by K A Dowling
“I’m not going another step,” Emerala declares. “Not until you start telling me where that map leads—not until you tell me why you’re willing to let me die for it.”
Alexander stiffens, his gaze hardening as he gapes at Emerala through the falling snow.
“I saw it on your face,” Emerala continues. “Twice now, you’ve considered the benefits of letting me be killed by a captor. I don’t understand—in just a matter of days you went from treating me as if I were made of glass to tossing me aside the moment my life is on the line.”
“That’s not true,” Alexander insists, reaching again for her arm. This time, his fingers close around the sleeve of her jacket, his grip tightening like a vise. “You haven’t the first idea what’s going on.”
“Then tell me,” Emerala pleads. “Let me in on one of your secrets, for once. I’ve been onboard the Rebellion long enough.”
Her voice is drowned out by the resonant blast of a horn. The deep blast rattles her bones, sending her hair standing on end. Quick as lightning, Alexander closes the gap between them. His lips graze her ear, his breath warming her skin. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.
“Do you want to know why those men knew what they were doing?” he asks. “You’re right—they were drunk, but they weren’t drunkards. They’re hunters.”
Emerala pulls back, trying and failing to get a better look at his face in the darkness.
“Hunters?” she repeats, not following.
“When winter falls, the game migrates across the mountain pass. There is no food—not until spring. There are only the farms, and the cattle they keep there, well—” He trails off, staring into a gale of swirling snow. “There’s only human meat.”
Without another word, he turns and begins to march after their companions, his eyes scanning the dark line of trees. He drags Emerala unceremoniously through the snow, ignoring her cries of protest as she stumbles in his shallow wake.
As quick as it began, the horn falls silent. The feeble echo of its cry clings to the night like a specter. In the silence, a drumbeat begins. The slow beat sounds out a heavy march. Emerala freezes for a moment, nearly losing her footing in the snow.
Alexander doesn’t slow. He doesn’t look back. His grip upon her arm tightens as he pulls her deeper and deeper into the snowy wasteland, his cap pulled low and his eyes trained upon the dark horizon. In the distance, the steady drumbeat grows louder—closer.
“The men of the Eisle of Udire are cannibals, Emerala,” he calls over his shoulder. “Their hunt is beginning now.”
CHAPTER 17
Eisle of Udire
“Try and keep up, Rogue,” the Hawk barks over his shoulder, not for the first time. Emerala scowls at his back, shoving her boot into the snowy footprints that trail behind the pirates like breadcrumbs.
“If there are hunters on our trail, it hardly matters how fast we travel,” she says, sniffling against the cold. “We’re leaving six sets of footprints in our wake.”
At her side, Alexander scans the horizon. “Actually, we’re safe just as we are. The hunters won’t be anywhere near the Frost Forts.”
“I take it that’s where we’re heading?” Emerala asks.
“Aye,” the Hawk says. He shoves his captive in the back, forcing the burly man to stumble several steps forward in the snow. One finger jabs over the man’s shoulder, gesturing across the dark. “Look.”
Emerala follows the line of his finger, studying the swirling wall of white that howls across the landscape. For a long moment, she sees nothing but vague shadows and, beyond that, the black pitch of the mountain pass.
And then it appears—a yawning tower, as wide as it is tall, rising up from the snow like an ancient tree. The imposing fortress is stalwart against the storm; the grey stone and mortar as much a part of the frozen landscape as anything else. Several ribbons of light fall from sparse openings in the curved face, cutting across the untouched snowfall in swaths of gold. Emerala stands in the shadow of the tower, her mouth open as she studies the great, grey structure before her. The cold snaps at her cheeks like a whip.
“Move any slower, Rogue,” calls the Hawk, “and you’ll turn to ice.”
Emerala breaks her gaze away from the tower to see that the rest of her group has moved several yards ahead of her, making their way quickly towards the base of the stronghold. She rushes to keep up with them, nearly tripping and falling into a particularly deep footprint—most likely Thom’s.
Falling into step beside Alexander, she adjusts her cloak around her shoulders. “If they’re not hunting us, then where are they headed?”
It isn’t the captain who answers her, but the murderer.
“They’re making their way to the valley, over to the east,” Lachlan the Lethal says, falling into step to her left. “That’s where they round up all of their cattle.”
In spite of her well-laid plans to pretend as though the murderer doesn’t exist, Emerala can’t help but turn to him in surprise.
“Cattle?” she repeats, horrified. “But Alexander that that they were—”
“Cannibals, yes,” Alexander interrupts. Then, “There’s no need to frighten her, mate.”
Emerala feels suddenly defensive. “I’m not frightened. Just curious.”
At her left, the Lethal lets out a laugh like a bark. “Ye should be frightened, little fawn.” He grins at her, his blind eye as white as the snow. His sallow, unshaven face is pale against the colorless night. As he leans in close, Emerala catches a whiff of stale liquor and tobacco. The smells cling to him like a second skin.
“When the long snow comes, the real game migrates over the mountain overpass. The natives here en’t equipped to make that kind of journey, and so they turn to the villagers to the east. They hunt their own kinfolk and take them to the farms to fatten them up for the harvest. Years of doing that—of feasting on man—will do a body harm. Make a mind begin to unravel.” He jabs one dirty finger against the side of his head. “It’s beasts that live here, not men.”
Emerala gives an involuntary shudder, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Discomfited by the proximity of the Lethal, she turns from him and focuses on the looming stone fortress. From where they stand in the snow, the commanding structure has nearly swallowed the night sky. It looms above them like a beast, the turrets looking to Emerala like great, stone teeth. A rounded doorway sits at the bottom of the keep, barred shut by thick, iron ingots.
In spite of herself, she turns back toward the Lethal. He is still studying her through his one good eye, a grin on the lower half of his face.
“What will they do to us?” she whispers, hoping that the howling wind is enough to mask her voice from the Hawk and Alexander. The last thing she needs is for them to think her frightened. Next to her, the Lethal lets out a laugh like sandpaper.
“If they decide to eat us, ye mean?”
She says nothing, her stomach churning at the very thought.
“They won’t,” he says. His eyes twinkle and he adds, “At least not right away—you’re naught but skin and bones, hardly fat enough for a feast.” He pinches her arm and she jumps, wrenching herself from his grasp.
“That’s enough,” Alexander commands, now several steps ahead. His shoulders are stiff against the cold as he draws to a standstill before the doors. “King U’rel may be a man-eater, but he isn’t a savage.”
“Are you sure of that?” the Hawk asks, eyeing the ominous slabs of pointed steel, like spears, that adorn the gate.
“We have his hunter and a few of his coveted rubies,” Alexander replies. “He’ll hear us out.”
Thom grunts loudly at that, although whether in agreement or otherwise, Emerala cannot tell. She watches, her heart rate quickening, as Alexander raps loudly upon the door. For a moment, nothing happens.
And then, as if pulled by an invisible hand, the door opens with a low creak. The expanse beyond is as dark and as cold as the night air. Below the howling wind, a soft whispering seems to spill o
ut across the snow. Alexander frowns at the doorway, gesturing silently for the Hawk to lead his captive inside. The Hawk obliges, shoving the native so forcefully that the man nearly loses his footing upon the slick stone underfoot. They disappear into the darkness, one after the other. Alexander stands at the door and waits, his ear cocked as he waits for a signal. The howling wind tugs at the tail of his jacket, threatening to tear his cap from his head.
A moment passes, and then there is a whistle—the pitch high and sharp. Alexander heads through the opening, gesturing for the remainder of the crew to follow. The room beyond the door brings no reprieve from the chill of winter’s air. Emerala stomps her boots on the grey flagstone underfoot, drawing her cloak tightly about her shoulders. Outside, the wind shrieks like a starving beast, buffeting into the great, stone fort as if a single gust might be enough to fell the entire structure.
The thought makes Emerala uneasy. She rubs her hands together, exhaling against her fists in a futile attempt to warm her fingers. Her breath hangs, grey and damp, before her lips.
“It’s dark,” she observes. Glancing around the cavernous room, she takes in the rows upon rows of high, narrow tables that span the length of the room. Her voice bounces off of the high ceiling, resonating across the shadows with an eerie echo. “And empty,” she adds, feeling unusually grim.
“Where is everyone?” Alexander asks, his question aimed at no one in particular. He ambles up to the nearest table, running a forefinger across the surface. Bringing his thumb and forefinger together, he inspects his skin for dust. “It looks like its only just been abandoned.”
“They’ve all gone to prepare dinner, I’d reckon,” the Lethal mutters. Emerala notices as his grip upon his dagger tightens. “Meals are a communal effort here in the Eisle.”
Something in his voice causes a shiver to run down the length of Emerala’s spine. A smoky, cloying odor permeates the room. It churns her stomach. She tries not to think about what might be roasting in the kitchens. Tries, and fails.
A thud causes her to jump, her heart rising into her throat. Several hammers click into place on several pistols as the group turns their weapons toward the source of the sound.
“Err,” mumbles Thom, standing astride an overturned chair. He gives a sheepish wave, averting his eyes. “Sorry.”
The Hawk spits out a curse, lowering his gun. “Dark Below, are you trying to get us all killed?”
“En’t trying t’do no such thing, mate,” mumbles Thom, looking thoroughly apologetic.
“Aye, well, keep it together you clumsy bastard.”
“That’s enough,” Alexander admonishes, flashing the Hawk a steely glare.
The groan of hinges brings their attention to the far side of the room. A door, all but invisible against the dark stone walls, is swinging slowly open. Flickering candlelight sweeps across the overlarge flagstone, bathing the crew in a square of gold.
“Captain Mathew of the Rebellion” croons a voice. “Please, come in.”
The voice, husky and stilted, belongs to that of a woman. Emerala notices as Alexander and the Hawk exchange silent glances across the dark expanse.
“He goes first,” Alexander orders, gesturing toward the prisoner.
“Aye, Cap’n,” the Hawk says, shoving the burly man through the wide opening and into the well-lit room beyond the doorway. Alexander follows close upon his heels, holstering his gun.
“In ye go, then,” barks the Lethal, giving Emerala a boost as he hurries her along through the doorway. Thom falls into step behind them, his fingers hovering upon the hilt of his sword.
The door swings shut as soon as they have gathered within the brightly lit room. Emerala jumps, glancing over her shoulder. No one is there. She swallows, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable with the whole affair. Next to her, Lachlan the Lethal stands at attention, his fingers steady and his features carved from stone. She takes inexplicable solace in his composure, and finds herself inching a step or two closer to him. The tobacco stink that clings to him like a shroud is a comforting change from the acrid smell of burnt flesh that seems to ooze out from between the stones. He hardly notices her approach, so focused is he upon the looming throne that sits at the far end of the low room. Emerala follows his gaze, her attention landing upon a slender woman clad in assorted furs. Her high cheekbones are taut as she surveys the crew from behind rich, honeyed irises. Her hair, knotted and thick, falls past her shoulders and down onto the floor of the room. Around her neck she wears a multi-tiered necklace of pearl white stones.
Teeth.
Human teeth.
Emerala gapes at the necklace, her stomach feeling more than a little ill. The woman rises from her throne and Emerala notes with a start that the chair upon which she has been seated is adorned with thousands upon thousands of blood red rubies. Even more startling, however, is that the chair itself, ivory and resplendent beneath the flickering sconces on the wall, is made entirely of bone.
“Captain Alexander Mathew,” she croons, her broken accent alluring. Her ruby red lips unfurl into a smile. “Good of you to come. I have always had a fondness for Mathew men.”
Alexander hesitates, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly. Emerala fights the urge to roll her eyes.
“You knew my father?” Alexander asks.
“Oh, yes,” the woman murmurs, delighted. “I did.”
“He’s been here before?”
The smile on the woman’s face fades ever so slightly. “You ask a lot of questions, Alexander Mathew. Strange, that you would be so, how you say, brazen, when my kin remains in your captivity.”
One talon like finger, the tip filed to a point, unfurls as she gestures languidly toward the man who kneels upon the floor at the Hawk’s feet.
“My turn to ask. Yours to answer, and answer true. What is the meaning of this?”
“We’d like an audience with the king,” Alexander says.
“Is that so?” asks the woman, biting back a smile. “You may have it. Speak.”
Alexander pauses, swallowing as he inclines his head respectfully. “If it’s all the same to you, we came here to speak with King U’Rel.”
The woman laughs, and the sound is like the resonating of bells. “He is here,” she says, fingering the necklace of teeth that rests against her collarbone.
Alexander falters, stammering before saying, “I don’t understand.”
“Simple,” the woman says, and shrugs. She steps down from the dais of rubies and bone, moving closer to the crew. She walks as if she’s dancing through water, the deep burgundy folds of her gown rippling against an unseen current. “He’s dead. I am king, now. King Ha’Rai.”
Her honeyed eyes fall onto the man upon his knees.
“Tur’ret, ueu pa no Fi’ito come thetal?”
The man frowns, shaking his head. “Si’fi, ueu tur’ap Fi’ito ams e’te.”
Ha’Rai’s attention snaps back upwards. She studies Alexander through eyes that have gone cold. “Tur’ret tells me you killed my best hunter.”
“My crew isn’t always the most practiced in patience,” Alexander says.
“Who killed him?”
The Lethal clears his throat, a barely concealed smile prying apart his lips. “That would be me, I’m afraid.”
“Your name,” Ha’Rai commands.
“Lachlan the Lethal, at your service.” He pulls his cap from his head and dips his chin downward in a derisive bow. His bald scalp gleams red in the firelight.
Surprise flashes across the woman’s lovely face, and her honeyed gaze slips back towards Alexander. “The assassin,” she muses. “You harbor murderers on your ship?”
“Accidentally,” Alexander says, shrugging as though it could not have been helped.
“Mhm,” the woman breathes, pressing her blood red lips together as she draws up short just inches away from Alexander. One pointed fingernail traces a trembling circle on a brass button at his lapel. “If your father were here, he’d expect you to take more re
sponsibility than that, Captain Mathew. You are the master of your ship, are you not?”
Beneath the shadows, Emerala sees the hint of a wince on Alexander’s face. Before he can rustle up a retort, Ha’Rai is speaking again, her fingers dancing down the length of his jacket.
“It is a little boy’s game you are playing, Captain—allowing yourself to be dragged along without knowing where it is you are going.”
“I don’t—”
She shushes him with a finger, pressing it lightly against Alexander’s lips. It trembles against his skin, and Emerala notes that the tremor seems an odd contrast to the woman’s practiced reserve. Against the firelight, Alexander’s cheeks flush a duplicitous shade of crimson. Emerala finds herself repressing yet another eye roll as Ha’Rai turns her attention to the captive that kneels on the ground before the Hawk. When she speaks her native language, her words drip, sticking and sweet, from her lips. Her mastery of the language is a surprising contrast to the halting, butchered dialect produced by Thom.
She falls silent, listening carefully as the man on the floor offers up a reply, his consonants sharpened like spears. At the front of the room, Ha’Rai’s expression turns first to surprise—then to anger—before passing once again into a placid, flawless countenance. She turns to Alexander, running the tips of her nails along a ring of bone that sits on her thumb, the bleached porcelain stark against her bronzed skin.
“You take my rubies?”
“Borrowed,” Alexander corrects, appearing to have regained some of his decorum. “And we have every intention to return them to you.” He gestures towards the Lethal. Flashing a grin to no one in particular, the murderer pulls open his tattered black jacket and pulls out the ripped parcel. He tosses it on the ground before his feet, allowing the glittering rubies to clatter across the flagstone.
“Safe and sound,” he declares.
Ha’Rai stares at the jewels and says nothing. A crease forms between her finely plucked brows as she continues to play with the ring of bone.