The potter’s son dreamed he was a pirate. Captain Henriq, master of the Golden Starling, swiftest ship on the lake! Mad Henriq, the scourge of Yarlsbeth! Plunderer of the Aranic crown jewels! Looter of the Khazic seaways, who famously sank every ship he ever spied flying the hated Coinfish of Khemeria!

All the other boys in Billibie picked on Henriq. The most determined was a heavyset boy with a bad underbite named Barlen. His father had once been a merchant in Khemeria. Every time Barlen called Hernriq “Hobble,” or tripped him and sent his cane flying, another ship sank into the stormy seas of Henriq’s imagination.

Oh, the timbers would creak as the doomed ship foundered! The sails would tear, the men would scream for rescue as the sharks closed in! Mad Captain Henriq would laugh at them and shout, “Give them a volley, boys!”

And his crossbowmen would advance to the rails to fire upon the hated Khem, driving the sharks into a bloody frenzy that none would survive. If he closed his eyes, Henriq could almost smell the sea.

Henriq had a great deal of time to dream. He could not work the fields so his mother kept him hopping with tasks he could do off his feet. Glazing pots, spinning wool, weaving cheesecloth, monotonous tasks that occupied his hands but not his mind.

Once each month, Henriq’s parents made him trek up the river to bring empty honeypots to his aunt Giselle. He hobbled up the northern trail with a bulging pack stuffed with straw and clay pots and returned with a single pot of fresh honey sealed with beeswax.

Aunt Giselles’s farm was two leagues north of Billibee, where pastures of red clover rolled over the land and wild lavender grew on the hilltops. It made for superb honey, and a painful trek.

To make it there and back before night fell, Henriq had to keep a grueling pace. By the time he made it home, his whole body would ache and his bad knee threatened to buckle with every step.

His father thought the marches would make him stronger, but Henriq didn’t feel stronger. For two days after every march, he was too stiff to walk more than a few paces. Even limping to the privy was agony. To be caught complaining about it was a whipping, and it did no good besides. Every month, they made him go. He was sure it was just so they could be rid of him.

Henriq had made good time today. He’d made it to his aunt’s just in time for lunch: salmon stew and a heel of black bread spread with goat cheese and a drizzle of honey. Henriq did not like his Aunt Giselle, who ordered him about like a slave, or his two older cousins who gave him sour looks when he arrived and snickered at him when their mother was out of earshot. But he never left her house hungry. He’d been plodding home since, careful not to dawdle long. The dusk brought the wolves.

As he walked, Henriq talked to himself quietly in a mutter that could barely be heard over the trilling of the birds and the warbling of the Reyane River at his right. He was narrating a battle between his pirate armada and the crown fleet of Khemeria.

“…an’ then, the Golden Sparrow, she cuts hard to port! An’ then she’s takin’, she’s takin’ fire from the Khem Dreadnought the Ruby Rook! A hundred archers she has! But I’ve turned the ship so the wind is against them and their arrows. They fall short! Yes, the wind is with us, boys! Now, my archers, they’re opening up. Yes, it’s a withering volley! The Queen of Coin, that’s the flagship’s name. Her captain is at the wheel, his name is ah…ah…Rutter Von Lhaze. He’s…ah…ah…a great fat fellow with big drooping mustaches. An arrow catches him in the neck! And blood sprays wild, like a slaughter gone wrong! Now, the Queen of Coin goes off course. Before they can get her back under control, she rams right into her escort ship, the Death’s Dirge! Oh, she’s cracked open like an eggshell. Death’s Dirge is sinking!”

Henriq told the story in short bursts while the path rose along a hill here and every breath came in a puff. He was getting deeper and deeper into his story as he spun it. He forgot about the pain in his leg, forgot about the long road ahead of him, and his voice grew louder as he breathlessly described the battle.

In the distance, hounds bayed, and he frowned with annoyance at the distraction. Why was someone hunting with hounds so early in the season? The fox had all shed their winter coats, their pelts were thin. He shook his head and huffed on. He was just getting to the good part.

“Yes, the king of Khemeria has come storming out of his cabin to see what the ruckus is above decks. He felt the collision! Now, he’s shouting mad at uh…Rutter Von Lhaze! But Captain Lhaze is bleedin’ out! He’s done for! Why, the first mate, he’s broken under the strain! He’s clinging to the ropes and cowerin’. He’s soiled himself, he has! The king of Khemeria is taking control, he’s shouting at the men, yes. They were about to break, but now they’re back in it! I give my men the order for another volley, and the arrows are flyin’ thick! The king of Khemeria gets this look in his eyes, like he can’t believe this is happening, like a volley of arrows is something for lesser people, but they’re falling all around him! He’s wearing…uh, a fancy breastplate, and it’s shining gold! Yes, it’s got the coinfish on either side of his insignia, that’s the House Soffux, my bitter foes! And an arrow bounces off the breastplate, and he laughs, he’s never afraid for a moment! The king of Khemeria runs up to take the wheel. He’s giving orders for his pushers to break the ships up before Death’s Dirge can drag the Queen of Coin down to the bottom with her! And I can see the king, he’s looking me in the eye, full of smolderin’ anger! He lifts his gauntlet in challenge! Then I—“

Henriq froze in place. He’d forgotten himself, nearly shouting. Up ahead, a boy dashed over the rise. He had wide-set eyes and long curly hair with a white blaze down the middle, and he looked half-dead from exertion, but still, he was chugging forward, breathing hard through his mouth.

The boy croaked something at him as he passed and pointed ahead. He never slowed. Henriq didn’t understand the word, but the meaning was clear.

RUN!

“Gotta be a thief! Shoulda tripped him!” Henriq said, still in the habit of talking aloud from telling the story. Then, he heard the dogs howling again, closer now, and he felt a shrinking feeling in his stomach.

The dogs bounded over the rise, and he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. They were war dogs, jet black and twice as big as wolves. Their tongues lolled from the sides of their toothy maws, flecked with froth. They ran down the trail, snuffling at the air, and Henriq locked up, as still as a statue.

They were running right at him. He would be torn limb from limb! At the last instant, he lifted his cane to defend himself, and they circled him, sniffing the air.

“G-get back!” Henriq cried, and one of the dogs snapped at his cane, barely missing with a bite that could have broken it in two. They were enormous! Two hundred and fifty pounds or better, and all muscle and teeth. He was surrounded by their beastly stench, oily fur, and carrion breath. Henriq had to hold his breath so he didn’t vomit. He was about to die!

The dog that had bit at his cane snapped at him again, and he fell backward away from it, landing hard on his ass. Both dogs barked twice quickly—Ar! Ar!—and then they turned and raced up the trail, howling after the first boy. They had laughed at him! Filthy beasts!

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Henriq rose with the help of his cane, his knee complaining bitterly. He’d landed on a rock and, gingerly, he probed at the spot. It would be a bruise. Better a bruise than a chunk taken out of him!

“Praise the stars! I’m saved!” Henriq breathed, checking his pack to see if the honeypot had shattered. It was still intact. He hustled forward on the trail. He didn’t want to be here if those monsters changed their minds!

Then, he saw them. Coming over the rise were five dark forms. They had no faces! For an instant, he was afraid they were ghosts. But as they drew closer, he could see the eye slits. They were wearing helmets. What was coming for him was far worse than ghosts.

They were Wyrth legionnaires.

Henriq let out a cry of fear, a “no!” so high-pitched it was only a squeak. It couldn’t be! No one used this trail. What were the Wyrth doing here? Yet, they were undeniably there, not a hundred paces ahead of him. The closest legionnaire lifted a gauntlet and pointed the black finger of death at Henriq. All of them unslung their weapons, heavy double-bladed axes and long-handled warhammers.

“No!” Henriq cried and turned to flee the way he’d come, hobbling as fast as he could. Behind him, the legionnaires tromped forward in a march, their heavy boots crushed against the path in step like the roll of a drum.

Henriq ran for his life. His bad knee cried out with every step, and he advanced in a loping motion, digging in the cane and scrambling for all he was worth.

That was what his parents had told him to do if he saw the legion, run and pray. They were monstrous fighters, impervious to most weapons in their heavy armor, and as merciless as death herself. But they were slow.

You could run away from them, hide in the woods while they burned your homestead to the ground and slaughtered all your animals. The ones who died were the ones who were the careless ones caught off guard, the fools who tried to take a stand.

And the ones who couldn’t run.

The legionnaires pursued as Henriq scrambled and fought his way up the trail, until his heart beat louder than the thunder of their boots. Each time Henriq dared to glance back, the armored men were closer. The leader had a great double-headed battleaxe that could split Henriq in two like a rotten log. The thought drove him faster, until bolts of pain shot up his knee with every step, and his lungs burned. He could not keep this up much longer. He had to do something!

Henriq thought of turning left and tumbling down the hill to the river, but the Reyane ran shallow on this stretch. He would be caught. Ahead of him, a stream cut across the path from the east. There was a log felled across it to act as a bridge. He turned right, running into the stream, hoping they would falter in their heavy armor.

Instead, it was Henriq who slipped in the mud and plunged forward, scraping his forearms on the rocks and losing his cane for a moment. Now, the boots were just behind him!

Henriq seized the cane and forced himself to his feet, running on pure terror. He crashed forward through the ankle-deep water of the stream, their boots splashing behind him. There was a coppery taste in his mouth, and the front of his pants was soaked. He wasn’t sure it was just the stream.

Up ahead, there was a wall of mud and felled trees, a beaver dam. He scrambled up, trying to ignore his throbbing knee, and beyond the dam the black surface of a lake spread out before him. At its center, he could see the rise of the beaver’s mound. There was nowhere else to go.

Henriq climbed down into the dark water and waded out, branches snapping behind him. They were nearly upon him!

“Please! Please!” Henriq begged the stars. The mud sucked at his feet, and he prayed the lake was deep enough that they could not follow him in their armor. Soon, he could not touch the bottom and had to clumsily swim toward the mound at the pond’s center with the pack and the water in his boots dragging him down, still clutching his cane.

The whole time he was terrified a legionnaire would hurl an axe, that the last thing he would ever feel was the blade sinking into his back, cleaving through his spine…

He could barely stay above the surface. Thrashing like a madman, he made it to the beaver lodge and climbed onto it, with lake water streaming off him. Now, the five legionnaires stood on the beaver dam with their axes and warhammers, watching him struggle to breathe.

Praise the stars the lake was deep! He could hear scrambling inside the lodge beneath him and feared the beavers would come swarming out to defend their home, but they remained inside. The legionnaires stood staring across a hundred paces of dark water, appraising the situation.

They spoke to each other in their barbarous language that sounded like pigs grunting, and one of them went back in the direction of the trail, no doubt to keep chasing down the original boy. It didn’t matter. Four legionnaires could kill Henriq just as dead as five.

The lake was a hundred paces wide at its narrowest point and perhaps three hundred long. They were in a ravine between two wooded ridges, black birch toward the south and paint pine at the north. To the northeast was the stream that fed the lake. Just over halfway home, no one ever came around here but hunters, and it wasn’t the season. There was no one to help him.

“Don’t be swimmin’!” Henriq prayed, for all they had to do was take off their armor to come and get him. Legionnaires advanced on either side of the lake, creating a triangle around him so he could not swim away. None made any move to remove their armor. They couldn’t, or wouldn’t, swim.

They could throw stones, though. The legionnaires dug fist-sized rocks out of the pond’s banks and hurled them. Henriq scrambled to dodge missiles from three directions at once, but a stinging stone caught him in the butt, and he yelped in surprise.

He whipped the sodden backpack off and held it in two hands like a shield. A stone sailed at him and struck the pack. He heard a loud crack. Thank the stars it was the honeypot breaking instead of his skull!

Finally, they tired of throwing stones. Henriq felt a thread of hope. If they couldn’t swim, and they couldn’t drive him off the lodge, what could they do? What was to keep him from waiting until night fell and trying to escape under cover of darkness? Could they really wait around here all day for a lame boy?

For nearly an hour they watched each other. The four mute monsters never took their eyes off Henriq. He kept glancing around to make sure the one at his back wasn’t trying anything. Like a treed cat, Henriq could do nothing but wait and pray.

At last, one of the legionnaires on the dam held up a gauntlet and beckoned the other axeman to him. Then, he pointed down at the dam beneath their feet.

“Oh, no,” Henriq whispered.

The two legionnaires climbed down to the base of the dam, and Henriq heard the unmistakable sound of an axe biting into wood, two notes in near unison. A few moments later, they struck again, and again, steady as a clock.

They were breaking the dam.

“NO! THAT’S CHEATING!” Henriq howled, and a hail of stones was their only reply. The beaver dam was a thick wall of logs and mud, stout enough to hold back the lake. But the chopping went on and on. It was only a matter of time.

All Henriq could do was wait and listen, and after a quarter-hour of chopping, he heard water flowing between axe strikes. Ripples spread across the black surface of the lake as water flowed into the breach. For a moment, he prayed the legionnaires would be swept away, but they climbed to either side of the broken dam and stared at him.

Hope drained from him as it did from the lake, first in a trickle, then on a rushing torrent as the enormous weight of the water tore the dam apart. The legionnaires only had to wait until the water was shallow enough to wade out to the mound, then they could chop him apart.

“Please! Henriq prayed to the stars. “I’ll be good! I’ll go to temple every week! I’ll become a priest! Anything you want. Please, spare me!”

There was no answer but the roar of the rushing water, and he wondered if he ought to just dive into the lake and try to drown himself while it was still deep enough. He could see the water dropping already, leaving a wet ring around the shore. The legionnaires stood on either side of broken dam with their axes in case he should try to swim for it. Henriq knew better. The rushing water would surely drown him.

Beneath him, he heard scurrying in the den. The beavers could hear the commotion going on, and they were riled. Their dam was gone. They would probably wind up as dinner for the legionnaires. Then, Henriq realized the legionnaires needn’t bother with the rodents. The Wyrth were cannibals. They would eat him after they murdered him and took his skull.

He stared into the black water and tried to steel himself to dive in. It was a sin, but surely the stars would forgive him. He stood up without the cane and pain shot through his bad leg. It was already so swollen he could barely stand. Yet, some useless pride demanded he go out on his feet.

“I…” he blubbered, and as he was about to cry, he choked it back. He was determined not to. “I would have been a great captain!” he announced to the four black golems. They said nothing, only watched.

Henriq took his last breath and leapt into the lake. For an instant before he struck, he heard the rumble of the broken dam become a tremendous roar, then the water closed over him, and all was cold and dark.