A Home in the Hills

by Robert J. Crane

  Finally, Longwell pursed his lips. “That last error will be his undoing.”

  He elaborated no more. Now, Jasen suspected that no amount of asking would answer anything. Not with regard to their current circumstances, anyway. He and the dragoon might share a near-single-minded focus on getting their revenge, but neither of them commanded the magics that Baraghosa wielded. They could not conjure a boat to sail them from this island any more than they could sprout wings and fly from it.

  Anyway—if they did, where was Baraghosa now? Looking back on it, it had been luck that Jasen and Longwell had managed to locate him in the Aiger Cliffs before the sorcerer’s departure. It was chance, too, that Baraghosa had left the Aiger Cliffs to come to this accursed isle. A whole world lay open—the sorcerer might have gone anywhere, after his harvest upon the clifftops.

  Now he truly could be anywhere.

  So where to even begin?

  Well, that was a silly question. The place to begin was where Jasen had stopped asking—how to leave this island.

  Instead, he asked, “Do you know who he is? Baraghosa, I mean,” he said after an inquisitive look from Longwell.

  “That … is a long story,” the dragoon said, then looked over Jasen’s shoulder.

  Jasen followed his gaze.

  The salvage crew were approaching, or the thin skeleton that remained of them, at any rate—just three, now, and likely none of them were needed. They navigated rocks with ease, muttering amongst themselves. A gale of a wind blew, nearly dislodging the man in the lead—Chaka, if Jasen remembered correctly from Kuura’s introductions. He flailed, pinwheeling his arms. He spat a double-syllabled word Jasen didn’t hear for the wind. Doubtless it was a curse.

  “I’ll regale you with it later, if you still wish to listen,” said Longwell, drawing Jasen’s attention back to him. “I suspect you will. For now, here is all you need to know—I have helped defeat worse than Baraghosa.” Jasen’s eyes widened, but before he could ask, Longwell continued, “Yes, he defeated us. But we are not dead. And this is not the end. Keep your faith.”

  He clapped Jasen on the shoulder, a powerful thump, and then strode past.

  “When we next speak,” he called over his shoulder, “I will tell you all there is to know of him. Little of it will help you, mind—but you deserve to know.” Then he pivoted and passed the salvagers with a tiny nod.

  Jasen watched his receding back for a while. The wind gusted again. That off-ness (he could put it no other way) came with it again, but though the Lady Vizola’s crew were shunted by it, Longwell was barely moved.

  He’d said little in their brief conversation, just exuded his typical determination, in the face of odds Jasen saw no way, as yet, of overcoming. Mostly he had promised answers, but all of them later, none of them here and now, when it mattered most—perhaps. Because, of course, if they were to never leave this island, doomed to shrivel and die and never be found—well, then Baraghosa’s origins, or what he had done to garner Longwell’s hatred, did not really matter.

  Still, Jasen could not deny that he felt encouraged. It was only the slightest, tiniest amount, and perhaps it was more vanity at being told that he and the dragoon had something in common than anything else.

  Nevertheless, there was still one matter lingering in the back of Jasen’s mind.

  Baraghosa had said that he had had nothing to do with the destruction of Terreas.

  This, Jasen could not shake.

  There was something afoot with the sorcerer. Whatever his role in the death of Terreas, he must be stopped. Like the off-ness that assailed his nostrils every time the wind blustered, Baraghosa too was off. There was no goodness about him, nothing at all, and he had to be stopped, if it was the last thing Jasen did.

  Which, in light of Baraghosa’s revelation … it might be.

  He sidelined this thought. The questions of his mortality could wait for another day. There were too many others jostling for attention in his mind to ponder others.

  He set off back toward the camp, ready for another day of—whatever the day would entail. What that might be, Jasen did not yet know. Possibly returning to the tower, to see what might be of use there. Little, that Jasen could see. If asked, he’d go, though—to help in any way he could—and, perhaps, to locate some clue that could lead him to Baraghosa once again.

  He’d gone no more than fifty feet when the salvage crew began to hoot. They’d been chattering maybe ten, fifteen seconds, Jasen realized—but now they whooped, voices filling the air, words foreign but the tone undoubtedly excited.

  He turned back, expecting to see them crowded around the shore over a cask of water that had been pushed inland overnight, or an unbroken crate packed with biltong and salt—

  Jasen froze. His eyes bulged, wide.

  Very distant, scarcely visible on the horizon—there came a ship.

  5

  The tasks of camp building and food foraging forgotten, the Lady Vizola’s crew had arranged themselves upon the mottled, rocky shoreline.

  It was a boat, definitely. The last half an hour had brought it nearer. And though it was still miles out, it was certainly growing—and its peculiar shape becoming more and more apparent, though as yet, Jasen couldn’t discern much beyond a boxy shape with many sails.

  Jasen and Alixa stood with Huanatha, their own little cluster complete with Scourgey, who also watched the sea in silence.

  “Are we being rescued?” Alixa dared to ask.

  Huanatha’s lips were thin. “If it does not shatter on the rocks like the Lady Vizola did. The wind is blowing it inland—they are not coming here willingly.”

  “Who are they?”

  The blue-armored warrior’s expression was hard. “I will not speculate.”

  “But you know?” Alixa asked. “Don’t you?”

  Huanatha was silent.

  Alixa exchanged a weary, frightened look with Jasen. He could only squeeze her hand—as close to an it’ll be okay as he felt comfortable with. Because, going by Huanatha’s tight-lipped reaction, he was not convinced it would be.

  The Lady Vizola’s crew had amassed like clots. Groups of three and four were spread out, all of their eyes glued to the boat as it pushed steadily closer to shore. Only Shipmaster Burund stood alone. Jasen glanced at him, watching his face—as though that was not a pointless activity. The shipmaster was too guarded to betray his thoughts. Still, Jasen couldn’t help watching, hoping for a crack.

  Kuura had run early, at Burund’s orders, to Baraghosa’s tower. At the top, he’d be better able to assess exactly who might be coming.

  Now he hurtled down the rocks again, tunic flapping behind him, shouting words Jasen couldn’t understand.

  The atmosphere among the crew changed immediately. Huanatha cursed under her breath.

  Alixa’s eyes widened in alarm. “What is it?”

  “As I feared,” said Huanatha. “We are approached by a Prenasian war galley.”

  “Who?” Jasen asked.

  “Prenasians,” said Huanatha. “Warmongers, from a desert land between Coricuanthi, Firoba and Amatgarosa. They besiege every land they find, spreading across it like a disease.”

  Guiltily, Jasen felt his gaze flick to Scourgey.

  “Beastly things,” said Huanatha, “with teeth for eating men. If they are to land here …”

  Alixa breathed, “Men?” She exchanged a wild-eyed look with Jasen. Her grip on Scourgey’s shoulder tightened.

  “I must go speak with the shipmaster,” Huanatha said. And she went to join the crowd that had enveloped Burund, worried people talking with lightning speed. Hamisi was among them, Kosi seemingly stitched to him at the hip.

  “They eat men?” Alixa whispered to Jasen.

  “I’m sure it’s just exaggeration,” he said lamely.

  “Exaggeration? Huanatha does not exaggerate!”

  Jasen wondered for a second if Alixa had met the same Huanatha as he, dramatic as she often was, but he did not ask the question aloud.
Instead, he said, “It may be our only hope.”

  “Our only hope?” Alixa said, wheezing a high-pitched laugh. “To what? Die by being eaten alive instead of starving to death on this rock?”

  Technically, Jasen thought, they would die of thirst long before starving to death—but like the last thought, he kept it to himself.

  “We have to do something to get off this island,” he said. “What if it’s months before another boat gets blown inland, or is brave enough to scout out the mists? If this is our only chance—”

  “They are warmongers, Jasen,” Alixa said. “Huanatha said they eat people.”

  He closed his mouth. He couldn’t argue with Alixa and had no way to make her feel better. Instead he watched the frantic conversation between the Lady Vizola’s crew and Burund.

  At last, Burund had had enough. He hardly raised his voice, but his words cut over the crew’s talking. If not for the wind, Jasen would have believed in that moment that the Lady Vizola’s people could be spread across the entire island and still Burund’s voice would reach them.

  Whatever he said was in their native tongue, so Jasen did not understand it. It was not hard to see the negative reaction it garnered, though: a full half of the crew, if not more, exploded with what sounded like objections.

  Burund cut them short with a swiping motion of his hand. He spoke again, louder and clearer.

  The crew parted. Some were willing—among them, Hamisi and his entourage, who hurried back toward the encampment. Others bore terrified expressions, splitting back into their groups and moving across the island, for what, Jasen was not sure.

  Kuura rounded up several. He was talking at length and kept pointing up to the tower.

  The eyes that followed his gesture were wary.

  “What’s happening?” Alixa asked.

  Jasen shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  He watched for a few seconds as the crew began to work on Burund’s order. Then, when Huanatha had peeled away—

  “What did he say?” Jasen asked, jogging up to meet her, Alixa and Scourgey in tow, slower because Scourgey still limped, although she was struggling less by the day.

  “The fires are to be piled high to signal our presence,” Huanatha said.

  “Burund is alerting the Prenasians that we’re here?” Alixa asked.

  “And Kuura?” Jasen asked, ignoring her.

  “Collecting wooden objects from the tower, I believe,” said Huanatha, glancing after them. “For burning.”

  “Should we help?” Jasen asked.

  “That, or stand and watch,” said Huanatha. “I don’t suppose it matters either way. They will light the fires with or without us.” And then she was gone again, looking none too pleased.

  “She doesn’t want them to land here,” said Alixa.

  “No,” Jasen said.

  “Do you?”

  He hesitated. “It’s our only hope.”

  Alixa shook her head, her messy braid dancing on the latest burst of wind. “This is madness.” Still, she fell into step with Jasen then. Realizing that he had directed them toward Baraghosa’s tower, she paused. “We’re not getting wood from the camp?”

  “I need to see if there are any clues as to where Baraghosa is going,” said Jasen, “before they end up on the pyres.”

  The expression on Alixa’s face was so similar to Huanatha’s habitual scowl that Jasen almost laughed—but he was wise enough not to. Alixa did not complain though, and instead followed along, muttering to Scourgey.

  Returning to the tower was … peculiar, Jasen thought as they entered. Something strange hung in the air, a deathly, electric sort of feeling. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose. And there was a chill about it too, like the stone locked all the warmth in the world out.

  The odd energy was fading, though. Like mists on the sea, it was gradually vanishing—already nowhere near as strong as the first time Jasen had climbed these steps. Perhaps, with his spellcasting complete, Baraghosa had left for good, and without the sorcerer nearby, the aura could persist no more. Maybe that was why the fog was clearing too: not from the wind, but Baraghosa’s absence.

  Unfortunately, there was little to salvage. Much of the tower was empty. Even clambering to the top of the tower, Jasen, Alixa, and Kuura’s complement of shipmates found little more than stone brick, two writing desks with blackened, empty inkwells and scorched spots upon them, and unsalvageable sconces. The desks were brought down the steps awkwardly, but they wouldn’t help the fires much.

  More pressing to Jasen was the lack of clues as to Baraghosa’s next whereabouts.

  The Prenasian war galley was much closer by the time Jasen and Alixa returned to the shore.

  A great pyre belched black smoke into the skies. Broken, salvaged furnishings from the Lady Vizola, empty crates, casks, shattered boards—all these things glowed a brilliant yellow-white. It reminded Jasen faintly of the blaze that had been set upon his home in Terreas, as tensions rose after his father refused to let Baraghosa take Jasen.

  Pain stabbed him. He touched the pendant at his neck, from his mother.

  As the ship sailed ever closer, pushed endlessly by the wind, Jasen was able to truly appreciate the ugliness of the vessel. It was an angular, dark affair. Terrifying wooden heads, ten feet tall at least, were carved on the sides. They stared out with angry expressions, their mouths open to dark holes, teeth sharp and pointed, their noses pressed flat, foreheads wide, with snakes or scorpions’ tails or gripping claws instead of hair.

  It was an impressive sight, and one which brooked no argument. These people on this boat came upon the shores of foreign lands for one purpose and one purpose only: bloodshed.

  And there were people on it. Jasen could see their shapes, moving on the deck, saw them throwing down ladders to smaller boats clinging to the galley’s side with nets and ropes. They were released, splashing down heavily, then bobbing—

  And then rowers began to row inland.

  Alixa clutched Jasen’s wrist, fingernails pressing in hard.

  “It’ll be okay,” Jasen said.

  But he did not believe it. The tension on the shore of Baraghosa’s isle was almost electric in its intensity. What little conversation there was sounded panicked, the crew’s voices creeping toward crescendo as the rowboats drew closer to shore. Others clustered, looking as if they might spring up and bolt at any moment, perhaps throwing themselves into the waters on the other side of the island and just trying to swim away. Chaka sat upon the edge of a rock, tapping his leg up and down as though ants climbed it.

  Another sharp gust of wind from the sea—and that off smell came again. It was sour, wrong in a way Jasen still could not exactly put his finger on … and it most certainly came from the Prenasians.

  He watched the rowboats closing in, his breath held. His heart was hammering in his chest, a double-time beat—not full speed, not like he was sprinting, but primed, ready to fuel him should he need to move.

  Nearer, nearer …

  Jasen watched, confusion mounting as the seconds drew on …

  He realized it at almost the same moment as Alixa.

  “They’re blue,” she gasped.

  They were: a deep blue, almost the color of the ocean at night. And unlike the Lady Vizola’s crew, who wore tunics, these men were hardly clothed at all. Cloths were bound around their waist, and they wore bracers upon their forearms and around their shins. Otherwise, they were naked, except for maybe sandals—Jasen could not see those in the boats, and in fact could only discern this much because each rowboat was captained by a vast blue man at the front, who stood rather than rowed, staring a deathly gaze across the waters to the Lady Vizola’s people. Inky black tattoos adorned their chests, spiraling patterns twirling and widening as they rose up the men’s torsos, like the boughs of a tree—then they snaked up the men’s necks, ending just below the ears in arrowhead chevrons.

  But they were not just blue.

  Alixa’s breath caug
ht in her chest, a hitch so violent Jasen heard it.

  “What are those?” she breathed.

  At the back of each boat, behind the rowers, were something else entirely. Like a man, but not. And yellow. Almost as yellow of the middle of a daisy, maybe slightly darker or dirtier. Vast, muscled creatures, their faces were dull and miserable—like the visages upon the side of the galley. And how enormous they were. Even sitting, it was plain to see their sheer mammoth size, each twice as wide as a man at least, and taller—much taller.

  Jasen swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. “I don’t know,” was all he could mutter.

  He watched, slack-jawed, taking in these men and those beasts they’d brought with them. Those, he focused on more than anything. Were they what Huanatha referred to when she said spoke of “teeth for eating men”? They gnashed their jaws, like a cow chewing on cud—and Jasen had no doubt that one of those beasts could grind his bones down to dust—no doubt at all.

  Four boats had been dispatched, each of them with ten men, by Jasen’s count. After an age that passed by much too quickly, they reached the shore.

  The captains among them dismounted.

  Jasen watched. The crew of the Lady Vizola had lapsed into silence. Not one among them moved.

  All except Burund. He moved forward, stepping past the raging signal fires, past Hamisi and Kosi and Chaka and Kuura and Huanatha and Longwell.

  The first captain reached for the bracer around his shin. From it, he pulled a long, thin blade, perfectly concealed until that moment.

  Jasen held his breath.

  The Prenasian man took easy strides to Burund, eyes cold and calculating upon the shipmaster—and his sword held high.

  6

  The Prenasian man and Burund drew near, Burund still walking as though he did not face a man holding a saber skyward, a man from a race of warmongers, commanding beasts the likes of which Jasen had never seen. He approached with calm confidence, and all the while, Jasen stared in horror, his brain too muddled to even scream out inside his head to stop, to run—