Pernik wore a crisp uniform, freshly washed and pressed. His hair, dark brown with specks of gray, drooped over his ears and forehead, and shallow wrinkles creased his face. Thin but not frail, he moved like water over a boulder, hampered by the barrier of age but unwilling to let it overpower him.
The old officer drew closer, trailed by eight other men.
Irreor stepped from the shadows with a wry grin. "Took you long enough. I said come after dawn, not wait until the sun is high."
"Ran into trouble, boy," Pernik said. "Some fool brought a cow into the city. A cow! Bastard near caused a riot, so we had to skip fair wide of it, else we would've been drawn in."
Irreor scanned the other men, the men he hoped he could trust. They were rough, mostly bearded fellows with frayed armor and steely eyes. Each wore a polished longsword, and daggers jutted from two others' belts.
They returned his examination with steady, confident stares.
Pernik cracked his knuckles and winced. "Ah, these cursed mornings are getting too early, boy—"
"No," Irreor snapped. "Don't call me boy. It's how you knew me as a child, and I appreciate that, but it's not what I am now."
"Irreor," Bran said. "I don't think he meant—"
"I don't care what he meant, Bran." He glared into the eyes of each man and, after a long second, each blinked and looked away. "I lead. You follow. Anyone who has a problem with that leaves now."
"You've got more of your father in your blood than I'd have ever thought," Pernik said with a gruff laugh. "I remember the first day he looked at me like that. I thought my shaking legs would dig right into the ground."
"He respected you, just as I'll respect you. But if we're to do this, you'll listen to me as you did him. We need to establish that now, before we go any further."
Pernik stroked his chin, looking to Irreor's sword. "You still know how to use that?"
"Better than most, perhaps worse than some."
A tall, lanky man with a patch of grime smeared across his forehead said, "What should we call you, then?"
"We should call him General," Pernik said. "That or Ark."
Irreor's blood froze.
The voice's invisible thread slithered between his shoulder blades as if just awakened. It didn't speak, but something about the way it touched him, a gentle yet hated caress that tickled the hairs of his neck, forced him to squeeze his teeth together. It had always called him General, and Bran had heard a man speak the same words.
Coincidence?
It must be. Void take me, it can't—
Kipra's musical voice chimed through the warehouse. "He's also a pompous ass."
The men pivoted to her, and she marched forward to stand beside Pernik. All eyes followed her as if she were a wagon full of gold. Like a few nights earlier, she wore leather armor. Two shortswords swayed from her belt, and she squared her shoulders.
Irreor forced iron into his tone; he couldn't let her dominate him. "I'll not bend because of your tongue. I've very little tolerance for it, especially now, and I'll treat you just like any other."
She jutted out her chin, but her eyes laughed at him. "I'm not asking for special treatment."
This will be interesting, if nothing else. "Pernik, find a gateman named Gell. Four days ago he was working the southern entrance, but I don't know if Crest still has him there. Bring him to me." Irreor swept a stern gaze across the others. "If you leave after today, I'll hunt you down and kill you. We can't let Crest know about this or it will jeopardize the lives of everyone."
A few men gulped, but none moved.
"Good," Irreor said. He strode back to the bag of coins, snatched it up, and returned to stand before his budding army. "There are eleven of us, hardly enough to oppose him directly."
"Then what do we do?" Bran muttered.
"Become shadows. Murder men. We'll disrupt Crest's power and force him to act. Everything he does will dig him deeper, and we'll pile his supporters' corpses on his doorstep."
The blacksmith paled.
"With eleven men?" Pernik said. "Twelve including you? Ark, this is a mighty large task."
"Indeed, but it gets worse. The rumors of Abennak invading are true. I've seen it for myself. I met the man, and he's warped beyond imagining. Crest is the first step, Abennak is the last."
Beyond the warehouse, something—like a caged, tortured child—shrieked again. The voice's thread slithered at the base of Irreor's neck, and he drew a deep breath, attempting to ignore both.
"Clear away the timber to open a space for training."
-My general.-
Chapter Thirty-Two
Villeen strolled along a wooden walkway above Rippon's port. Beneath her, the Ripple Sea sloshed against man-sized poles buried deep within the sand. Whitecaps crested and fell in a certain, comforting rhythm, even as salty wind brushed the city.
At her side walked Rokand, the Mad King's first general. A well-disciplined man, he wore a tidy, dark red uniform and a neatly clipped beard. He was also idealistic and stubborn—admirable traits in years past, but troublesome these days.
"Your ladyship," Rokand said. "I don't want to argue, but I can't agree to this. Alkar's not moved against us and Targ is defenseless. I don't have many men who'll attack women and children."
Villeen brushed a speck of dust from her robes. "Find someone who will."
A mass of huddled shops and dwellings sprawled beyond the docks, and a sea of people bustled within. Thick stone formed the base of the buildings, and smooth slate topped each roof. Ancient, rippled windows revealed dim, candlelit interiors where shadowy figures flitted behind the panes, as if each home represented a grim symbol of the city itself.
Mold grew upon it all, expelling a pungent aroma that tickled her nose.
It hadn't been there only weeks before, and many houses bore gouges where their owners had attempted to scrape away the sludge, though it had crept back into the crevices to blanket the walls with thin, twitching leaves.
Had it been placed by her father's hand? Was he strong enough to cover an entire city like this? She couldn't know for certain, but there was no other explanation. Mold didn't invade within a matter of weeks. If her father had planned it, he'd not mentioned it in his notes.
Not a hint or whisper.
What was its purpose?
Focus!
Time was a vicious little thing. It ticked and tocked its way to catastrophe, and Villeen had no choice but to follow. Her birthday loomed ever closer, now mere weeks away.
'Leaves will fall and then I'll give them war. I'll give them violence and blood and sorrow. My people will find their love. They'll know it and feel it. So will I.'
Was it so simple?
Thick green and brown mold grew on the few trees in the city, leeching away their nutrients. A late summer's heat hung over everything, yet the trees were withered and dry, not green and vibrant, and yellow and purple leaves fell in great piles.
The Mad King cackled at a bird, chirping and leaping high as if to snatch it from the sky. Her brother walked beside the king, arms folded into his robes and a brooding gleam in his eyes. He didn't agree with her plan regarding their father's instrument, but he couldn't convince her otherwise.
"Who will lead this attack?" Rokand halted, forcing her to face him. He folded his arms across his chest. "I won't do it, and I doubt any of the other generals—"
"No," Villeen said. "I'll lead them."
The Mad King giggled, spread his hands wide and splattered a mosquito.
Rokand sighed and shook his head. He'd grown up with the king. They'd played as children, and their wives had been the best of friends. The son of one of Rippon's wealthiest nobles, he'd served his King through the decades, and not even madness could break that loyalty.
"Fine," he said. "One warship, but no more. You do your business and come back the moment it's finished. Only attack Targ, or I'll call an end to all of this."
Villeen scowled. "We'll need to do more. Ready the armies to march—"
/>
"Wrong," Rokand said, and he peered at Abennak. "I'll not mobilize without permission. I answer to him, not you."
"Your king is insane!"
"I suppose he is, isn't he? But that doesn't mean I am."
"I could make you," Villeen said.
"Vill!" Fier gripped her shoulder and spun her around. "Those are lines we won't cross."
She shrugged him off and turned to the ocean's waves. Her gentahl rippled. It ignited a small, warming glow in her head, begging her to use it. Fier's hand slipped into hers, and she clenched it tight. She could've forced Rokand to do what she wished, but then she'd be no better than her father.
Unthinkable.
"Fine," she said. "One warship and no more. Make certain it's manned by killers."
Rokand grunted, neither a concession nor a denial, then offered a crisp bow to his King and stalked from the dock. A line of soldiers held back a crowd thirty paces from the harbor, and he slipped into the seething mass.
So many soldiers.
The past weeks had seen tournament after tournament—those who managed to win joined the army, those who lost struggled to feed their families. Rokand had ordered a camp built to the west of the city, beneath the mountain peaks, and most of the soldiers lived in hastily constructed tents. They wore patchwork armor and wielded an assortment of ridiculous weapons—pitchforks, spades, thick clubs, even a wooden rolling pin. Swords or daggers hung from some hips, but they were rare.
They commanded an army of bakers and farmers.
Abennak splattered another mosquito and licked it from his hand. "Kara says blood is better and better than wine. Me? I've always slurped the wine, but this blood, well, what else could a man or man hope for?"
"Yes, my King," Villeen murmured. "But maybe we should stick to the wine—"
"That wouldn't do at all." Abennak nibbled on his bottom lip, pouting. "We should stick and stick to the smile. To the kiss. The wine has a sour taste that I can't swallow or follow. Ah, but it was a good idea, wasn't it?"
"Indeed, my King," Fier said. "It was glorious."
People huddled beyond the soldiers, milling about with skin creased like a woman who'd lived a century too long, their eyes lifeless and abandoned. They spoke to one another in crackling tones, one bumping into another every few seconds.
Skin flaked and fell.
Under her breath, Villeen repeated her father's notes. "'I must have people to populate my island. They'll work the fields, live in the villages and cities, drive the economy. They'll give it life, and I'll treasure them. Families, children, laughter, love—I'll give it all to them.'"
"'Yet they need more,'" Fier said, finishing the passage. "'They need a king to command them, a general to defend them, and something to teach them emotion. Instrument. Catalyst. What can teach a man to love?'"
"I can't think about that right now. It's too much. I've got too many things to do."
"We don't need to do this, Vill."
Abennak giggled and skipped to his soldiers. He waved at them, screeching about a game of leapfrog. The youngest of his men cringed and inched away, though they had no choice but to indulge their king's wish. Within seconds they lined up, chest to back, bent down to allow Abennak to jump from one to another.
Again and again, the Mad King hopped.
"Yes, we do," Villeen said, disgusted at Abennak's game. True, she'd helped do this, but.... "Father will repeat his plan if we don't stop it. He'll build another prophecy, another thing for his bloody amusement."
Fier pointed at the Mad King's game, at the hordes of their father's lifeless creations, and at the moldy, stagnating city. "We need to work against him, Vill, not this. We're lying to ourselves if we think changing one thing will change it all."
Somewhere, in the depths of her heart, she agreed with him. Their island stretched only two hundred miles from north to south, and just over half that from east to west. It was barely big enough for two kingdoms, a handful of cities, and perhaps a few dozen small villages.
They should've already found their father.
"We're out of time," she said. "We don't have a choice."
"But what if we did? Would you take it?"
Rippon's people pressed together, oblivious to Abennak's laughter or the soldiers' fear, simply living here because it's where the Prophet had placed them. She understood, better than anyone, what these people truly were. Abominations. A child shrieked somewhere, but the roar of the crowd quickly drowned it out.
"See?" Fier asked. "You don't even want to find another option."
"Do you know of one?"
"No, but I think—"
"Don't think, know."
"Demon-damn, Vill, watch for one! Father will make a mistake, or all this is hopeless." He chewed the inside of his cheek, frowning at the mass of parchment people. "Why do they shed like that?"
She jerked her face to the side, unwilling to let him see her pain. He hadn't discovered her attempt to recreate their father's people, and now wasn't a good time to discuss it, not in the center of the city, amidst the mold and the waves and the king's game.
Not when she would watch Targ burn in three days.
The promise of Targ's destruction, of an empire rising from the ash, and of the Prophet's creations somehow understanding emotion—she held no proof it would happen, only a hollowness in her chest.
"Can they understand happiness or sadness?" Fier asked. "I wouldn't think so, if our father's notes are correct. They're something less than that, but what?"
"Fier, this isn't important—"
"It's just as important as anything else, at this point."
"But I've...." She fell silent.
He smirked, secretive and knowing. "Was it worth it?"
She swallowed hard. He knew she'd tried to create a person.
"I suppose in some ways it must've been," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Not so much in others, but what's done is done. Did you learn anything?"
Water crashed against the beach, spraying salty water against her cheeks. She wiped it away and looked at the king and his men. Even the soldiers were parched, and Abennak continued to hop over them, laughing and waving with each jump.
But his men didn't laugh.
Instead, they shied from him like a horse eying a whip. Flakes of skin fluttered to the ground, and the cracks around their eyes widened as they blinked. Some swayed back and forth, while others waited like statues.
"No," she told Fier. "These men know fear and little else."
"They're more than that. I know it."
"You're not angry?"
He snorted. "What you did was beyond stupid. Have you ever thought about what happened to Torden? He wasn't there, Vill. His mind had been erased. And yet, did he do it to himself, or did Father do it to him?"
She almost slapped him, but forced her hand to her side. This was the only thing worse than admitting her guilt. "What the bloody damn does this have to do with Father's creations?"
"He drove himself to nothingness. If he’d tried to stop Father with his power... well, we've no idea what would’ve happened. You want to find out? Keep doing things you shouldn't." He shrugged. "They'll find emotion—that's what Father promised. Vill, did you know what true sorrow was before our brother died?"
"Of couse I—"
"The kind that turns a gut to mush? Like when Abennak burned his wife?" He shook his head, and reddish-gray hair whisked across his face. "No, we'd never felt that until your knife pierced our brother's chest. We'd known happiness, but it held little meaning until we understood sadness."
Anger—sullen and simmering—touched her. Like the ocean swelling beneath her feet, it surged and rolled, wetter and wetter, until she realized tears stained her cheeks. "Don't you dare talk about Torden again."
"Vill, our father is trying to teach these things emotion. What better way to do that than a war? Make them suffer. Force them to realize what happiness is. True, it's a horrible way to go about it, but it's what he's doing
. Why can't you—"
"No!"
They fell silent, watching the king and his game.
"Wibbly wobbly woop!" Abennak shouted.
A girl wandered to the front of the crowd, pressed against the line of soldiers to watch Abennak leap over his men. Her bare arms were chalky and white, her hair thin, as if half had fallen out. Blackened eyes peered at the king with the faintest spark of life, and she swayed as if unable to find her balance.
"What's wrong with her?" Fier murmured.
"She's his," Villeen said as if that explained everything.
"See how her lips twitch, like she wants to find a smile? She understands it's there, but doesn't know how to grip it. A search to smile—ah, how short her life has been! A year? Two? How long since she was created?"
"Too long."
"And why don't any of them understand what they are? Abennak may know, but he's too steeped in madness to say anything. Why do only we see them? There must be a clue there. Our gentahl?"
"The book doesn't say anything about—"
"Burn the damned book! Use your eyes, Vill."
She did.
Somehow, the Prophet had clouded his plans. Impossible to detect, they dissolved like flour in boiling water. Only she and her brother recognized Kelnak's creations for what they were—parchment-like men and women, with the faintest hint of humanity.
Did that mean something?
It must.
"She's incomplete," Villeen whispered to herself, uncaring whether her brother heard. "Missing a vital piece. But they're dragging us to our deaths. They eat our food, fill our houses, sleep in our—"
"He's trying to forge an empire from them," Fier said. "What will happen if you alter his plans? Chaos and destruction and agony, that's what. His creations will be released without direction. Vill, nothing will change after your plans for Father's instrument."
Sadly, he was wrong.
She wished he wasn't.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Heavy rain battered the warehouse's wooden roof, just as it had for the past two days. The building proved old and in disrepair, and several holes in the ceiling allowed water to patter against Irreor's shoulders. A sudden summer heat transformed it into a wet, miserable, steaming mess.
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