by Ben Galley
‘What about three of them, Lerel?’ Elessi yelled. ‘Anyone ever survived that?’
By the gaping whites of Lerel’s eyes, she had seen them too. The admiral unleashed a barrage of orders as she swung the Vanguard around. Ballistae and mages fired at will, lashing at anything that moved beneath the waters.
Dragons became a constant hail, swooping in their dozens to bathe the creatures in their fire. It was perhaps the only deterrent that kept the leviathans at bay. But while their jaws stayed below the waves, their serpentine tails wreaked just as much havoc.
Elessi stared wide-eyed as an enormous blue tail reared from the sea and collapsed upon one of the armada’s warships. It was the Waveblade, an ironclad veteran of the Last War and one of the oldest ships in the fleet. Seawater swamped its sides as the ship was forced down under the weight of the impact. Sailors and soldiers flew in all directions under the force. The sea was peppered with bodies. The leviathans churned the water into a bloody frenzy as they feasted on the fallen.
‘Move, damn it!’ Lerel yelled to the sails, urging the bookship on.
Elessi seized the railing next to the wheel, holding tight as another wave rocked the bookship from side to side. ‘Where do we go?’
‘Anywhere but here!’
Roiks deafened them with his opinion. ‘West, damn it! The leviathans came from the east.’
To Elessi’s nod, Lerel did exactly that, driving the ship at such an angle half the deck almost slid into the sea. All the while, the ballistae and mages belowdecks fired incessantly at anything that moved in the water.
‘Hold!’ yelled Roiks. Elessi barely stayed upright as the three leviathans arose as one from the sea. With the Waveblade frantically bailing water, it made an easy target. The three monsters struck as one, crushing the decks of the ironclad warship as if they were tack biscuits. Screams filled the air beyond the crash of wood and iron between jaws. Elessi tried to shut her ears to the sounds of the dying, but they filled the air and bled into her mind.
‘Sail, damn you!’ Lerel screamed.
At last, the admiral’s orders took effect. The Waveblade’s sinking corpse distracted the feasting leviathans long enough for the rest of the ships to turn their keels and break west. To the ring of haunting echoes, Scalussen tucked tail and ran. It was a sore sacrifice, stolen rather than offered, but it saved the rest of the armada.
Unable to stare upon the carnage or the monsters, Elessi faced forwards, as if willing the armada into safe waters. It took some time for her to peel her hands from the railing. When she did, she found Lerel in a similar white-knuckle state, clinging to the wheel for all her worth.
The admiral’s words ground out like a pestle on spices. ‘That god needs to die.’
CHAPTER 6
LILEROSK
The Arka Empire, though far-reaching, was not the pinnacle of Emaneska’s dominions. The Skölgard Empire held sway over the frozen lands for centuries before its fall at the closure of the Battle of Krauslung, in 890. Thanks to the hard, cruel, and irascible nature bred into the Skölgard people, their empire claimed all of Emaneska bar Nelska and Albion. It also stretched deeper east than most in Emaneska knew. It was the first Skölgard kings that forged the Sunder Road east, into Nyr, the Rivenplains, Golikar, and beyond.
FROM THE DIARY OF VIKR ENLY, NOTED EXPLORER AND MERCHANT
A timid snow was beginning to fall across the plains when, at last, the town was spotted.
At great volume and with much repetition, Kursi had spent the journey boasting of the many so-called wonders of his town. They had walked through the night and half a day, and Mithrid could barely remember hearing the boy take breath.
By his accounts, Lilerosk was home to not one, not two, but three taverns. Great ogin bones, whatever they were. There was purportedly even a fountain in the town square, too.
Now that the rest of the exhausted, dishevelled band stood upon a hill and looked down into Lilerosk’s valley, Kursi was proved to be either utterly naive or a liar.
Lilerosk looked like a boil festering upon the pea-green complexion of the grasslands. Sitting upon a squashed hill, its slanted walls alternated between clay brick and wood painted red and yellow. White arches spanned a gate. Conical rooftops of woven grass and clay tiles formed a swollen blister of construction that culminated in a crooked tower poking up like a skeleton’s finger. Faint paths through the grasslands speared the town from all degrees.
Carpeting the undulating plains for miles around Lilerosk were tiny white specks. She thought them farms or orchards before she saw them moving like flocks of white starlings. On the winds, Mithrid could hear a shrill cawing and the whistles of the figures that herded them.
Aspala must have seen her slitted, curious eyes. Mithrid caught her staring. The Paraian was smirking. Crystals of snow clung to the edge of the hood that disguised her horns.
‘You never seen sheep before, Mith?’
Hâlorn’s coasts were known for many things, but rich farmland and beasts of burden were not one of them. Fish, crab and birds’ eggs were the only bounties cliff-folk farmed. Mithrid listened to the wailing tones of the nearer creatures. She decided they looked like a goat that had tangled with a dirty cloud. The small ones that tottered about, she had to admit, were rather adorable.
‘I know what a sheep is,’ Mithrid said. ‘Just never seen one, is all. Hâlorn trades with Albion for its wool.’
Aspala shook her head in disbelief.
‘Taste good, too,’ rumbled Warbringer as she thumped her way down the hill. ‘Almost as good as you pink-fleshes.’
Mithrid found that to be a distinctly disturbing recommendation.
Over the last few hours, the minotaur had become more impatient to reach the town than the mage. The journey had barely tired her, whereas it had exhausted Farden, which culminated in Warbringer now leading the way. Farden dragged behind, now limping.
Kursi was still babbling on incessantly by Mithrid and Aspala’s side.
‘And as I said, Lilerosk being famous for its wool and its mutton means that lambing season is a great festival where—’
To Mithrid, Kursi’s chattering had become featureless noise, a backdrop for her repetitive thoughts. It seemed, however, that Aspala had heard plenty from the boy.
Quick as a snake, with her thumb and forefinger, Aspala seized Kursi by the lips. The boy squirmed, but Aspala pinched only harder. ‘Enough babble. Where I am from, young ones are seen and not heard. Learn the beauty of silence, child.’
The silence Aspala was rewarded with was golden but short-lived. Striding through the snow-speckled grass, Kursi was soon pointing out whose flock belonged to which town clan, what the painted runes on the beasts’ flanks meant, and sharing all manner of shepherd gossip. It was deploringly uninteresting.
For all her intrigue, Mithrid never got close to a sheep: Warbringer’s presence disturbed the flocks greatly. The sheep scattered from their path. A few of the shepherds yelled in a foreign tongue, to which Kursi hollered back.
‘They don’t like you,’ said the boy.
Warbringer blew steam from her copper-ringed snout. ‘Then the feeling is mutual.’
‘You scare them, is all.’
‘Then it’s fortunate that Fleetstar agreed to stay out of sight. Hopefully she has the wherewithal to listen to me and stick to the plan.’ Farden sounded far from convinced.
A gathering of townsfolk had emerged from the gate: an archway of two curving white struts bound together in copper wire. Mithrid angled her cheek to the breeze. There was a thin thread of magick in it. Magick, inert and minuscule, but power, nonetheless, coming from the arches.
Mithrid trailed along with Farden. The mage’s shoulders were sullen but his steps were determined enough.
‘What if the men at the gates don’t like us either?’ she asked.
‘I’ve talked my way around many a guard and magistrate in my time, Mithrid. I’ll think of something.’
‘Durnus was right. You’r
e not the best with plans, are you?’
‘The Written weren’t trained as strategists. We were the teeth of the beast, not the mind.’
‘That explains a lot,’ Mithrid whispered, catching a side-eye from the mage.
‘You forget, girl. Words are some of the sharpest and most terrible weapons in the world. As a wise yet foul man once told me, words can’t hammer in a nail, but they can start a war.’
The others had reached the foot of the town’s hill. Lilerosk sat above them, an ugly crown. The sheep penned around the converging paths baaed woefully.
‘Let’s see what your silver tongue can do then, King,’ Mithrid waved him ahead.
With a creak of metal, Farden removed his helmet. Despite the scattered snow and cold winds sailing over the grassland plans, the mage was drenched in sweat. His dark hair was plastered to his scalp and forehead. Even as roasted as he appeared, his skin remained pale, wan.
The moment Farden set foot to the hill, a plump man encased in knitted drapes emerged from the gathering and held out his palms.
‘That’s far enough, stranger!’ he yelled in the same thick Commontongue Kursi used. The townsfolk at his back looked on, speaking behind their hands.
With a lot of creaking and grunting of pain, Farden bowed. ‘We mean no harm. We are merely travellers from the west. Far from home.’
‘And what brings you to Lilerosk’s gates?’
Mithrid snorted. Gates was a bold stretch.
‘Food and shelter,’ replied Farden. ‘A healer and armourer if you have them.’
It was clear to see that most of the wool-clad inhabitants of Lilerosk had eyes only for Warbringer.
‘We have no food for strangers who have no names. No shelter neither. Grave dangers walk the Sunder Road. In all… shapes and sizes,’ said the man.
Farden glanced to the growling minotaur, as if to silently beg her for patience and to not reduce any townsfolk to bloody jam, no matter what insults they had for her. Clearly no minotaurs existed beyond Emaneska’s reaches.
Mithrid yelled out instead. ‘We hear you are famous for your fine wool and mutton! Perhaps we can trade?’
‘With what? You have no wares. No flocks nor herds. Unless you have coin?’
‘Hmph,’ Farden grumbled.
‘Looks like you’ve lost your touch,’ teased Mithrid. She meant only to jest, to ease the awkward tension, but the look Farden shot her was severe.
In the end, it was Kursi that bought them entrance into Lilerosk.
‘But they saved me!’ blurted the boy, pushing past Farden and Mithrid and running up the hill.
A shrill voice cut the cold air. ‘Kursi!’
‘Mother!’
Before Mithrid knew what was happening, a woman burst from the crowd of townsfolk and sprinted so rapidly down the hill it looked as though she would fall and fold in two at any moment. Kursi raced to meet her, and in the dusting of snow and worn grass, they embraced tightly.
Soon enough, she was rushing to clasp the hands of the strangers, babbling something that Mithrid assumed translated to “thank you”. To the mother’s credit, she even grabbed Warbringer by the arm in gratitude. Not once did she stop talking at them, and Mithrid knew precisely where Kursi had learned his wagging tongue. Nonetheless, the reunion was satisfying to see, but all it did was remind Mithrid of the miles between her and the others. Between Hereni, and Bull, of course. And Elessi. Akitha. The name of Malvus tolled like a bell in between her ears.
After ushering her son up the hill, chattering every step of the way, Kursi’s mother quickly turned her verbal barrage on the fat man. His bluster was no defence for her demands, and within moments, Kursi came halfway to fetch them. He waved his hands, urging them onwards.
The leader of Lilerosk, whatever his title was, stood beside the gate looking utterly terrified of the ragtag creatures he was admitting to his town.
Warbringer had no interest in enduring the townsfolk’ stares. She was busy staring up at the white arches. ‘They’re bones,’ she grunted to the others as they passed beneath them.
‘What?’ Mithrid followed her gaze. The milk-white struts were lashed together at their points at least twenty feet above them.
‘Bones. But the bones of what?’
The beast these spurs of bone came from must have once been enormous. She wasn’t sure whether it was the bones themselves or the foreign runes that gave off the magick, but the sensation was noticeably stronger here. Still intermittent and faint, like a winter’s sun, but there, nonetheless. She watched Farden closely to see if he felt it, but the mage was preoccupied with the leather-armoured militia standing nearby.
‘The bones of Garyon of the Burnt South, last of the ogin,’ boasted the town’s leader.
‘Very… impressive,’ said Mithrid. Or at least it would have been, if she understood any of it.
‘They lay a blessing upon all who enter here with pure intentions and a curse on those that would be our enemies.’
‘Blessing it is, then,’ Farden said. He sketched another bow and joined the others in looking around the abject mess that was Lilerosk’s town square.
Sheep ran freely in and out of adjoining streets, either herded or chased by skinny shepherd children. Whatever building wasn’t dedicated to the shearing and spinning of wool was either a butcher’s or a tannery. The fountain that Kursi had boasted of existed, but it was a dubious greenish colour from the people washing tools and boots in its brick pool. It was not a charming sprawl but a loud, confusing, and muddy tangle.
Their leader puffed out his ruddy cheeks. ‘The Dawn God welcomes you to Lilerosk. I am Flocklord Boorin, master of this town and vassal of Dathazh.’
It took Farden a moment to reply. ‘I’m sorry… Boring, was it?’
The flocklord wore the exasperated glare of a man who had never said his name only once in all his life. ‘Bo-orin.’
‘Ah. And I am Farden of Scal—Emaneska. Might I introduce Mithrid Fenn of Hâlorn, Aspala of Paraia, the unconscious fellow is Durnus, also of Emaneska, and this is Warbringer of Efjar.’
Boorin cleared his throat. ‘And what, pray, is it?’
‘It speaks for itself,’ Warbringer interrupted. ‘A minotaur, or so you call my kin in pink-flesh tongue.’
‘You are strangers indeed, far from home. You will obey our rules while within this town. We will have no trouble here. You have our gratitude and hospitality for saving Yurit’s boy from those foul, kidnapping, murderous, cow-piss-drinking, Dusk-loving, Cathak heretics!’ Boorin cleared his throat as he remembered himself. ‘You may stay for the evening, that is. You will be gone before morning prayer.’
Mithrid raised a hand. ‘What time is that?’
Boorin looked markedly insulted. ‘Our god is the Dawn God. I shall leave you to figure that out.’
‘Charming.’ Farden asked once more about an armourer, making Boorin scoff.
‘Armourer, you say? Do you see grand castles and knights anywhere around us? Armour of your kind is a luxury beyond most purses in Lilerosk. A healer, however, you will find along that street. Mind yourselves.’
With that, Boorin bid them a good day. Not in so many words, but in the waddling strut with which he marched away from them.
Farden sighed. ‘Guess that means no decent weapons, either.’
Aspala sniffed at the air: a curious mix of sheep dung and bubbling stews. ‘Should have found another boy to save from bandits. Could have earned ourselves two nights.’
Mithrid snorted in amusement.
The choice of Lilerosk’s three taverns was a sliding scale of tolerable, filthy, and hideous. Despite their lack of coin, Farden put his faith in the town’s hospitality and thankfully chose the tolerable tavern.
Some unimaginative dolt had dubbed it The Shepherd’s Rest. It had the look of any usual tavern besides its pointy roof of thatched grass. Three huge, puffed-up sheep with curled horns were lashed to a railing outside the tavern’s glowing windows. They were nearly as lar
ge as cows, and a small patch had been shaved in their thick wool to allow for a simple saddle. The rams were far from bothered by their approach. Even Warbringer went unnoticed. The sheep were staring avidly at the middle window. It was slightly ajar, and a hand kept sneaking out to sprinkle morsels for the mounts.
If Mithrid had hoped to evade the stink of the town and countless sheep, the innards of the Rest was no escape. If anything, the concentration of sweaty shepherds and their pet beasts within a smaller room enhanced the smell.
‘I’m sensing a theme to this town,’ Farden growled to Mithrid and the others.
Everything that was made to sit or lean on was crafted of wool or leather. The heads of prize-winning sheep graced the walls. Horns bristled around the central fireplace. Even the tankards were made of horn.
Though the flocklord’s bidding had been passed around town over the past few hours, the staring had not decreased. The roar of voices all but died at the sight of the strangers.
‘Evening,’ Farden greeted the tavern as one. ‘We don’t mean to interrupt. We simply need a room. One with a fire, if you have one.’
The innkeeper was tending to a nearby table, his fists full of a dozen horns of ale. ‘As you wish, strangers. Flocklord said you might be coming. Dawn’s luck, I have kept one spare. Though it might be a touch… small. Or there are the stables.’
Warbringer was already stalking to the stairs that curved up into the inn’s upper reaches. The wooden boards creaked ominously under her hooves.
‘A room it will be,’ Farden repeated.
‘Right you are,’ babbled the innkeeper.
Mithrid was busy watching the people from beneath her brows. She assumed they would be interested in the minotaur or Farden’s armour, but there was plenty of stares for her. Her scarlet hair and Scalussen plate were apparently just as foreign to these sheep-people. She felt a deep desire to vanish into her hood. It took a different kind of bravery to greet such attention without a care. Even after Scalussen, Mithrid couldn’t grasp it.