Kiqat was the first to come to her, nearly falling at her feet, more skeleton than man. So close, Coan could hear the murmuring of his toothless mouth. She ran her fingers through her grandfather’s gray hair. I was in his arms for days when Mother was ripped apart by metal. She was a five-year-old girl then, and Kiqat . . . when did he get so old? She wanted to fall into his embrace again, to tell him how scared she was. For a moment, maybe she could reclaim those years she spent terrified of more ships coming to Vall. The children get to live as children, I was always the warlord. She wrapped her arms around her grandfather, “I will protect you, I promise,” but that was all she did.
Dark clouds drifted over the Second Sea, bringing a drab gray overcast upon the land. The shell, from some beast Coan had never seen herself, loomed over the people as they crowded around her. Two-hundred and seventy-six and then her, that was all that was left. All their faces, hidden behind masks, were they filled with fear? Coan trembled as she looked into their eyes. Mysk’s mask was painted with six, and she looked at them instead of where his real ones dwelled. If I say nothing, if I hesitate, the House will perish. Coan clutched her weapons and raised them high. Never had her sword and axe seemed so fragile. She was the warlord, but she had to be the Coan from legends past. So she let the first word out, her voice booming across the ashfield.
“My family!” For years she huddled against the wall of black stone in the temple, where no eyes could watch her. She learned to read on the old wooden blocks, which held the history of Coan. Terrified, she studied every word and recited every story. Knowledge was the remedy of fear, but every tale opened a new pitfall that she dived into. Before the Beastlands, Coan rallied his people around the sword. He called for conquest, fighting for Vall’s empire and eternal life. The old language, nearly lost so many times, told her what she needed to do. She would not be the last wood slab placed in the vault. “My family!” Never had she yelled so loud. Never had she needed to, never had she needed to rally her people. No, she should have long ago, when the little girl was pried from her dead mother’s arms. “My family, hear me now! There is an invader, one stronger than any witne-w-witnessed before. T-th-thunder and fire return to us. . .c-coming from across the Sea of Shrouds.” Her voice stuttered as she gave her speech, her hands trembled, and there was sweat running down her skin. She glanced at Gele, who had told him all he knew. Would it be enough, though? “Pirates, a new enemy unheard of in all our history. A small force, only one ship, but if we do not prepare, the land will burn again. My family, fishers and farmers, weavers and mask makers, and all the other names and roles which build the blood of our home. Please . . . be my soldiers . . . help me defend our home.” She puffed out her chest, filling her lungs with air. I need to be the Coan they want to see me as, not me.
“I will stand with my sister,” Mysk said. “The House, Vall itself, cannot heal if another blight infects our land. Another famine? Another sickness? What will follow? We cannot just endure. I will stand beside my sister!” He raised his fist, his slender fingers holding Coan’s wrist.
“The walls are with you!” Massamurr ran up to her, giddy and proud. With a spear of ashen wood in his hand, he joined Coan at her front. “The House will not fall. We will follow you, Coan, as our names did in every era before.”
“I stand with my brother and you, Coan.” Zassamurr came next, hesitating before joining the other gatekeeper. “But these pirates, what are they?”
My first followers are my scrawny brother and two children, and they will follow me to the death, the grim thought came as a fever. She paused, the words caught in her throat. Panicked, she called Gele to her side. Once they had left the temple, the ghost had disappeared as fast as she had emerged. But her warning, the Second Sea falling onto Vall . . .
Gele stood a head taller than Coan, and all the masks pivoted to him when he stepped forward. The scar on his chest was like a crack in stone. I spared his life, but for that, he is now my soldier, and he may die anyways. The dancer from Galu took a deep breath, he was nervous too. “The pirates carry thundersticks, which they call guns. That and steel, maybe. . .” He looked out among the crowd. “I know how they think, their strategy. If we hide amongst the grass and trees, the jungle can protect us from their arsenal.”
“Vall is so wounded, we cannot afford to lose a single person,” Mysk added. “Long ago, when Rem came, they flushed our soldiers out with fire. These are not the same invaders. The tactic could be used again.”
“We shall,” Coan decided. If they were cautious, not a single soldier would die. Two-hundred seventy-seven, a number too close to nothing. And she felt like a rock in a flooding river, a dam too small to block the coming rainfall.
“We have endured, as Mysk has said.” Mapsokas, the woodcutter, came forward with her axe. Leaves coated her hair, and matted locks fell down over her mask, whose design was eight small eyes and three smiling mouths. A foot and then some taller than Coan and with long slim arms, she copied the trees perfectly. “I will follow you. Those who can step up need to do it for those who cannot.”
Six more volunteered—a weaver, two healers, a forager, then a hunter and his farmer son. But as a young boy stood to follow, a short squat old woman held him back. “No, boy.” An elder beyond Kiqat’s age scowled at the growing army. A mask maker and storyteller, Mashur and her great-grandson Tiru shared harsh whispers before the boy fled and rejoined the crowd. Coan remembered when she was a faceless girl, and all the tales of past names came from the withered woman before her now. Skin sagged off her thin bones as she wobbled with each step. All she wore was paint, but she did not decorate her skin. Rather, it came from her work and only her work. No spot was left bare, even her mask and straw-like hair bathed in splashes of vibrant stains. Coan remembered hearing she was over a hundred years old, but Coan knew she was older. Mashur kept the bones of sea monsters that had fallen so long ago. They dangled around her neck, hollowed and clanking together as she walked. One made up the cane she used for balance. It tapped and tapped with each hurried step as Mashur marched right up in front of Coan.
“I forgot you had grown up, girl. How long has it been since you called the House your home? Must have been ages. And when you return, it’s because you want us for war,” Mashur’s words rattled from behind her mask, where all the features were erased by color. “Can you love Vall while hiding in its little grottoes? Maybe, but loners like you earn no love from me.” She tapped her cane against Coan’s sword. “I remember the poor child, built from sticks and covered in mud, who came here begging for food, and with the nuts in her mouth, she would run away back into the jungle. We had nothing then, and we have nothing now. To fight invaders? Maybe, but now you come bringing us all to battle. How many Coans do you think acted that way? How many Coans were killed by their foolishness?”
“You are not blind, Mashur.” The old woman's words clanged inside Coan’s skull as she spoke. “You saw the burnings as well as I did. These new invaders, pirates, are more of the same. And if Vall bleeds, it will dry up and die.”
“Of course,” Mashur shrugged. “I am not disagreeing with your need to fight. I would gladly hold a spear and stand next to you. Only, I have questions if you are the right Coan to lead us.” She chewed on old memories, festering on them as she sized up the short, scrawny warlord.
“There is no other Coan here. All that is left is me.” Coan set down her weapons. They would not help her now. She pressed her mask closer to her face and stood before the elder. “The House, I would not call it my real home. The cave is where I sleep. But the trees and the earth, and the blood I watered the grass with, the dead invaders I’ve burned, that is who I am.” Is it? Everyone around her saw the face of Coan as she spoke, but she only saw them. They may live together at the House, but I never see them together in the tombs. There are only the crowded prayers of the sorrowful, seeking out the voices of the dead and feasting on the silence. “I do not want to lead you all as soldiers. My sword cannot plant the grass upon the gray plains outside. It cannot bring the dead out of the temple. I can only fight . . . fight until I join the spirits. I do not need an army, I just need Vall to live. If my sword allows for the farmers to take back the land, then that is all I want from this life. The children of today and tomorrow deserve not to suffer what we have.” Let the next Coan have a childhood without starvation. Let them live a life without loneliness. Let them have a mother. She nearly said it, but she paused. The faces of her people looked upon her, and she realized, I do not know half their names, no, more than that. The distance between her and the crowd she was begging to—a disconnect carved by time—was larger than the space between her and her mother when she was planting her hand upon the amber.
“I remember how giddy the children were when I was little. How they all craved the name you hold now.” Mashur placed a hand on her shoulder. “A woodcutter, whose name vanished when Rem came, chopped the head off the vicious killer that was the Coan I knew then. A butcher, he was really. Then the next one was a little boy who became obsessed with conquest, ‘back to the Beastlands!’ he would cry while toting his sword. And to the Beastlands he went, dragged there by the jaws of a crocodile. The one who predated you got to live to be old, kind, and quiet. A wise man, though a fever took him a few years before Rem brought their boats to us. Do you see, little girl? Not everyone on Vall is great enough to be buried with their tools and their legacies. We have had so many people carry your name, and I have seen only as much as you have, compared to how old Vall is. You want to bring the jungle back? To revive the city that’s gone? I will follow you for that. But why do you come now and not before?”
“Because I have never needed help before,” Coan said, wishing it were true. Word by word, her valiant voice dwindled back into a whisper. “I patrolled the jungles. I watched the shores, preparing myself for what was to come, and now it is finally here. And truly? I cannot face it alone.” The elder’s words bashed against Coan’s head, fueling her fever. Clanging like iron against iron, a boom, and her mother’s cry. No . . . put it away, do not show them the little girl.
Clenching her hands, Coan looked Mashur in the eyes. She looked to her people. “I will be a bad Coan, and I have already failed you. We are still here, but just barely. The war, the famine, the sickness, I could save us from none of it. But I will not let Vall die.” She dropped to her knees. The weight pressing down on her shoulders was too much. All that time she spent wandering the woods, making sure her people were safe. Training the sword to a point where it knew her better than anyone else. None of that would help her here. She barely remembered what it was like to live with the people she wanted to protect. “The Vall we once had, the one I wish I could promise you, cannot be returned.” She said it, hoping it was a lie. “Build something new, something else, something stronger. The Vall we had died, the House needs to be able to survive the siege that nearly slaughtered it. It needs to be able to withstand famine and sickness. Coan should not be a name left wishing for conquest. We do not need a warlord. We need a thousand farmers and builders, then a thousand more of every other role. I can only hold off the invaders, not everything else. It is not fair to them.” Her finger pointed to Zassamurr, Massamurr, Tiru, and a baby at his mother’s breast. “It is not fair to the children here. They should not grow to be soldiers. They deserve better than what we had twenty years ago. But, all I ask is help with this just once. Help me. I do not want Vall to die.” She was crying, but she hid her tears. They could see how weak she was. The warlord was nothing but fear wrapped in scarred skin. How pathetic.
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“It seems Coan is once again a fool, you lonely little thing.” Mashur knelt down with her. “You are not alone. In old age, the spirits beckon for me. I will never see the faces or names that were lost on that terrible day. And I will never see this new Vall you speak of. But I will follow you. Your strength is unquestionable, and your dream is pure. I may not be able to fight. But I will be a soldier as well as what I already am. No fighter here will stand alone until Vall bleeds its last drop and the last soldier buries the rest. Everyone needs to fight to keep our home and to build a better one for those that follow us. Tiru,” she looked to her grandson, “look carefully, boy, you have a lot to learn from this one. She may just be the warlord Vall always needed.”
Coan stood up, shivering. The temple’s frigid air was searing compared to the stares she faced now. Tiru, a boy no older than ten, walked up with a hammer in his hand. “I can help build,” he said shyly. And ten more joined him, all older than Coan. Good, so I will not just be leading children into battle, she thought. And then thirty more came up, and she did not know their names. Elders followed, Kiqat with them. “Coan, please be safe. I am scared.” Her grandfather spoke to his horrors as much as he spoke to her. “The fire, do not get hurt.”
“Rest easy, grandfather. I will deliver you peace.” Coan hugged him again, wishing she could stay in the embrace. “I will bring us a Vall where no one is hungry and no one is sick.”
More and more came to her, pledging their tools and their strength. Hammers and shovels were to be sharpened, and the toolmakers promised over twenty spears by the end of the day. Coan, was she born twenty years ago or at this very moment? She turned to Gele and Mysk, and her first orders were made as the militia gathered around her. “Brother, take Gele with you to watch the shore. Never take your eyes off it.”
“Take me with you. I know the woods well and the water better than anyone else.” A fisherman stepped forward, his mask a field of colorful rings and a slim, smiling mouth. He had short black hair, and his skin was painted a deep green with blue circles. Coan did not know his name, but the spear he carried said enough. The pike was taller than she was, the tip a barbed white bone.
“If you’d let me, I’d go too.” Mapsokas pointed at Gele and Mysk, “they carry no weapons. They’ll need us if the invaders come.”
“Go then, gather your things and hurry,” Coan nodded. For a moment, she dared to leave with them, but a frenzy of voices offered themselves to her. She had to lead now, no more vanishing into the jungle.
After ordering the gatherers to collect as much food as they could, Coan watched her brother leave. There were other healers, some more skilled than him, but a sourness bubbled in her heart when the gates closed on the last family she had. Do not show weakness now. She pushed her mask against her face. But if the Second Sea fell and swallowed Vall, would this be the last I see of my brother?
The fervor that followed, giving commands and constructing plans, was barely a remedy for the ensuing anxiety. Yet, she could begin to see it, piece by piece. Spears were being built. One by one, a line of them grew like stalks of reeds. By sundown, there would be a grove of pikes. Vall’s first healthy farm since the blight and everything else. Hunting and gathering fed them well since the sickness, and in the aftermath, the tradition of roving the jungle for food remained as if it was always there. It fed their monthly feasts and burnings but no luxury beyond that. They had a small herd of pigs and goats reserved for such occasions. And while some plants grew near the river, no one dared harvest them. The ashfield was poisoned, the soil stricken still by magic fire that kept the ground burned for years and years. The water was corrupted too, giving the survivors boils and fever just as they were done burying the dead. The pirates, if they brought war again . . .
“Coan, could you help me?” A meek voice whispered as if no one else was meant to hear. Zassamurr stood there, her spear shaking in her hands. Her twin had gone off to check the walls while she remained, her head down and mask hidden under her thick black hair. “I need to check the outside and block the tunnel. Coan, what if they come while I’m out there?”
Just a child . . . what am I doing, making her fight in a war? “Follow,” she let the word slip out. It was easier to speak to a crowd than to one panicked girl. “It is an important job. We can do it together.”
With two shovels, Coan led Zassamurr out along the river to the tunnel. When Rem came, they burned this too, with fleeing soldiers still inside. Not again, Coan thought as she began to dig up the mud. They would only need to hide the exit, leaving a possible escape if the invaders breached the walls.
“These pirates, have you seen them before?” Zassamurr asked as she copied the warlord, filling the passageway one clump of wet dirt at a time.
“No,” Coan admitted as she reached under her mask to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her fingers traced old scars. She had forgotten what her face looked like underneath, but she knew how every gnarled cut felt all too well. ”But I have seen other invaders, ones who carry axes, swords, and bows. Some even carried ghosts with them too, it seemed.”
“I have never seen one.” Zassamurr traced lines in the dirt, drawing a figure with long arms and a massive sword. “Are they like sea monsters?”
“I don’t know. They could be just like us.” Coan could only see the spirit, wrapped in water, made of light and wind. She was missing an ear and some fingers, but definitely human. “It doesn’t matter,” she concluded, “if they come to hurt Vall, we need to kill them.”
“The walls will hold. I have spent my entire life building them up, checking them. They are me as much as my skin and blood are. I will be watching over them until my last breath. People are made of clay, and I will be the mountain they cannot cross.”
No, you shouldn’t be. You’re a child, Coan almost shouted. “I will be in the jungle, making sure they do not even find the House. You don’t have to worry, Zassamurr.”
“Then why am I so scared?” The girl dropped the shovel, letting it splash into the river. Her eyes were locked onto the House, where the barrier around it stood like a steep rocky cliff. “I can feel it sometimes when I put my hand against the old wood. It’s like they still have roots. The whole island is trying to say something, but I can’t hear it. All I know is that if the wall collapses, then I could never understand. If it falls, I lose everything. Who is Zassamurr without it? Coan, what do we do when we are done?”
Coan glanced at the shovel, still in the river. The water splashed over it, washing away the mud. Following the current, she gazed out over the ashfield, where the setting sun draped an orange glow over the gray. Through breaks in the clouds, Coan watched distant shadows swim. Would the Second Sea and its monsters answer her prayers? Her mother never did. All she left her was a single word before she was torn apart in that water. She never even heard it. The memory clanged against her skull. In the stream, she saw where her mother lay. What did she say to me? There was red, and she was in the river. She could not swim. Her face was bleeding. So small, she could not see anything until she surfaced and she was floating among the dead. Panic sparked in Coan’s heart as she fell back into the water. What did she say to me then? Mother, please, let me hear it again. I need an answer . . .
“Coan!” Zassmurr ran to her side. Her head submerged, Coan begged it to clean her thoughts, to erode the memories piece by piece until nothing remained. Let me be the warlord and nothing else. Then my people can have peace.
The water was not red when she opened her eyes, though the slight taste made her sick. Zassamurr lifted her head above the surface. It was only waist deep, but Coan was floating on her back. “Sorry,” she muttered. How pathetic to be saved by a child. She stood up and trudged back to the bank. The shovels were stuck into the ground and the tunnel was not yet sealed.
“What happened?” Zassamurr grabbed Coan’s shoulder, startling her. “We should get you to a healer.”
“I don’t need one,” she lied. Her brother was too far anyways.
“Then you should at least rest.”
“There are invaders out there. I cannot rest. That is my role as the warlord.” Fight so that tomorrow I can return to the temple and try to remember my mother’s final message. It could have been any word or just a soft dying groan. It did not matter, but she needed to know.
“Then stop being the warlord for just a moment,” Zassamurr said, wrapping her arms around her. “It would not disappear if you left it every once and a while. When peace comes to Vall, what will you be then?”
Meek was the word she almost said. How many times had she painted her skin, hoping to hide the scars? If that washed away, how fragile would she be? No. She was always fragile. No matter what she did, she would be vulnerable. The station of the warlord could not protect herself from all the little follies she saw when she looked into the clear water of the spring. At least this river was gray and murky.
“We will protect the House too. It is not your role to bear alone,” Zassamurr answered in her silence. “Some days, I wish those walls around the House would fall, so I could be done with the worrying. And some other days, I wish I was you, in the jungle where no one could find me, and I could be whatever I wanted there.”
“It is not that simple,” Coan’s voice was heavy as she tried looking at the river. Zassamurr’s arms were tight around her, and she hoped her fingers would not feel her scars. “I must protect everyone. That is the warlord.”
“And I need to as well. That is the gatekeeper.” The girl let go of her. “We’re members of the same House, and we’re both afraid.”
“I will make it so you don’t have to be afraid. You’re only a child.” Coan pressed her mask against her face. “You should not have to fight at all.”
“But you shouldn’t have to go alone. Coan, I did not stand with you because of your name. It was what you have, not your title.”
Would it even be worth the pain of telling her? The gatekeeper could fall in the ashfield as thousands already did. Everyone could die. There was something stuck in her throat when she tried to let her words fly free. There was nothing she could say to the girl. I am Coan the Warlord. Pressing the mask so close against her face that she nearly crushed her nose, Coan stood up. “We should finish this work, so we can eat with the others before sundown.” She tried to remember when she last sat around the fires, singing songs and sharing stories. Then she realized she never had before.