The Lantern's Curse

by Hannah King

  “Talitha! Help him!” she shouted.

  Camphraz…In trouble, I thought, my head spinning, but where? I scanned the area she’d pointed to, but at first, I couldn’t see anything. All around me there was chaos. I heard him before I saw him.

  He was yelling in pain on the ground only a few paces away from me, appearing to wrestle with the air. Fighting an unseen attacker. My heart froze. It was one of the shazod. Stories and images flashed through my head. These half spirits, half creatures, Faldir’s unseen demons. They aimed to kill always, clenching, clawing, then leaving a bloody wound at the center of the chest.

  Forcing through the thickness of my thoughts, I pushed through the brush and conflict as quickly as I could. They weren’t untouchable, I reminded myself, but I had no idea how I would help if it was strong enough to take someone like Camphraz down. Time was short.

  “Hold on,” I tried to alert him that help was coming. Once I reached him, I drew my dagger, not wanting to use my sword lest I strike him accidentally. Awkwardly I grasped at the air, hoping to grab hold of it so I could wound it.

  My first grab found nothing. I kept feeling around him. Was it beside him or grabbing his back? Wrestling him or standing to the side using a weapon? I grasped the air again and again. At last my left hand felt something. Suddenly a cloudy image appeared, and I almost froze in shock.

  I could see it. My hand was revealing the form of the shazod to me. It was murky, almost like water, with stony cruel eyes, yet it felt dusty and dry in my grip. I wanted to pull back from it, but I could see what it was doing. A steely talon or pincher was posing with difficulty to strike the boy’s heart. Camphraz was forcing it back the best he could, but even his ample strength was giving out. The creature’s eyes met mine. It screeched at my arrival, and looked as though it might launch itself toward me, but I acted quickly.

  I shoved the knife into its gross form, once, then twice until it relented and slumped over on Camphraz’s body. The moment it left my hand the sight of it vanished. Camphraz was still yelling, but he slowed and then stopped. Appearing to push a heavy cover off of his bruised body, he sat up, gasping.

  I blinked and shuddered, half expecting to see the creature once more, but it was gone. Inside, a strange panic filled me. I’d seen one. But how? Why?

  CHAPTER TWO

  TALITHA

  SHAKILY I SCANNED the battlefield. To my naked eye the field was full of humans and nothing else. I looked down at my bloodied hand, my mind buzzing with information. A faint, horrible feeling flooded my mind, and just like that, I knew there was another one approaching.

  Another shazod. My mind was suddenly sensing and locating these creatures as though they were deer in the forest. Wasn’t that impossible? These were Faldir’s own demons, controlled by his sorcery. No Lantern I knew had ever sensed the shazod. My heart pounded, but my feet carried me toward the overwhelming sense.

  I swung my sword to the side and felt the impact as it plunged through the unseen body. I felt a little sick at first, then a twinge of excitement shuddered through me. I didn’t have time to think, only to move, but questions began to fill my head as I continued to push back attacker after attacker.

  There were only four of the creatures left alive in the skirmish, I realized with relief. My sense was alive and working just as it would with any other creature. If there were so few, I could find them and finish them. As I wove through the human forces in zealous strides, I began to do just that.

  There was another one, this time I’d been too late. It was crouched behind a fallen fielder’s body, waiting, most likely for me. I stormed forward and finished it, not daring to glance at the dead fielder’s face for fear I’d lose my fighting spirit.

  Two remained, to the north, far from where I stood. I would have to fight my way across just to get to them, and I was already exhausted and delirious from the noises in my head. Equally, the Parter soldiers of the human variety were beginning to sense that I was causing them some trouble. I was weakly dodging and meeting blows almost everywhere I turned.

  “Amlai!” Commander Reblaine was yelling. “Cover the archers!” My heart sank. I knew what he meant. He wanted me off the field, stationed behind the archers, watching their backs. I’d be relieving one of two fielders that stood there now. It made sense, sending a fresh soldier into the thick of it and giving me a simpler task, but it was the first order I’d ever considered disobeying.

  Two shazod remained, and I could hear their shrill cries accompanied by the screams of fielders. If I could end those demons, lives would be saved. Then the fight would be fair, the fielders would have a chance.

  I knew what I had to do, but as I fought my way away from my commander’s orders, I hardly realized what I was doing. In my blur of thoughts, one truth stood out to me. I’d never once fought the shazod, but here I was, able to sense and counter them better than those around me.

  I gritted my teeth, feeling the raw scratches that decorated my arm. I certainly hadn’t tamed it. But why had my gift allowed me to see something that other Lanterns could not? Why could I, of all people, see and sense them?

  From across the conflict I heard an aggravated utterance of my name and an old Cronin curse word. Later, I realized that Commander Reblaine was angrily calling me back. But it was too late to turn around now. He couldn’t see what I was accomplishing. Hell would have to be paid later.

  Finally, I met the first, but again I’d been too late. The fielder that dropped to the ground was now gray and icy cold, his eyes rolled back, a small, bloody wound in the center of his chest trickled over the side of his dark leather jerkin. With quick slashes I avenged him, and another eerie shriek rose from the creature as it fell.

  My head pounded. One more. In desperation I fought toward it. I was almost there, closer, closer, but a Parter noticed me slipping through and blocked my way. I fought him, but just as our swords met, the sense was gone. Someone else had caught a stroke of luck and finished the last creature off.

  In my distraction, my opponent knocked me off my feet with a harsh blow from his shield. I crumpled to the ground, the shock of pain too loud for me to realize what should have happened next, but that last blow never came. The soldier who should have killed me was dead, picked off by Ayla. A crossbow dart was buried deep in his neck. I stood up shakily, trying to prepare for another attack, but the conflict was beginning to shift and change.

  The few remaining Parters and merchants were less confident as they realized their secret weapons had been demolished. They started to pull back, running off into the trees and abandoning their fight.

  We chased them relentlessly, until none were left, then took a breath and slowly made our way back to the spoils. There was a halfhearted cheer over the victory, but most of us were too shaken up to be rowdy.

  I wrapped my hand tightly in the folds of my cloak for a minute and breathed a sigh of relief as the noise tunneled out and traveled to the back of my mind where it belonged. It wasn’t as good as a glove, but it helped a little. My ribs ached from the blow, my hand throbbed, and my body shook, but with my fingers finally covered I knew I’d be all right in a few minutes.

  Word finally got around, delivered in low voices and solemn whispers. Twelve of us had been wounded, but we’d lost four fielders to those horrible creatures. I shuddered as I rounded up and stacked the goods we’d paid so dearly for.

  Behind me the cold and ashen faces were covered with their friend’s cloaks. A few of the fielders began to dig shallow graves. When the earth was turned over them, Commander Reblaine ordered us to attention.

  We stood in formation around him, heads bowed. The company was silent, the air wet and cold, the morning sky still pale, but slowly warming into a weak noon.

  “Peace,” Reblaine said. He emptied a glass phial of water onto the ground, a symbol of the lives that had been poured out that day.

  “Peace,” our voices murmured in a wave of response.

  I shut my eyes and felt achy.


  “Lavalt, keep the souls that have left us,” he ended. There was another moment of silence. Behind me two of the fielders were struggling to hold back sobs, and my own eyes stung for them.

  The lives lost were from other squadrons, those who I rarely had time to talk to or work with, but I was sure I would begin to feel their absence soon enough; maybe note a familiar face that seemed to never show anymore or realize that someone I’d admired from a distance was now even further from me.

  Commander Reblaine shouted a few orders regarding care of the wounded, the unloading of the wagons and who would carry what. It would be a long journey back to the camp and most of us were already exhausted and shaken, but we fell to work as quickly as we could. His eyes passed over me once or twice, but he seemed to know now was not the time to dole out punishment.

  I had time to come up with an explanation, I thought, but my heart was sinking. Would he even believe me? Was it a good enough reason to disobey a direct order?

  “Move out,” Commander Reblaine directed. And just like that we headed back to camp, silently, as if nothing had happened. For hours we plodded on, our backs strapped with heavy loads of anything the pack horses couldn’t carry. We’d left the wagons behind of course, for we were headed far from any sort of trail that the wagons could follow on.

  Footsore and sober, we made it back to the outskirts of camp just before sunset. The hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and the whinnying of horses met our ears. I could smell the mal bread that was baking over hot coals in the kitchen tent.

  Our company formed a straight line just outside the camp, waiting anxiously for inspection so that we could enter. One after another, each fielder was inspected by the watchman and admitted. Then it was my turn. I approached the watchman in a hurry and was cheered to see a familiar face before I passed through the boundaries. Wes Perimen, a brown-haired boy of sixteen, was on entrance duty today.

  “You all right?” Wes asked, lifting an eyebrow in question of my dazed expression. “I hear it was a narrow win.”

  I nodded solemnly. I wanted to spill the whole story, but it wasn’t the time or the place. Eventually, he’d get the news of how the raid had gone and hear about the losses.

  Though we were from different ranks and squadrons, I knew Wes well. He’d lived near me when I was growing up in old Cronin and had been the errand boy for the local apothecary. He’d once gained a reputation for accepting portions of food from each cottage as delivery payment. The boy had an incredible appetite, likely due to the active nature of his code. Most Swiftfoots had notorious appetites that could even out-match a Strongbearer’s.

  Wes smeared some oil on my forehead and surveyed it, watching to make sure it remained clear. His job was finished.

  “I’m off duty in an hour,” he said. “Got the whole night off for the first time in a good while. Could you save me some food and bring it later?” His eyes searched for some sympathy. No one was allowed to eat when on gate duty, and by the time a watchman’s shift was over, there were scarce leftovers. I shrugged and gave him a doubtful look, but he could see the grin forming at the corners of my mouth as I walked away. Wes was a good friend and he could rest easy.

  It was a shady part of the brush we had set up camp in. The round, scab-like zignots swarmed around me, hoping for a meal. Hundreds of small tents formed a massive oval, the embroidery on the taupe canvas flaps distinguishing the different sections of lodging.

  In the center of the camp a larger temporary structure rose. This was the lead’s quarters. A good way beyond it was a slightly smaller, sprawling tent where meals were cooked, and that’s where my stomach's inner compass was pointing me.

  I was starving and hoping that some food would help me forget about the day’s events for a few minutes. A crowd was already forming around the kitchen tent and I scrambled to get in line before the food was too picked over. I wanted to keep my promise to Wes without sacrificing my own serving. Our cook, Demure, seemed happy to see me. Her thin form and jet-black braid never stole away any warmth from her features.

  “Looks like fish today?” I commented as she dished the flakey, boney broth pile onto my plate. She nodded and wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead.

  “Little more today please, since there’s plenty,” I asked, and took an extra mal loaf for Wes.

  Demure grinned. “It makes me happy to see your appetite so strong. We thin ones have got to nourish ourselves,” she winked, then cast her eyes to the next fielder in the straggling line of latecomers.

  I strode with my plate over to where the other fielders from my squadron were eating quietly. Camphraz looked up sharply at me as I entered the circle. I quickly cast my eyes down. I supposed I’d saved his life. He knew, but didn’t know what to say. Ayla hadn’t thanked me yet, but she’d saved my life too, so I didn’t feel like anything needed to be said.

  Not all of the members of our squadron had been part of the raid and there was some oblivious chatter from those who had been spared from our scare, but most of us remained somber. Seated beside Cam and Ayla were several others from our squadron.

  Cora, a tall girl of eighteen with dark, coarse hair and deep brown eyes gave me a sympathetic grin and I quickly elected to sit by her. She had finished her plate and was busy balancing a small knife in her hands. She had been in the camp all day, busily working while our squadron’s fielders had been away.

  “Is that one new?” I asked curiously, pointing to the blade she held.

  “In a manner of speaking,” she shrugged, her brown eyes scrutinizing the work of her hands. “It came from last month’s raid, but the weight was all wrong. I added some heft to the hilt and wrapped it for a better grip,” she explained, “Nice and sharp now too,” she added before sticking it into a scabbard.

  Cora was gifted as a Crafter, with agile fingers and a sharp, creative mind that recommended her well to her work in the camp. She helped to forge and repair weapons or make other useful tools.

  The sword at my side had her etching in the hilt, a beautiful pattern of yatilda flowers. The blade was the perfect weight for me, and the handguard was fitted especially for my slender fingers. I was glad to have a friend among the Crafters. She was from the country of Daun and had joined the Sustainers far later than any of us, but she was one of us just the same, and one of my closest friends.

  Around us the conversation began to hum a little louder and warmer. The hot food and watery wine were helping. It was time to forget the day and shove our pain away. As a camp, we had mastered the art of distracting ourselves from sadness and fear.

  I didn’t bother to join in, I knew I was too tired and worried to come up with anything interesting to say. Instead I sank my teeth into a mal loaf, minding my own business, and was surprised when everyone’s attention shifted to me.

  “Hey...are you feeling okay?” Ayla addressed me suddenly, her attention drifting from Camphraz for a rare moment.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, raising my eyebrow. I never liked it when people asked me that question. It always made me uneasy, and now everyone was looking at me. I pushed my light brown hair behind my ears. It was loose from the cord I had wrapped around it earlier that day, long in need of combing. My fair complexion was darkened from need of washing.

  “I didn’t get a chance to wash up,” I defended.

  “No, it’s not that,” Ayla insisted. “All of us are filthy anyways.” She stepped closer and leaned in to look at my eyes, squinting at me.

  “What?” I snapped. I hated hovering. “I’m tired like the rest of you, I didn’t sleep much, that’s all it is.”

  “No,” Ayla pondered “I just…it’s, your eyes!” she decided suddenly. She reached for Camphraz’s hand and pointed at them. He jumped to his feet and crowded me. I leaned back-ward instinctively.

  “There’s gold flecks in them,” he gaped.

  “It’s just the sunlight seeping in through the trees,” I reasoned.

  “Ugh, they’re more than that! They�
��re actual yellow dots!” shaggy haired Reylard was saying, stepping far too close to my face, his sour breath causing me to cough. “Unnatural,” he shook his head.

  “Go away!” I squirmed as four others stepped in to study my face.

  I looked to Cora for help.

  “Well?”

  “They are there…” she confirmed with a confused frown. Cora was as honest as they came.

  “Go find a mirror, see for yourself,” Reylard insisted. “They’re pretty frightening.” The rest of the group continued to stare.

  Level headed as I was, I noticed their anxiety was beginning to affect me in a strange way. It was so sudden, like an odd change in the weather, or a small cloud covering the sun. Fear gripped my heart. Why was I so cold? My legs were suddenly quivering, no, shaking uncontrollably. My body was too weak to hold anything, my plate slipped mindlessly to the ground.

  “Talitha!” Cora yelled, her voice thick with panic. She jumped up to help me. I tried to reach for her hand, but the world was starting to spin. My friend’s voices grew muffled and my vision faded until everything around me disappeared into blackness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WES

  THE CAMP WAS silent except for the usual shifting of zignot plagued sleepers in their tents. Wes sat cross legged beneath a berg tree, its branches casting shadows in the moonlight across his watchful expression. It wasn’t that he was watching. If he had been on duty he would have been standing, not sitting, and his heavy belt containing his sheathed sword and many knives would have weighed him down. But he wasn’t on duty that night. He simply couldn’t sleep.

  It was Dormal’s turn to watch the East Barrier. Hidden in the trees a few spans away from Wes, the stern, stocky fifteen-year-old was standing erect, eyes and ears open to anything that spelled trouble.

  Wes had done the same the night before, but this was his night off. A treasure, some might think; except that a night off for a watchman was often more of a gamble than anything.