The Two Kings

by Marian Gray

  He glanced and shrugged. “We are in the gods’ hands now!”

  I wrapped a leg around the mast in hopes that it would better brace me for impact. Just as the wave peaked, my lungs gulped down a huge breath.

  The tidal wave cried out in the chaos as it rolled in on itself, collapsing into the cold sea. A sudden boom snapped in my ears. White water sprayed and reared high all around us.

  The shrieking ship flew toward the land, propelled by the dying wall. I had never moved at such a pace. My entire body was frozen from both sheer excitement and dreadful fear of my impending death. Water rushed over me.

  VII

  Beggars

  The river’s current slid by the barge like oil along a sword. It licked down the fractured wood, exploring every crack and splinter. When it had its fill, the water trickled downstream to inform the sea of its carnage.

  I stood, shaking. Fear and disbelief still burrowed in my gut. My sopping wet clothes clung to my body as mud streaked down my cold skin.

  “We prayed to the gods that they would guide us on our voyage, and it appears your own father, Athiss, decided to answer our call with lightning in hand.” Svotheim’s slender fingers ran through his hair, pushing the wet strands back into their usual tie.

  I wrapped my hands around my skirt and twisted the cloth. A stream of water slipped between my fingers, reeking of oceanic brine despite the fresh water surrounding us. The sea had soaked into my every fiber.

  “Do you know where are we?”

  The landscape was drastically different than the one we had left—rolling hills, thick trees, and tall golden green grasses. Along the muddy bank grew bushels of yellow marguerite, and several low-hanging trees reached out across the river, draped in ivy vines. Thin limbs with broad leaves shaded us from the bright burning sun.

  “Near Rekkesov. If we push farther upstream,” he said, pointing in the direction opposite the treacherous ocean, “we should find the city.”

  I didn’t see how that could be, given the river took a sharp turn further down and looked to become strangulated by brush. “Are you sure?”

  Svotheim stared inland for a moment, pondering the question. “Absolutely,” he finally said. “We’ll just be coming in from a feeder instead of the main waterway.”

  That didn’t sound promising. “How many times have you been to Rekkesov?”

  “Once.”

  I drew in a long breath and allowed the exhale to burn through me before speaking. “Only once? How can you be sure the sea even spat us into the correct feeder?”

  “The islands.”

  “What islands?”

  “You didn’t see them during the storm when we rode the mighty wave?” The clack of boots sounded as Svotheim marched to the hatch. The square door was still in one piece, but the wood was drenched. His hand wrapped around the handle and yanked upward. “The entrance to Rekkesov’s river is guarded by several islands.” Kneeling, he peered into the small compartment. “Doesn’t matter anyway. We need food. It appears we have a leak.”

  I could’ve told him that without inspecting the hull. “How long do we have before it sinks?” I marched to him and peered through the open hatch. My satchel bobbed in the water as if to mock me.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. If an entire board is busted, we’ll be standing in the river within the next ten minutes. If it’s only a crack, we should have an hour or two.” He stood up, stretching his body to its full length. “Either way, we need to start heading inland. We can find food and lumber in the city.”

  My head tilted back to stare at the monstrous black cloud that sat over the ocean. Sparks of light burst in its hazy grasp as wind and rain swirled the water—going back out to sea wasn’t an option. “To Rekkesov then.”

  “Hand me your glaive.”

  The request caught me off guard. Why did he want my pole arm? Weapons were sacred—personal. You didn’t just share your blade with someone.

  I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh it off as a joke or perhaps explain his request but nothing came. With a hesitant heart, I leaned in through the hatchway and nabbed my floating spear. “What are you going to do with it?”

  His hand thrust out to me. “Just give it me unless you want to hop off this damn boat and do it yourself.”

  I didn’t want to place my weapon in his grasp. It had taken so many months for it to find its way back to me.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, noting my delay.

  “Nothing.” With a sigh, I placed the spear’s shaft in my master’s hand.

  A little smirk glided across his lips. My discontent must have been written all over my face.

  Without another word, Svotheim strolled starboard and thrust the pole arm’s tail end into the bank. The muscles in his arms and chest tensed, and the small boat began to drift away from the land’s edge.

  He paused, taking a breath, and then resumed his struggle with nature. “Sit down and grab an oar.”

  My heart dropped. My arms were feeble, and legs wobbly at best. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn’t even know if I had the strength.

  I slumped onto my rowing bench and nabbed a long oar. My eyes glared at the wrapped wooden handle. I should have thrown the thing overboard during the storm.

  Svotheim used the glaive to give one last push before joining me on the bench. The weapon was set between us just within an arm’s reach. Everything inside me yearned to pick it up and set it away from him, but I knew better. Svotheim had told me to row, and I was going to row.

  “Steady.” His fingers grasped his own oar. “This shouldn’t be as difficult as getting out of the bay, but there’s still a bit of a current to fight.” His feet locked into place, pressed against a wooden block. “On my mark.”

  The Varundian called out an easy pace that thrust us onward without burning my muscles into ash. Each pull on the long wooden arm sent my limbs into a shake. My shoulder blades stung with a sharp agony. A thousand needles dug into the surface of my back as exhaustion set in.

  The paddle sliced through the air and chopped into the water. Several times the knock of hidden rocks interrupted my rhythm, but I was set on finding Rekkesov. My mind ceased to think about anything other than rowing. Like a beast of burden, I struggled forward at the call of my master. Wet, soggy, and hungry, I pushed deeper to find the people of this strange land.

  “When we meet the Rekke—” Svotheim’s voice strained under the physical exertion of rowing. “Let me be the only one to speak. I haven’t seen the brothers in years, and I’m unsure how they will react to my presence.”

  “Did something happen last time you were here?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “But the two of them can be… difficult at times. One rules, while the other conquers—they have a rather tumultuous relationship.”

  “Which do we appeal to?”

  Svotheim sighed. “Both, unfortunately. We need King Erlend’s boats and Torram the Rival’s arm.”

  My brow scrunched. “Arm? You intend to convince him to fight in the Varundian ranks?”

  “No.” Svotheim’s voice tightened with a grimace. “Ark Ulfur means to have him lead our people into battle.”

  The air chilled at the statement. My eyes slid to Svotheim, but he angled his head away from me, guarding his gaze.

  So, it was within the Rekke that Ulfur searched for a new commander to replace Iver. I had seen Svotheim perk up when the Ark had mentioned the position. He wanted it. He was too humble and obedient to come out and say it, but the man wanted that title as sure as lungs needed air.

  “Is it just temporary or perm—”

  Svotheim held up his hand to silence me. His back straightened, ears perked, and eyes shot forward.

  “Low and quiet strokes,” he whispered.

  My row entered the water without a splash, cutting into the river like a warm knife through butter. The birds chirped sweet songs, and the trickling of water surrounded me. It was some time before I saw what had alerte
d Svotheim.

  Like billowing clouds, gold domes rose above the trees as we slid down the waterway. They glittered in the sun, gleaming in their extravagance. Their bases flared wide before drawing to a single, thin point. Atop the tallest dome sprouted a large ring. A sea serpent slithered around the hollow band, seemingly swimming in the clear blue skies.

  Our sinking barge rounded the sharp corner and the scenery altered. A ways ahead, the wild, overgrown shore had been beaten back. The ground looked worn and soft on either side of us, a sure sign that people frequented the area. The river widened from three to six boat widths. Tall, thick trees burst from the scene, and twisting vines stalked up their trunks. Their leafy tops were a bright green, with hundreds of wide leaves dancing in the sky.

  A wide, red stone harbor skirted down the river’s coast. Crimson sails colored the pale blue skies as tons of small boats dotted the docks. The city spilled out behind its waterfront post. Large red structures grew atop each other and spread wide along the pale roads. Their corners were rounded, and white tiled roofs gleamed with a pearly glow. Long glass windows were flung open to welcome the warm summer breeze, and pale chiffon curtains blew in the wind. Along the walls, white stones mixed with reds creating unique patterns.

  “This is Rekkesov?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s beautiful, no?”

  I nodded. The sight stole my breath. Where Varund preferred a utilitarian architecture and way of life, Rekkesov preferred a more artistic aesthetic with a lavish flair.

  “Boat approaching!” I heard someone shout.

  “Remember—don’t speak,” Svotheim whispered as he directed the ship toward an open spot at a nearby dock. “You should be able to understand them. Their language is similar to ours, but don’t let that confuse you. They are Rekke, not Varundians. Try them as such.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, but Svotheim ignored my question.

  “Ey!” A man called out as he sauntered down the pier toward us. His beige tunic was dashed with mud, and in one hand he carried a thick sword. “Ey! We don’t take beggars here!” His toes met the dock edge, and the blade was held out before him. It lingered only a few feet from Svotheim’s chest.

  Svotheim raised both his hands and opened each palm wide. “Easy.” His eyes narrowed onto the glinting metal before rising to meet the brute before him. “We are not beggars. We come in place of Ark Ulfur of Varund to speak with King Erlend and his brother, Prince Torram.”

  The man’s chin raised as he examined us. “If you’re not beggars, then why is your boat sinking and your clothes in tatters? What kind of ark sends the likes of you two in his place? A scrawny man with the height of a tree, and a woman dressed in slaves’ rags.”

  Even though his words were an affront, I couldn’t help but to be amused. The man spoke with a bumbling rhythm and a whimsical pronunciation. It was quite different in comparison to the hard, somber tones I had learned.

  “You see that?” Svotheim pointed toward the mass of angry black clouds resting over the sea. “We just sailed through that storm. For that reason we come to Rekkesov with soaking, ripped clothes and a boat that requires repairs.”

  The man lowered his brow to a more intense stare. “So, you are beggars then? Ripped clothes and ship in need of repair would make you such.”

  “Please, uh—what’s your name?” Svotheim’s voice dropped to a humble note.

  “Harbor Master.”

  Svotheim sighed. This man wasn’t exactly the most diplomatic, nor someone I’d expect to be titled ‘Harbor Master’. Why was he dressed in such simple and stained clothes?

  “We don’t have time to argue with you—whoever you are. Are you going to let us pass so we can speak with King Erlend or not?” I folded my arms. I was tired, dirty, hungry, and lacked the patience to deal with a silly beast such as the one before me.

  He shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” His blade fell to his side. “He’ll throw you out if you all are beggars anyway.”

  Svotheim’s head turned with a slow crank to look at me from over his shoulder. Relief caught in his face, but his narrowed eyes expressed a clear discontent. He had told me to keep my mouth closed, and I had disobeyed. But how could he be cross with me after I had provided us passage past the Rekke troll by speaking two sentences?

  VIII

  Northward

  We had only had a few days’ rest in Arus before we set out again. This time we were diving deep into the land, reaching the innards of the continent. My task was simple—travel to the villages, speak to the thanes, and reinstate tribute payments.

  But after everything I had been through, the quest felt monumental. I had been worked to the bone, and there was little left for me to give. I couldn’t imagine how my friends must have felt.

  Brungen’s squat black horse pulled alongside mine, slowing down to match pace. “Are you sure about those three?” He dipped his head back, directing my attention behind us.

  I glanced over my shoulder to spot the three Arusian volunteers, riding in a single row and chatting amongst themselves. Every now and then a laugh would break out amongst them. They looked to be in good spirits.

  “Yes, I am.” I turned back around. “My guard needed some rest after our month-long hunt, and there’s only three of them—they can’t overwhelm us. The numbers are on our side.”

  “I’m not worried about what they can do to Cirithe or Irska or myself,” he said in a low voice. “I’m afraid they’ll slit your throat while you’re sleeping. It only takes one person and one good slice.”

  “Brungen, they’re old enough to be done with the days of blind bravery but young enough to still want to find a leader that will carry them into greatness. They’re likely to be loyal.” I understood his paranoia, though. Taking Arus had distorted my view on reality and displaced my trust—especially when it came to Arusians. “If there’s anyone we need to worry about, it’s the thanes. If you thought the elders were petty, just wait until you meet these leaders. There’s something about people who rule small villages—they’re so overly aggressive.”

  “How do you know anything about thanes?” Brungen’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. “We’re both born and raised city-dwellers.”

  “My father—”

  Brungen cut me off. “Was a raider.”

  I nodded. “And he also—”

  “Traveled?”

  “No,” I hissed. “Will you let me finish?”

  He rolled his eyes, joking. “If I must.”

  “My father was a raider, yes, but he was a blacksmith first and foremost. Sometimes our work took us to the surrounding villages and towns—nothing as far away as Arus, but far enough away to have their own thanes that were not appointed by Ark Ulfur. These men were vicious and conniving. They thought everyone was after their property and title while they simultaneously plotted to steal a neighbor’s property and title. Never satisfied. Never sensible. Never calculated. They were reactionary.”

  Brungen nodded. “You think this is all going to blow up in your face when you demand tribute from them, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How do you plan to convince them to pay and not rise up against you?”

  “I’m going to use the one thing all men understand: strength. Is it the most clever of plans? No, but I want to use something they’ll remember. Something that is plain and easy to interpret.”

  “So, you’ll make your demand and threaten to kick their asses if they refuse?”

  “Exactly.” I nodded.

  “It worked in Arus.” Brungen shrugged. “Who’s to say it won’t work out here.”

  The seven of us huddled around the fire. The flames rose tall, licking at the dark sky and illuminating everything within a six-foot radius. I had been hesitant to light such a blaze because I wasn’t certain who it would attract, but we had numbers and I was sick of cold nights.

  “Now, there is a reason the hall is the only building in Arus with a stone and metal foundation,” Sigmun,
one of the three Arusians, said.

  His long thin hair was kept tied back, revealing high cheekbones and sharp angles. The blaze didn’t help. It cast shadows in the pits of his cheeks, making his appearance severe. “If the stories of our ancestors are to be trusted, the ark’s hall sits atop one of the tunnels the trolls dug in order to reach the surface of the world.”

  “Trolls?” Cirithe asked in a heavy accent, marked with soft words and a jumbled rhythm. “What are those?”

  “You don’t know what trolls are?” Ansel chuckled. It was an unusual laugh, marked with something that sounded like a hiccup at the end. But it wasn’t the first time I had heard it. The weird noise was endemic.

  “No, you ass,” Sigmun replied. “He doesn’t know what trolls are. Can’t you see he’s not one of us?”

  “Trolls, Cirithe, are made-up monsters we use to scare our children into going to bed,” Brungen answered. “They sleep during the day and are active at night, roaming the land looking for their next meal.”

  “They’re not made up,” Sigmun was quick to say. “They’re real. They’re the ones who give the spades their magic.”

  “Wrong,” Irska bit. “The spades get their magic from the gods. Did you not learn anything around here?”

  “And only a certain species of troll can perform magic,” I added.

  “No, that’s not true,” Brungen huffed, making his belly jump. “Because they’re not even real to begin with.”

  “I think they’re real. My father claims he saw one when he was younger, counting the last of the livestock one evening,” Irska countered. “The thing must have just woken up because it bumbled right by them as though he didn’t see them.”

  Sigmun turned to Cirithe. “Some of them aren’t very smart, but others are quite clever—you have to be careful if you ever come across one.”

  “He’s not going to come across one, because they don’t exist,” Brungen hissed. “Iver, please help me here.”