Monsters & Mist

by Taylor Fenner

  Daegan stood outside the double doors leading into the sparring room knowing full well that he should turn around as the princess shucked her massive dress into a heap on the floor and stepped out in only her shift.

  When Daegan had entered Princess Andromeda’s bedchamber earlier this evening to escort her to the masquerade and saw her in the teal and sky blue confection his breath had frozen in his lungs, but now seeing her in the thin fabric that ended at her mid-thigh Daegan could not tear his eyes away even if he wanted to; propriety be damned.

  Queen Carina’s orders specifically stated that Daegan was to stay close to Andromeda at all times. If anything were to happen to the princess on his watch it would not be just his family’s honor he would lose. Andromeda was unpredictable and feisty. Daegan could tell she hated every second she had been in the grand ballroom among the courtiers. True to the nature of the Perscesian nobles they had openly flaunted their looks and their whispers until the girl had no choice but to sprint from the room or lose her mind entirely.

  Now Andromeda ran her hands along the rows of weapons, admiring the craftsmanship of the hilt of a sword, testing the spikes at the end of a mace, examining the net launcher up close. She was completely at ease.

  Daegan watched as Andromeda lifted one of the swords from its rack and held it flat on her upturned palms, testing its weight. Nodding approvingly Andromeda wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the pommel and tried a few practice swings to get the feel of the blade.

  Andromeda’s arm became an extension of the sword as she began swinging the blade in a rhythmic motion, her body mimicking the movement like a dance as her feet advanced and retreated. Daegan had never seen anything like it. Admittedly, the Perscesians had a very distinct means of defending themselves against the Landborn. Their mother goddess, Faeta had blessed them with an intoxicating aura. Landborn peoples were unable to resist a Perscesian’s charm once they’d set their sights on them. They could make a Landborn go insane, could numb their senses as they slid a blade across their throats. A Perscesian of the royal family could even plant the idea in a Landborn’s mind to slit their own throat.

  When a Perscesian did need a weapon they used net launchers that trapped victims in unbreakable nets made of Mellouk’s own misty tentacles that subdued the victim until the killing blow. Blades the same as Andromeda held in her hand were also used by the Perscesians, but the way Andromeda moved was like an art form.

  As Daegan took a step back to move into the shadows and leave Andromeda in peace his foot caught on the edge of a stone croc sending it skittering across the ground before shattering against the palace wall.

  The sound was loud enough to tear Andromeda from her reverie as the sword slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Her face was flushed from exertion which made the whiter spider webbing scars on her face more predominant. The circlet Queen Carina had placed on Andromeda earlier in the evening was askew atop her head with strands of hair tangled around the intricate metalwork. Andromeda stood frozen staring through the double doors, her eyes locked on Daegan’s for a heartbeat, then two.

  Finally, Andromeda broke the spell between them and moved quickly to shimmy back into her frilly gown. Vacantians, Daegan remembered from the few times he’d stolen ashore, were much more strict on the amount of skin their women were allowed to show in the presence of a man.

  Daegan cleared his throat and felt the armor of his professionalism snapping into place as he opened the doors and slipped into the training room.

  “Your Highness,” Daegan bent his head and grimaced at how shaky his voice sounded.

  ❖

  Cygni

  Cygni had been traveling with the Order of the Thorn and the mountain cat who had yet to leave his side for what felt like months. Leaving the mountains and driving their mounts through the foothills had been rough but when Rolfe pushed them west to the coast Cygni wished for the untamed beauty of the mountains.

  The coast was a bleak place bordered on one side by barren, blackened fields soaked with rain water and on the western side by the choppy black sea. Cygni knew the coast was dotted with tiny villages but he’d never traveled to them when his father went to survey the lands. It was a known fact that they were the home of the poorest citizens in Vacantia, but the sight that met them when Rolfe and Cygni led the Order into the first village they came upon was eye-opening.

  The village dwellings had been reduced to blackened ruins and smoldering piles of ash. The villagers that could be seen threw debris in piles and tended to wounded while a few unlucky souls dug a mass grave. Bodies were strewn everywhere. Bloody, broken bodies frozen forever in a death mask of terror.

  “You there,” Cygni tugs on the reins of his mount and calls out to a young boy watching the clearing of the debris. A small doll made of straw is clutched under his left arm as he sucks his right thumb. “What happened here? Was there a Mistborn attack?”

  The boy looks up at Cygni with wide, frightened eyes that flit from Cygni’s black mount to his black cloak and borrowed clothes to the worn boots handed down from a member of the Order. “They burned it, Sir.”

  “The Mistborn?” Cygni asks.

  “Burned it?” Rolfe echoes beside him.

  The boy shakes his head, “Not the Mistborn, Sir.”

  “Then who did?” Cygni asks the boy softly so as to not spook him.

  “The Warriors, Sir.” The boy’s voice quivers. “They dragged people from their houses and burned everything down in the middle of the night.”

  “Are you sure it was the Warriors?” Rolfe inquires. “The Watierai Warriors from the South, truly?”

  The boy nods, “Yes, Sir. A small group of them, men and women both. The leader was a big hairy man. He came into our house and took my mommy. I can’t find her anywhere. Can you help me?”

  The little boy begins to cry as an older woman shuffles over and wraps her arms around the child. “There, there, Agon. All will be well. You will come stay with me.”

  The boy sniffles and looks up at the woman as the members of the Order and Cygni look on, helpless to replace what was taken.

  As the boy shake’s off the woman’s embrace and wanders away the woman watches him go and shakes her head sadly. “Poor child. His mother was burned alive by the Warriors for being a suspected Mistborn. I doubt those savages would know a true Mistborn maiden if she came up and did a dance for them.”

  “And there was no threat from the Mistborn?” Rolfe asks. His forehead is creased in confusion. “No provocation? They just slew innocents out of the blue?”

  “They said they were acting on orders of Queen Lyra.” The woman spits on the ground. “That murderess is no queen of mine, I tell you. Done in King Pavo and turned the council against Prince Cygni, she did. She works Baster’s magic I tell you! The blood of the Waterborn scum run through her veins. They’re all cursed by Zarouk.”

  “Where did these Warriors go?” Cygni asks. “After they left the village, which direction did they head?”

  The old woman juts her chin in the direction they’ve just traveled from. “They went north, they did. To join with the usurper and the Royal Vacantian Army in Vanyia. I heard two of the Warriors talkin’ about it while I was hiding among the roots at the base of Nalley’s statue in the village square. They didn’t see me, the fools. And they call themselves the best of the best.”

  “Thank you for your information,” Rolfe flicks a coin toward the woman who snatches it up eagerly.

  “What do we do now?” Cygni asks Rolfe under his breath.

  “We ride on,” Rolfe urges his horse on. “We need to know if we have any allies left in the South.”

  ❖

  Octavia

  Octavia follows The Three up the hill to what they call the ‘Sky Palace.’ The women are silent, their hands tucked into the sleeves of their robes and the smiles on their faces are so carefree and relaxed Octavia can’t believe they’re real. Not when she grew up in a world of dour faces and the s
lanted mistrusting eyes following her everywhere she went.

  Not a soul guards the palace, further evidence that the Starborn kingdom is so different from the land Octavia left behind. She hurried to keep pace with The Three even as she feels her muscles scream in protest.

  “We have tonics and poultices for your aching muscles, my child.” The Three speak as one.

  “I appreciate it,” Octavia murmurs, wondering how The Three noticed her pain. Surely she didn’t flinch. Years with the Warriors had taught her to mask any sign of pain as it could be used against her in battle.

  The Sky Palace was glaringly white and if you reached out and touched the walls Octavia suspected you would find that they were made of hardened clouds. The corridor beyond the massive doors into the palace were sterile white, not a drop of color on the walls, the ceiling, or the floor.

  The Three lead Octavia through the palace, keeping their destination to themselves. They passed young women with face tattoos like Octavia’s learning a complicated looking sparring technique using a flurry of footwork while they battered each other with long wooden staffs.

  Octavia paused to watch the women, entranced by their grace.

  “Come along, my child.” The Three instructed without turning back to face her.

  The corridor seemed to stretch on forever before The Three led Octavia into a brightly lit room with floor to ceiling windows and a glass ceiling that showed off the sky above. In contrast, the floor of the room was tiled with gold and yellow tiles in the pattern of the sun that Vacantians so rarely saw. Plant life grew up and down the walls, vining out like long, leafy snakes.

  In the center of the room floating on a cloud sat the most beautiful woman Octavia had ever seen. The Three kneeled at the woman’s feet and Octavia quickly followed suit. The woman’s skin was tanned as if she spent many hours soaking up the sun and her golden hair hung in thick waves to her waist. A circlet of stars crowned her head and a strip of golden paint ran a line across her pale blue eyes like a sparkling mask. The woman’s mouth was curved into a welcoming smile as she beckoned Octavia forward.

  “Welcome, Octavia.” The woman’s voice was every bit as musical as The Three as she crooned Octavia’s name.

  “How do you know my name?” Octavia asked, her voice coming out strangely breathless.

  “I know all of my children’s names,” The woman flicks her wrist. “After all it is my blood that gave you life as it dripped from the land of the god’s before my banishment.”

  “Are you…” Octavia didn’t know quite how to ask.

  “You will know my name to be Adventrya, Goddess of the stars and the skies.” The woman inclined her head slightly. “And you, my child, have come to us to ask for help for your adopted kingdom.”

  “How did you know?” Octavia hates how simple she sounds as she shoots a glance at The Three. Hadn’t they said her arrival had been foreseen?

  “All Starborn children are sent down to the lower kingdoms in their youth, barred from coming home until the stars show them the way. Some come to train among the Starborn riders, our avian army who protect the skies astride star-speckled birds called stormriders. Others come to learn of the magic in their blood, the only true magic in all of Esternwhorl. But you, your stars would only align when the time came to return home and rally an army to fight a corrupt queen.”

  “And will you answer my plea?” Octavia challenges the goddess.

  “All in good time, my child.” Adventrya’s smile is sly as she rises from her cloud and leaps to the tile below. “But first, you must prove yourself worthy of leading the Starborn fleet.”

  ❖

  Cygni

  The horror Cygni and the Order saw in that first village was only a taste of what would meet them all along the coastline. Each village along the western coast of Vacantia had been decimated, leveled to the ground. In most cases only scorched dirt remained to outline where homes once stood.

  While there had been maybe twenty survivors of the brutality inflicted by the rogue Warriors in the first village, there would be no more to be found anywhere further south. Men, women, and children alike had died in the villages leading to the Warrior camp. Nobody had been spared from flame or dismemberment or hanging. Cygni couldn’t decide which fate was the worst.

  In all there were ten villages between Vanyia and the Warrior camp, the two poles of Vacantia. After leaving the foothills they’d traveled through the remains of seven villages. Hundreds of lives extinguished, souls lost forever.

  The men of the Order and Cygni had stopped in each village to search for survivors, and pray to Baster to see these lost souls safely into the undrawhorl. The first time Cygni came upon the blackened remains of an infant he raced into the brush and retched till dry heaves rippled through him. The process of searching for survivors and offering their prayers tacked days onto their journey, but it was necessary. Not a single man complained.

  They were all weary by the time the Warrior camp rose in the distance. They’d seen such devastation. Would they be met by friend or foe at the Warrior camp?

  Chapter 16

  Ezra

  The young man stood on the shoreline, hands balled into fists at his sides as he glared out at the calm, black waters of the vast sea.

  First, his son had been taken. Stolen away into the night to a place he swore he would never return to. The loss had nearly broken his wife. She’d stopped eating and she had begun standing at the window each night, holding her sides and staring blankly into the night hoping baby Wink would be brought back. Midge’s dark wavy hair became limp, her cheekbones hollowed, and her clothes hung off of her body from all the weight she’d lost yet none of it mattered to her. This was not the woman he’d fallen in love with. The woman he’d fallen for took great pride in her appearance and often remarked that just because she was piss poor didn’t mean she had to look like she was. If Midge had been acting herself she would have dabbed a poultice under her eyes before bed to erase the deep purple circles cropping up beneath her once vibrant silver-gray eyes. But the young man feared that woman was lost to him forever.

  Then, three nights past a darkness spread over the village and he and Midge had woken to the sounds of crackling wood and frightened screams. Men shouted and wood exploded as doors were kicked in.

  The young man had begged his wife to stay hidden but in the end it hadn’t mattered. The men that kicked down the door to their modest home were massive brutes of men, more hair than flesh and outfitted in strange, slippery uniforms that had slipped through the young man’s grasp when he’d tried to slam one into an exterior wall. The man had flung him aside like he was made of nothing at all as his comrades tore the house apart.

  Midge’s screams told the young man that she had been discovered and there she appeared in the doorway between the bedroom and the living area. Her long dark brown hair was gripped tightly in the fist of the largest brute in the group as he dragged her by her hair through their home.

  “Ezra,” Midge screamed his name her voice bordering on hysteria. He’d tried to go to her but found himself thrown to the ground and held down by the booted foot of another of the brutes. Ezra struggled to get free but it only gained him a kick to the face.

  Midge’s screams increased in volume and the brute holding her captive only paused his dragging of her long enough to backhand her into silence. Ezra roared in anger and bucked his hips trying to wiggle free from the brute — he refused to think of him as a man - holding him down but it only garnered him a sharp blow with the hilt of the brute’s sword.

  As Ezra had faded from consciousness the last sight he saw was his beloved wife being dragged out the door and into the night. Now she was lost to him too.

  When Ezra came to he was confused. The last thing he remembered was being inside his home yet now he blinked up at the gloomy morning sky above him. He tasted grit in his mouth and as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand it came away coated in black dust. Forcing his eyes open wider and grimacing
against the pain in his skull and his ribs, Ezra managed to sit up. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

  His home, the walls which had held so much love and laughter and passion was gone, reduced to rubble. All that remained were the charred ashy remains of the structure and furniture Ezra had made for his bride as a wedding gift. But it was worse than that.

  As Ezra wiped ashes from his eyes he saw that what was once a small but bustling coastal village had been completely wiped away as if blotted out by the cruel god above, Zarouk.

  Ezra wept for all that had been taken from him, wept until his sorrow turned to fury. And finally, when he thought he could not summon another tear he pushed himself to his feet and, clutching his broken ribs the entire way, dragged himself to the coastline.

  Ezra had stood there for hours, glaring at the sea and becoming angrier at the thought of all he had lost. What had become of Midge? Had the brutes killed her? Ezra had seen the charred remains of many of their friends and neighbors as he stomped his way to the shore. Or had the brutes taken her, and if so, for what reason? The possibilities made Ezra sick.

  And so, with nothing else left to lose, Ezra stripped off his ash-stained clothes and dumped them in a pile on the shore. He barely had to think the thought before he’d faded into a million particles, one with the mist hanging over the sea. It had been so long but the shifting states of being came as easy to Ezra as breathing, on land or in the sea. He came together bobbing in the waves.

  The sea remembered him, the sea always remembered one of its’ own. Ezra let the feeling of the familiar wash over him, hating how much he felt connected with the sea. He had struggled for years against its’ call, promising to never return to the water’s edge.

  But now Ezra must. He must return to the one place he swore to never see again. He dove beneath the waves, his lungs expanding happily with the intake of the sea as he swam down, down, down. Back to the Perscesian capital city, Faeloria. The city of his birth.