side. He kept his voice low but cheerful. “How many days do you think Chief Odrin has left? When the waves take him I will be Chieftain and where do you think that will leave you?”
Roda gave a hint of a smile. “Odrin doesn’t want you here. And since you’ve taken such an interest in my wellbeing, I imagine I’ll have no shortage of options, if what the messenger says is true. I’ve led men in battle. Quite a valuable bit of experience seeing as you Storm-born have never seen a proper war before.”
Slaine forced a smile of his own. “I wouldn’t be so sure anyone will take you. I have a special interest in you. If you oppose me, I can make sure you never leave these shores. Besides, if you don’t step aside, I’ll get very loud and Odrin will let me in anyway.”
Roda’s unflinching eyes narrowed slightly, appraising Slaine. There was no fear there, but the man was calculating. He knew Slaine was right. It was pointless to stand in his way. In the end, Slaine would pass through that door no matter what Roda did, and so he stepped aside in the end, just as he had last time.
“Good man,” Slaine said, one hand reaching out for the door.
Roda’s own hand shot out, though, seizing his wrist with strength that should have been a memory to such an old man. “He’s not dead yet,” he said. “He’s still our Chieftain. I wouldn’t count on him dying so easy.”
Slaine shrugged him off and pushed through the door.
Odrin’s gaunt, haggard face raised at Slaine’s entry. The silver torc around his throat, the mark of the chieftain, caught the light and gleamed for only a moment.
Odrin sat in a massive polished oak chair at the far end of the room, half buried amid a pile of blankets and pillows. The finest Cassadan silks and cloths adorned the room – spoils of war now growing tattered with the passing of years like the old man himself, their blues and reds fading. The Chieftain hardly left the chair these days, except to return to bed and rarely to speak to his loachs or address his people in the great feasting hall, but today he looked more hale than usual.
“Ah, my son,” Odrin said and waved him over, as he’d been summoned.
Slaine bit his tongue hard. He didn’t like when Odrin called him son. He was son by way of marriage to Odrin’s daughter, but the old man meant it as an insult. He kept his tone warm and jovial, but that only made it worse. He thought Slaine an imbecile, too stupid to realize he was being insulted right to his own face. Any other man, and Slaine would have split his skull.
Before him, the woman rider had been placed on a cot. She was Cassadan, naturally. When she’d first appeared in the yard, she hadn’t seen her injuries but now he did. A shard of a creach spear protruded from just above her hip, splintered and snapped off close to the wound. So she was a dead woman, though she might breathe and speak a while longer. Strands of dark, tangled hair hung in her face. She didn’t bother trying to look in his direction.
He almost didn’t notice the scribe, Vestro, who seemed to be diligently noting Slaine’s entrance.
Slaine gave his most patronizing smile. “Chieftain Odrin, I’ve already heard. The storm is over. Chief Aile must have summoned our loachs and ships. I’m sure that’s what the messenger already told you. I’ll begin mustering our warriors at once and we can begin the journey to Karrakdun in three days or less. I’ve decided not to bring Maona with me on the journey. It’s too risky and it’s been too long since we came to Cassada. We don’t know what awaits us there.”
For a long moment, Odrin sat there and appraised Slaine. “You’re right. The storm has ended. Aile has called the Chieftains to join his war party.”
Slaine couldn’t suppress his smile. So it really was all true. He would have his glory.
“But,” Odrin went on, “You will remain here to oversee the chiefdom. If you are to replace me one day, you must be tested. You must learn how to run a household, let alone a chiefdom. I’ll be sailing with my loachs as soon as is feasible.”
Slaine’s rage flared up so violently and so suddenly that he found himself halfway across the room before he realized what he was doing. The dagger at his belt burned so brightly in his mind it seemed to screamed at him to pull it free. But that would be idiocy. Even through the rage he could see that. They’d kill him if he laid a finger on Odrin. He would lose it all before he ever had it. “What is the meaning of this? You can’t leave me here. That’s impossible. I will not be deprived of this. I’m going to Cassada. If you’re insane enough to go yourself, then I’ll be your second in command.”
“There are more creaches than ever at our borders. Just two days past, a family at the outskirts of Beckhead was slain. Not only that, but news of the storm will be spreading among the thralls by sundown if it isn’t already. We may be dealing with another thrall revolt before the next moon. With most of our forces gone, it will be their best opportunity in years. Staying behind is not an insult. We need strength here, too.”
Slaine’s heart thudded heavily, as if it were poisoned. Odrin may have been right about – strength would be needed here at home – but even old Roda could handle such problems. There was no glory staying here, and certainly no riches. “I will not stay. Maona is every bit as capable of leading here. You raised her well enough for that. If not her, Roda.”
Odrin scoffed. “You and I both know Maona is no shield maiden. Smart and cunning, yes, but she’s not suitable to lead here on her own.” His gaze flicked back to the woman, who had been patiently dying while they talked. “Tell him about Chief Aile’s warning.”
The messenger stirred, tried to pull herself up but seemed to give up part way through. “Chief Aile warned that this may be a trap – a way to get our ships out on the sea only to smash and drown them. The mages of Cassada may have ended the storm to lure all our forces to sea. Chief Aile has ordered a third of our forces be held here in reserve.”
“I’d rather drown than stay behind.”
“Then toss yourself to the sea,” Odrin said. “If you disobey me in this, you will forfeit your inheritance.”
Slaine bit his tongue hard again, this time the copper taste of blood coming. The pain centered him, let him hold back all the rageful things he wanted to hurl at the man. He watched Odrin closely, met his gaze. He was strong today. Slaine could see that nothing he said today would make a difference. Another day, when the man was fatigued, he might be able to wear him down.
But would there be time for that? They would be sailing in a few days’ time. Was Odrin insane enough to really think he could cross the Scarlet Seas in his condition?
It didn’t matter. Slaine would sail to Cassada with the rest of the party. He would inherit Odrin’s chiefdom as well, regardless of what he’d said. He would have all that and more, and that was only the start. His appetite was far larger than that.
No words could help him, though. Not now. Action would be needed, not words.
“As you wish, Chieftain Odrin,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Come and speak to me in the morning,” Odrin said over his shoulder.
Slaine didn’t turn but kept walking instead. A vague planning was already forming, growing more real with each step.