“The moons are the same,” explained Uller, apparently assuming that Blackfoot was educated enough to know that different continents had different moons. The puzzled look on Blackfoot’s face indicated that this assumption was incorrect. “Different continents have different moons. Ket only has one moon, Eios has three. There are stories of far off continents with more moons, and some without.”
“So is there anything beyond the ice?” asked Blackfoot.
Uller nodded. “Doubtless so, but there are only rumors. Explorers who claim to have met the Do’noai say they talk of a narrow waste of dead earth, followed by jungles.”
“So there are jungles!” Blackfoot was really interested now. He’d told us how he was looking forward to living on a jungle island. Like many, he assumed all sea-locked islands were like the Abmers off the eastern coast of Illyr. Uller had been all too eager to break to Blackfoot that, so far as we were going to be concerned, Forlorn had no jungles. Blackfoot then began to ask what kind of sea locked island didn’t have jungles, which led Uller to interrupt him with the correction that had begun this entire exchange.
“I suppose,” Uller rolled his eyes and forced a grin. “Eventually, there are jungles, but, it’s still not an island.” The circle was complete.
“We won’t be seeing them,” I said, giving Blackfoot a sorry look. “We’ll have our hands full with the gluttons.”
“Oh, gluttons!” Blackfoot brought his hands together with a loud clap. “I can’t wait to see one of those. I hear they’re four strides tall and have skin like an elephant!” He held his fingers to his mouth and imitated long, pointed teeth. “I hear they eat people with their long, sharp teeth.”
“I doubt they’re that tall,” moaned Uller. “Probably not even taller than a man. And the rumors about them being cannibals are probably false, too. They say the same thing about the Abmer Islanders, and it’s just racist clapwad—”
“It ain’t no clapwad!” Stree surprised us. He’d been quiet for so long, it was as if he’d just snapped. He scanned us with a crooked finger as his single, bloodshot eye fixed each of us it its milky pool, spending a little longer on Reiwyn than any of us were comfortable with. “The gluttons is real, and they’s a real terror! They ain’t no twelve feet, but they’re three strides if they’re a one—a few half a stride more ‘en that!”
“How the Daevas do you know?” Uller didn’t bother hiding his disdain. “Was it a glutton that ate your eye?” Everyone laughed but Antioc, who watched the Brontish man carefully, like a cat circling another in its territory.
“Naw!” He pointed to the empty socket, ringed with scars. “Took one of them Illyrian bastard’s arrows to the eye.”
“You were a soldier?” asked Antioc. Stree nodded.
Uller laughed. “Why didn’t you have your visor down? Are you an idiot?”
Stree shot him a dirty look with his remaining eye. “I did have me visor down. The arrow plucked right through it! If I hadn’t been wearing the pissin’ helmet, I’d be right hanged.”
Uller stared at him. He wasn’t used to commoner slang, particularly from the impoverished, stinky streets of lower Bronta. None of us were. Antioc seemed to get the gist of it, though. “The helmet slowed the arrow,” he explained, still watching Stree in case he made a move for Uller. “If he hadn’t been wearing it, it would have gone deeper and got his brain. Then he’d be dead.”
Stree’s stern face melted into a smile. He nodded.
“So how do you know about the gluttons?” asked Reiwyn.
“Me brother, he was here a few years back. He died o’ the rot, but afore that, he said he saw one of ‘em when the Sand King made him walk the White Road.”
“What’s the White Road?” I asked. I knew about the Sand King. That was what they called the fellow who governed Forlorn’s colony of exiles. He was also called Arn, and reportedly not fond of the former, more colorful appellation. I imagined him as being much like our King in Morment, portly and regal with a flagon of ale in one hand and a goose leg in the other, and a shaggy head of hair and beard. That was how Gerold V had looked the only time I’d seen him. His girth suggested strongly that he looked like that most other times as well. Until he died, at least. I’d never met his successor, Rorineld II.
“And I thought you killed your brother?” Uller interjected before Stree could answer my question.
“A man can have more en’ one brother, can’t he?” he snapped with another dirty look. He gave me the same look, though his voice was calmer when he said, “And you’ll know soon enough about the White Road. You’ll all know soon enough.”
With that, Stree leaned back against the side of the skiff and resumed watching the port grow in the distance. He was silent for the rest of the trip, and so were we.
4.
That feeling I got when I first spied Forlorn on the horizon came back, and it brought friends. I was the thirdson of a lord, but I’d never considered my childhood home luxurious. Castles were cold, dark places that smelled like cellars and rot. Aside from a few tapestries, they lacked any sense of color or décor. Compared to this, it was a paradise.
Nothing could have prepared me for Forlorn Colony. The whole place smelled of fish and sweaty bodies—of which there were several score on the harbor to meet us. I’d seen commoners before. I’d even seen refugees, out on the front lines of the endless war. The people of Forlorn made royalty of them, with their ratty clothes, sweaty brows, and sunburns. Several of them came to the docks to help us ashore. They seemed eager and helpful, until I realized they weren’t there for us. Instead, they went for the heavy wooden crates and brown cloth sacks laden with supplies. In exchange, they handed over little white bags with twine draw-strings. I saw the sailors pry them open and glance in, shaking them for weight and smiling in satisfaction.
We lost Stree in the assembly following the disembarkment, which was fair as we didn’t like him. My fellows and I gathered together, but found ourselves being pushed into a line with our backs to the sea. I went willingly, but Uller snapped at one of the residents when he came close to touching him. Antioc stood at my side, chest out and back straight like he was presenting for an officer. Blackfoot smiled and took a spot in between him and Reiwyn, comically imitating the disciplined stance of the former to the amusement of the latter.
Once so assembled, a few prominent figures emerged from the crowd. The foremost was tall man with shaggy hair the color of straw on his head and chin. He had a familiar look, with his blue eyes and strong jaw, as if the dreg of this place hadn’t fully consumed him. His clothes were even nicer, with a green jerkin and brown britches. He looked over those in line, speaking softly to a couple of them. The tarnished basket pommel of a sailor’s cutlass jutted from a red sash he wore as a belt.
Close behind stood a tall man with red skin like a sunburn; his bare chest and shoulders covered with scars made into weird lightning bolt designs. His oily black hair was long, but only in a narrow strip flanked by a shaved, red scalp. The locks fell to the left, occasionally blowing over his eyes by the wind. I saw a dagger at his belt with a shiny white blade. Bone, I reckoned; possibly wood. On the other side of his belt rested a coiled lash that I took for a rope, save for the occasional sparkle of white sticking from it as it hung near to his knees. These were the weapons of a primitive; indeed, this one had the look of a savage about him, yet he stood as tall and proud as any here. I’d seen savages before; there were even a few of them in our group, dark skinned Plainsfolk with high cheeks and hard, hairless chins. This fellow seemed like them but taller and broader. The closer he came, the taller he was. He was one of the Tallfolk, a race of savages like the Plainsfolk who lived near the hot southern coast of the Horand Sea. I’d never seen one before. He hovered at the blond man’s side much the same way Antioc had with me when we first met; it had taken me a while to break him of it.
The next man was equal to me in height and build. We even had the same dark black hair, though mine was curly where his was s
tringy and straight. His snide smile reminded me unpleasantly of my own. The similarities ended there, however. Where I was refined, he was brutal and scarred, with an especially nasty reddish gash running down the left side of his face from his brow to chin. We were spared the image of an empty eye-socket by a black patch, held over his head by a black thong. He eyed us individually, head to toe, as though he were looking for someone in particular. Not finding them, he redirected his attention to the few female members of the assembly, especially Reiwyn. I thought it was funny until I noticed how she was looking back at him. The wick lit inside me again. She did seem to like the bad ones.
Finally came a squat fellow with hirsute arms that ended in huge, muscular hands. His hair was a rim of gray and brown circling a bald scalp, browned by the sun. He wore a gray robe stained with dirt, especially around the frayed ends that dragged on the ground as he walked. He didn’t spend much time looking at us, and the whole time gave the impression that he had other places he would rather be. I could identify with that.
The leader stopped halfway down the line, folded his hands behind his back and turned. The crowd backed away from him, reverent but not obsequious. No one lowered their heads and many kept eye contact with him before he turned again to face us, grinding a rut in the sand with the heel of his boot.
“Welcome to Forlorn.” His strong, commanding voice sent shivers up my spine. He reminded me of my father and brother both. Not normally a good feeling for me. “I’m Arn.”
That’s the Sand King? I could tell by the gasps and agape mouths of many of the others that the surprise was mutual. He didn’t look particularly kingly at all.
“This is Sharkhart, Ferun, and Melvon.” He gestured to the savage, the patched one, and the one in the dirty robe. “This is our home.” He ran his eyes from one edge of the line to the other. “It can be your home too, if you choose. This is no prison. You can stay or go.” He lifted a hand to the dock, where the skiffs and their crewmen waited, looking anxious to be gone. I identified with that feeling, too. “The boats will wait until you’ve heard the terms of your residency.”
Blackfoot crinkled his brow and looked at me. “Rules,” I whispered, leaning close enough that I could smell him over the sea. “He’s going to give us the rules.” The urchin nodded and resumed watching Arn give his speech. Antioc watched him, too. Reiwyn watched Ferun, while Uller watched Reiwyn watch Ferun. He was seething. It made me grin. I was seething too, but it made me happy to be better at hiding it.
Of rules, there were more than a few. Everyone had to work. Arn explained this, and said they’d be around to decide who got what job based on our individual skills and aptitudes. He went on about that for a while, going into detail about which of his minions were in charge of what. Arn ran the operations of the community. Ferun managed the ranging, foraging and general protection duties. That was a bit of a surprise; he looked less like a fighter and more like a raider, but I suppose those aren’t such different vocations. Melvon was, unsurprisingly, in charge of the workers, farmers and other base labor. He didn’t mention what Sharkhart did. He didn’t really have to. I imagined Sharkhart did whatever Sharkhart wanted.
By the end of his speech, my skin felt so hot I swore my sweat would boil. I rubbed the back of my neck and made a visor with my hand, hiding my eyes enough that I could glance at Reiwyn’s tanned, bare shoulders without her noticing. Even a layer of sweat and beach sand couldn’t mute the effect of her warm, inviting skin.
“You’re here for the same reason as the rest of us. You feel you have nowhere else to go. Your king has abandoned you and left you with no choice but to ride three months to the very end of the world.” He scanned us again. “But you do have a choice. Two choices, actually . . . for now. If you leave now you may arrange passage on the ship that brought you for a landing further east in the Spicelands of Ket, or maybe the arid plains of Ortoos. If you’re up for some light fighting, one of the mercenary companies there will be happy to take you on and send you to die fighting cannibals in the Stonecombs. Otherwise . . .”
He turned to the side and raised his left hand, open as though to catch the wind. The crowd of the unwashed parted like a high wave. Beyond them, at the end of the beach beyond a few squat huts and decaying wooden boardwalks hung from uneven posts in the sand, lay a gate. It was made in the same manner as the wall, of old wooden posts reddened by age and sea salt. The gate was open to a stretch of beach that seemed to run the length of the island behind the cruel stone spires and juts in the shallow sea’s edge. The sand was white like clouds, and reflected the sun so brightly that it nearly blinded me to stare too long.
“If you choose to stay and cannot abide by our laws, you are free at any time to take the White Road. At the end, you’ll find a second settlement called Drullcove. It is made up of far less savory company who will share your lack of respect for rules and order.” He looked at Sharkhart, his pale lips framed by the straw-colored goatee turned to a grin. “If you survive the walk.”
Two sunburned men with stone-tipped spears shoved the gate along the ground with a heavy groan from the aged iron hinges. I heard rust grinding off in little red flakes as it shut. Once closed, they secured the gate with a long wooden plank that barred the way from wall to wall. Then the skiffs left, unoccupied but for their crewmen who gave us not so much as a glance. I caught one of them, the oarsman who’d told Blackfoot to piss off the side of the boat, meet my eyes for a second. I thought maybe I saw pity.
I swallowed and looked away. First at my new home, until I could stand it no more, and then at my fellow newly-arrived exiles, all lined up for examination by the Sand King and his little court of misfits. I’d seen most of them on the ship. Fully half those who’d booked passage were bound for Forlorn. There were nineteen outside my circle, including the Brontish cityman Stree, who stood near the end of the line. When they came to him, Arn gave him a look-over and asked his trade. He told them he’d been a soldier, but wasn’t much good at it so he’d become a miner. They didn’t have mines on Forlorn, so they made him a farmer.
There were four like me, lesser sons of minor lords who had refused to fight. There were three daughters of lords as well, though they were here for different reasons. It was difficult for women to get exiled. They didn’t have to fight in the war, and they rarely achieved the positions of power that led to acts worthy of exile. Still, there were some things that could get a noble woman kicked out of the country. Infidelity against a noble husband, violating a marriage agreement after a dowry was paid, or just getting on a powerful rival’s nerves too much. Most commonly, it was for inducing a miscarriage, which the king considered infanticide. A common woman would have been hanged, but a noble so caught had two choices; become a cloistered cenobite daewife in a convent, or go into exile. Most chose the former.
I grinned, thinking about Reiwyn becoming a daewife. Likely, the stuffy robes alone would be her undoing. My little river woman had a sparse wardrobe, and I often wondered if she would have rather gone without clothing at all. It was a pleasant thought. Regardless, she hadn’t gotten that choice. Reiwyn was taken prisoner as a pirate, and spared only because she was so young and a woman. They’d given her the choice of hard labor or exile. Lucky for me, she chose exile.
Not surprisingly, few of the nobles had any useful talents for exilitude. Two of the men had been soldiers and were still in relatively good shape, so they were assigned to guard duty. Guarding against what I didn’t know, but we apparently needed guards, so they got drafted. One of the other men was too fat to fight, so he got sent to the kitchen. I guess they assumed a man who liked to eat knew how to cook. He didn’t seem happy with that assignment, but with Sharkhart hovering over, he didn’t complain.
The three ex-noblewomen were all put on kitchen and steward duty. “He better not put me on any of that,” muttered Reiwyn. “I’ll swim back to the ship if he puts me to making beds or stirring soup.”
I smiled and looked back at the line. Next came the two Vo
lteri, one man and one woman, both the same age, with the same general look about them: tall, pinkish skin with shaved heads and sharp noses. They could have been siblings. Their black-feathered, white-collared robes were ill suited to this climate, leaving their already flush skin moist with sweat. The female was somewhat attractive, if not for her shaved head and the grisly necklace of finger bones she wore. The male was a grim fellow with dark yellow eyes that reportedly left their targets uneasy, according to those on the trip who’d come close to him. Neither of them had said anything to us on the voyage.
Not surprisingly, when asked, the male told Arn he was skilled in corpse-tending. Not everyone in Morment burned their dead, among them being the Volteri. Also known derisively as vulture people, the people of Volter lived in a city of black and red brick on the southernmost edge of the Great Gray Plain. Beyond the city bordered the Frozen Marsh, a largely unexplored expanse of ice, frozen jungles and ancient ruins. It was from these ruins that the Volteri had come, thousands of years ago. Also from these ruins came their ancestors, though not quite in the same state as the Volteri. This was why there weren’t any soldiers from Volter among the ranks of Morment’s army; they spent most of their time stemming the flow of ghastly walking corpses from the marsh. How did they do this? With their own army of ghastly walking corpses. It wasn’t pretty. As such, they weren’t terribly popular with non-Volteri.
When addressed, the female did not reply. Arn addressed her again, but she only stared.
“She’s deaf,” said the other vulture, “And I think she’s mute.” His voice was high for a man his size, but had a hint of gruff to it, like he’d had a pox in his lungs when young.
“You don’t know her?” asked Arn, still watching the little Volteri woman. The vulture man shook his head. “Does she have a name?” She remained silent.
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