King of the Rising

by Kacen Callender

  There’s a shout, a gasp of surprise—I turn, and a Fjern boy with a machete has leapt from the shadows. He’s managed to chop the blade into a guard’s leg. The guard shouts with pain, but before the boy can land a fatal blow, another guard is already parrying him away. The child stands in front of a house, breathless and afraid, but determined to hold his ground against the dozens of guards in front of him.

  I see the truth: His mother is inside of the house that he wants to protect. The woman is ill. She has been for some time, a storm-season sickness that hasn’t left her lungs for the past few years. She’s already near the end of her time. The other villagers didn’t think or didn’t care enough to help her from her bed. The boy’s father died when he was only a baby. There has been a man in the village who took pity on the child and began to teach him how to fish like any proper man should. This man tried to convince the boy to run with him when he saw our ships out at sea, but when the boy refused, the man didn’t try very much longer. He left the boy and his mother behind. The boy could tell the man believed they wouldn’t survive, and the boy sees that the man was right. Yes, he understands that he will likely die, but he will try to take at least one of us with him.

  Malthe is amused. The killings until this moment have been as expected: a scream, a plea, a brief struggle before the neck is cut. He can’t help but see this boy as entertainment. When I look at the Fjern boy, I see the similarities between him and my brother and his friend Erik Nørup, now dead. His pale skin and hair and eyes, the coloring of boys so often told they own this land and my people—the coloring that I’ve come to see as one that coincides with cruelty. My brother and Erik Nørup enjoyed the power they were given. They showed me a different sort of torture. At least when I was brought to the beds of Patrika Årud and other kongelig at night, I didn’t have to wait for the pain. They saw no point in drawing it out. The torture was immediate. My brother and Erik Nørup, though, took pleasure in seeing me torment myself with fear. They would chase me on Hans Lollik Helle, enjoying the way I tried to hide, to stop myself from breathing too loudly so that they would not catch me.

  I see this Fjern boy and I remember my brother, and I can’t help but hate the child for it. But I can also see how Malthe enjoys the same breathless fear. The boy is no older than thirteen years. He reminds me of Anke, wanting to prove herself ready for war. My stomach turns.

  I expect Malthe to begin playing his game. To goad the boy, to say something that will make his men laugh. But I’ve forgotten that Malthe has always been the type to play a quieter sort of sport. His gaze lands on me.

  “Konge Jannik,” he says. “Your blade doesn’t have a drop of blood on it.”

  He refers to me as king sarcastically. I can feel the amusement of some of his guards, the same who have shown frustration with me as their leader. I see how the nights have passed: They have seen the way I’ve left the royal island with little explanation, traveling the northern islands and leaving the guards behind with their strict rations and their endless work. They’ve seen the way I sleep in the manor of Herregård Constantjin as if I see myself as one of the kongelig. I have the blood of the kongelig. They wouldn’t be surprised if, after winning this war, I did declare myself the true king of the islands of Hans Lollik, just because of the blood I hold in my veins. It hasn’t helped that Malthe has spread his whispers and his lies in the days that have passed. He’s told them that I don’t truly care for the guards that fight for me. I see them only as pawns, ready to die on the battlefield.

  Malthe sees how I stiffen when he makes his comment. I haven’t even unsheathed my blade. I left the killing of the Fjern to the guards. They’ve also noted this. I’ve proven their commander right. I’m willing to watch them do their work and risk their lives, but I’ve become lazy, and will no longer fight. Malthe can practically feel how my heart stops in my chest.

  He allows the smallest of smiles. “I give you this boy to kill,” he says. “It isn’t fair that we should be the only ones to enjoy this battle.”

  The guards watch me. The boy still holds on to his machete, but his arm shakes. This isn’t a battle. It’s a slaughtering. Disgust crawls through me, but some of the disgust is for myself. I knew that the guards were killing boys just like this in the village. I wasn’t witnessing it directly, but I still knew. How would me killing this child be any different? I should hate this child. He’s only a boy, but he will grow to become another Aksel Jannik, another Erik Nørup, if he isn’t one already. I shouldn’t want to show him mercy, but I do.

  Malthe sees this. It’s why his gaze won’t leave mine. This is finally his chance, he believes, to prove that my loyalty doesn’t lie with the islands as they should. I’ve been too soft. I’ve refused to admit it, but it’s true. Any leader who should truly want freedom for my people would cut this boy’s neck without hesitation. This is what he believes.

  Even as I can feel that it’s the wrong choice—even as I feel dread beneath my skin—I speak. “No,” I tell Malthe.

  It’s what he expected, but there’s still a thrum of surprise. I can feel the growing confusion in the guards as some believe they’ve misheard me. Others know they heard correctly. Their surprise is turning to anger. But I can’t do what Malthe has asked me to.

  I shake my head. “He’s just a child. There isn’t any need to cut him down in cold blood.”

  The anger grows in the guards who have circled us and are watching. Anger is a dangerous emotion. It clouds the senses and can quickly turn to rage and hatred. I think for a moment that this could be a turning point. Saying that I refuse to kill a Fjern, no matter the boy’s age, will not be easily forgotten. I’m supposed to be here to command them in battle and to urge the guards to kill every Fjern they see—to make the Fjern all pay for what they’ve done to our people. The mercy I’ve shown this child is not the mercy the Fjern have shown our children.

  Malthe’s anger is more difficult to hide. He walks to the boy and grabs a fistful of the child’s hair before I can stop him. He pauses. He wants me to see. The boy struggles and cries, and Malthe cuts the head from the neck cleanly. The body falls forward, and the face with its open eyes stare at me accusingly. The boy’s expression is frozen in fear and pain. It’s the same fear and pain I’ve seen on so many faces with our brown skin. It’s an expression I’ve made since the day I was torn from my mother’s stomach and into this world. Malthe drops the head on the body that’s already fallen. It rolls toward my feet. I swallow so that I won’t heave. I still have rage inside of me. Rage for the past, and rage for knowing that if I were to show this boy mercy, he probably would never have shown mercy to anyone like me. He would have grown to be a man like any of the other Fjern in these islands. He would have delighted in killing me. But I still can’t help the illness swarming through my stomach, the heat of the island prickling over my skin, the awareness suddenly of how each of the guards have begun to look at me. I’ve lost their respect. They’re shocked that I am the same man that had led us to victory on Hans Lollik Helle. Here I stand, too weak to cut the neck of a little Fjern boy. Malthe, though satisfied that I’ve finally shown the truth of my ways, holds disappointment alongside his contempt.

  “Check the house inside,” he says to one of his guards, and the man follows through with his order, killing the woman inside by slicing her neck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The battles across Larsen Helle continue. Each battle is a massacre: villages abandoned by everyone but those who could not leave, each of them cut down and their bodies left in the dirt to rot. As the sun rises higher and the heat becomes stronger, the smell of smoke and blood rises. We march across the fields, and with every step my tension grows. I can still feel the anger of the guards and Malthe. The thoughts don’t come to me clearly, but I still hear snippets. Suggestions that maybe the islanders were wrong in calling me their leader. If I continue on this path, everything that Geir and Marieke predicted and warned me of might transpire. My people could turn on me instead. I
could be executed—killed, so that Malthe can take control. While I curse myself for not thinking of a better response to the killing of the Fjern boy, there was no other possible response for me to give.

  As we walk, the only sound is made by our own footsteps and breaths and the crackling of fires that we leave behind at every village. Larsen Helle was close enough to Hans Lollik Helle that I would’ve expected more of a defense from the Fjern. I expect their guards to appear at any moment, to ambush us in the open fields—but I can’t see where they would hide. Malthe has also noticed that something is wrong. He doesn’t say the words aloud, but his gaze is careful, picking up on any little movement. The grass is to our waists as we walk, cutting the stalks down with machetes that make metallic twangs on contact. The sound is so familiar it almost feels nostalgic of my days training under Malthe.

  We march in silence. A guard to my right hesitates. He doesn’t understand why. Something feels wrong to him, and dread fills his body—he takes a step back, and pain explodes. A blade has stabbed through his spine. He gasps, and no one has noticed the blade, the blood, no one but me—I spin to shout a warning, but the sound has the opposite effect. The guards nearest him look at me in surprise and confusion. It’s only when they see their friend fall that they realize we’re under attack.

  Grass shimmers, and all at once dozens of guards yell in pain and surprise. I feel the cut that sparked the shouts: the backs of my calves have deep gashes, but I’m lucky. I can tell the attackers had been aiming to cut the backs of my knees so that I wouldn’t be able to move at all. There’s chaos and confusion as Malthe aims to have us in formation and order. There’s silence for one long moment. The ambushers have been moving in and out of the grass, bent so that we can’t see them. I try to keep my mind open for any stray thought, the movement of grass that goes against the wind—

  I see the Fjernman before Malthe does. I throw my machete as the Fjern stands, blade ready to slice Malthe’s throat. The machete spikes through the air and lands in the man’s neck. He coughs blood, staggering back. All at once, the Fjern stand. They surround us in a circle, their blades ready. Arrows fly first, hitting anyone closest. I duck and fall into the grass, hearing the whizzing of the arrows above me. There are shouts and screams, but I move through the falling bodies and for the closest Fjern. I use their own technique against them. I wasn’t the only one with this instinct. Other islanders appear, machetes shining as we slice and cut the first line of Fjern down, their bows falling to the ground. Malthe takes advantage of the moment to shout his orders. We fight hard. We aren’t like the Fjern. We don’t become complacent; we don’t feel overconfident. There’s too much at risk, too much at stake, to feel that we could ever win this war. We fight like we expect to lose, but we’re determined to take as many Fjern with us as we can. We fight until none are left standing.

  The battle is over. We’ve won, but Malthe curses. We lost too many in the ambush. It’s difficult to count with the high grass, but it looks like only about ten still stand. The guards that remain breathe heavily. Some have cuts over their eyes, blood dripping down their faces. Others, gashes on their shoulders and arms. Most of us have cuts on our legs from the first wave of the attack. It was an ambush meant to slow us down. It’ll give the Fjern the advantage in calling for help from the near islands. We don’t have much more time to make it to the Larsen manor, where the rest of the guards likely wait for us. It’s probably where the villagers have also gone to hide. They might not have been trained to fight before, but they are bodies that could hold a blade.

  I’m not the only one who has these concerns. The anxiety rises in all of us at the possibility of losing this island. If we die here, the Fjern will realize there aren’t many of us left to hold Hans Lollik Helle. I’m afraid for everyone left on the island. Marieke, Kjerstin, and all the rest wouldn’t be able to defend themselves.

  “We can’t stop here,” I say. The guards have their disgust and anger for me, and Malthe can barely look my way without wanting to spit, but still I speak. “We have to fight on. We have to make it to the Larsen manor, and we have to take this island. Too many depend on it.”

  I speak the words to frustration. How can I say that I want to take the island when I couldn’t kill a little Fjern boy? But alongside the frustration is acknowledgment of the truth. I’m right. No matter how tired we are, no matter how much pain we feel, we have to continue.

  As we walk, the grass that had been to our waists eventually falls to our knees and to our shins and ankles until there’s no more grass at all but the hard, barren rock of soil that will not grow a single weed. I think this is a strange place for the Larsen manor to have been built. On dead land, as if foreshadowing the family’s fate. The manor itself is in ruins. I hadn’t realized no one from the Larsen family had returned to take up the mantle of the Larsen name. After the family’s one heir, Beata Larsen, was orphaned, she’d moved onto the island of Solberg Helle under the patronage of Jytte Solberg’s family—and with Beata Larsen’s death, it looks like her family line might have been cut short.

  There are smaller houses around the manor where the slaves might have once lived. There isn’t any sign of them, just as there’d been no sign of any islanders when we first arrived, waiting to be liberated. As we get closer, my heart is tight in my chest. No one is here—none of the villagers who had escaped, no Fjern guards waiting to kill us. It’s in moments like this that I wish my kraft was as strong as Sigourney’s, so that I could attempt to reach into the shadows and see if anyone is waiting. It’s only as we come to the dead gardens that I can smell what I wish I would not have to see. A wall has an open gate, and inside are the bodies of the islanders.

  They’ve been laid down on their backs, some of their eyes closed to look like they’re sleeping, though some keep their eyes open—the last accusing gaze they gave their killers. The bodies are still dressed. They weren’t mutilated beyond the single cuts to the necks. There isn’t any sign of blood. They must have been killed somewhere else, their bodies placed here for us to find. Malthe has hardened us against emotion. Fighting in the guard means seeing death. It means seeing friends and other loved ones lose their lives. We can’t allow our emotion to control us in that moment, or we’ll be defeated in the fight. But I feel the swell of pain, not only from me but from all the guards. The heartache as each witnesses the line of islanders. Innocents that had nothing to do with this rebellion. It didn’t matter the age. Many are children, lying beside their mothers. One guard turns away and heaves. Georg’s eyes are blank but wet. When I meet Malthe’s gaze, he wants me to hear his thoughts.

  The people who did this. Are those really the people you want to save?

  He turns away to speak to the guards under his command. “Stay alert.” They might have wanted us to find the dead to break our concentration so that we wouldn’t be prepared for battle.

  But when we search the grounds and force our way into the house, sweeping the halls, we don’t find any Fjern waiting with their machetes. It’s only when the guards search the slaves’ quarters that the missing villagers are found, huddled and hidden. It looks like it’d been the plan of those on Larsen Helle. If we ever attacked, they were to run here to the manor and hide in the quarters until the battle was over. They didn’t seem to consider what to do if they were on the losing end.

  “Were those truly the only fighting Fjern on this island?” Georg asks me.

  He’s incredulous. We all are. The Fjern continue to underestimate us, and it’s true that their ambush did take us by surprise. But it almost seems as though they had already given up this island of Larsen Helle. This is a thought that makes me more nervous than before. I wish that the members of the circle were here to discuss next steps. Geir’s kraft flashes through me, and I could see the possibilities: how the Fjern would want us to come here, would allow us to feel confident in having won our battle, only to wait for the moment to attack us with all of their force. We’re already weakened, tired, and only ten o
f us remain. We wouldn’t survive such an attack.

  “We need to send word back to Hans Lollik Helle and request the defensive guards immediately.”

  Malthe agrees without complaint and a team of three are sent. Having fought our way to Larsen Helle, the path to Hans Lollik Helle should be clear.

  “And what of the Fjern?” Georg asks.

  There are nearly twenty captured Fjern villagers. I order the guards to tie them with rope, though some silently question why they should, when we’ll likely kill them all. The Fjern sit in the garden, beside the line of dead islanders. Some sit with their eyes squeezed shut in terror, others cry, and still others struggle against their ropes as if they believe they can free themselves and fight us all and still manage to survive. Mothers whisper to their children that they’ll be all right, knowing that they’re telling lies.

  The guards aren’t cruel. But I can feel the rage and disgust inside of them, twisting through their hearts. They want revenge. Not only for the islanders that lie dead at their feet, but for the years of pain they’ve had to suffer. I can feel that desire for revenge inside of them, and while the guards aren’t cruel people, I can also feel that they’re capable of cruel things. They want to torture the Fjern.

  Malthe can feel this bloodlust in them. It’s easy for anyone to see in the eyes of the guards who wait for their command. He’s thinking of giving them this prize. Do with the Fjern whatever you would like. He’s moments from letting the words leave his lips.