Legend says that the Eastron killed their god. Before we left the Bright Lands, we rose in force to show that we would never kneel to an absent spirit who claimed dominion over us. But it was not an often-told legend. At the Severed Hand, the idea of worship had been cast upon the fire long ago. The very concept offended our sense of self. We had no fate, we had wyrd. We made our own destinies and fought our own battles. No gods, spirits or men held dominion over me.
But we were not ignorant of the divine. Pure One legends tell of gods, distantly removed from man, striding through the void as giants. At Green Haven, a now-forgotten Tassalite trading port, they worship a gold giant, said to demand tribute in the form of greed. South of Four Claw’s Folly, a coven of Kneeling Wolves betrayed their kin to worship a flesh giant, who supposedly appeared to them from the distant void. Such tales filled the Kingdom of the Four Claws. There were as many gods as there were men to invent them. But the Sea Wolves would never stoop to such servitude.
But even we had legends. As vague as history was when it concerned the Battle of the Depths, it certainly recorded that Mathias Blood and his warriors believed the Dreaming God to be a genuine threat. Tomas Red Fang concurred, and the old spirit-master had instilled in me a subtle fear of the Sunken Men’s god. Not that I would admit this to Jaxon or my brother, but I feared a thing that I could not fight. A thing of flesh and blood could only pose so much threat to me, but a god? I didn’t even know what a god was. Did it have a heart I could pierce or a head I could sever? The statue suggested a being with limbs and a body, but was it a true representation of the creature? Or, more likely, simply a grotesque token used as a focus for worship?
Dark Wing had taken the statue from a small settlement, now uninhabited, that the Mirralite had tried to establish north of his forest. He’d attacked from the void, killing a hundred men and women across two days. He described hunting the last ten with his pack of dogs, each of whom he’d trained to hate Pure Ones. His philosophy was simple – invaders should not stop until they become conquerors. He still fought the Impurity Wars – the old conflict started by Sebastian Dawn Claw, the first Always King, and ended by Moon Blood Claw’s Bane, when he and his Pure Ones surrendered on the Isle of the Setting Sun.
Even given his wildness, Dark Wing had seen much of the world. He’d delved into dark places never reached by other Eastron, and learned more than he wanted about those places. To hear him talk, we now approached one of the darker things he’d seen.
We were nearing the coast. The smell of salt water had been present for the last few hours, and grew stronger the closer we edged to the rocky cliffs. Behind us was the edge of a twisted forest, comprised more of brambles than trees. Ahead of us was the Bay of Bliss – a horseshoe of basalt cliffs, with dozens of villages nestled amongst the rocks. Some were on the water’s edge, others positioned away from the sea on inland pastures, but all were in the low ground, and crawling with Pure Ones.
“I didn’t know there were so many Mirralite,” said Arthur, looking down on the numerous settlements below us. “Where’s the village we want?”
“The eastern point of the bay, beyond the forest,” replied Jaxon. “We can’t see it from here. Dark Wing was vague about the approach, but we should drop down from the cliffs and keep to the furthest pasture. With luck, we can get there without passing another village, or getting too close to a farmstead.”
“After you, Icicle,” offered Arthur, sweeping his hand towards the eastern cliffs.
Jaxon picked his way through a thin bramble-framed pathway and began to drop down from the high cliff’s edge. The Bay of Bliss was before us, a glittering sheet of blue and black, undulating gently as far as the eye could see. The Mirralite had picked a beautiful part of Nibonay for their dark worship. As we walked downwards, I wondered how widespread the infection was. The Place Where We Hear The Sea was our destination, but there were so many other villages, each with hundreds of Pure Ones. Most looked like they made their crust from fishing or farming, but ignorant natives could be swayed in a hundred different ways, and our enemies could be hiding behind every fishing net or pointed cottage.
We’d taken animal skins from Dark Wing’s bone palace, and each of us wore them as a cloak, covering our armour and weapons. At a distance, we’d just be three travellers, braving the brisk sea winds that churned up from the Red Straits. No-one knew our faces or names this far from the Severed Hand, but I’d guess that any Eastron would be treated as enemies, and, contrary to what Arthur might believe, the three of us were not capable of fighting the entire Bay of Bliss.
We dropped below the wind, tracing a zigzag path through widening mountain trails. There was much game here – deer runs, rabbit holes and pheasant nests. The Mirralite had plenty to eat if, like me, they hated fish, but we saw no hunting lodges, nor any obvious footprints. When we reached a wooded fissure in the basalt cliffs, I saw why. There were solid wooden walkways, weaving between high branches and leading to the pastures beyond. It appeared that the Mirralite preferred hunting from bough platforms in the trees.
“Addie, danger!” barked Jaxon, listening to his wyrd and scanning the trees.
A whistling sound raced along the fissure and a red-fletched arrow struck Arthur in the thigh. “Fuck!” he shouted, dropping to the ground and grabbing his leg.
“There,” I said, pointing to a young Mirralite, half-hidden in the trees. Jaxon sprang from the path and dropped his shoulder into the trunk of the tree. I followed, adding my strength to his. We wrenched the trunk back and forth, shaking the bowman from his platform. He fell heavily to the moss-covered rocks below, dropping his bow and emptying his lungs of air. He’d landed on his back, and a spurt of blood erupted from his mouth.
“Arthur, can you stand?” I asked, while Jaxon went to the coughing Pure One.
My brother groaned in irritation and sat up, testing his leg. The arrowhead had emerged through the back of his thigh and he pressed down firmly, trying to stem the flow of blood. He hobbled to his feet, but howled in pain and fell back to the floor. “Shit! No, I can’t,” he growled.
“We just made a lot of noise,” said the Wisp, holding his hand over the Pure One’s mouth to stop him screaming. “Stealth is easier when things are quiet. We should go to ground.”
“Agreed,” I said. “Finish him off, we’ll move.”
Jaxon wrapped an arm around the Pure One’s neck and choked him to death while I helped Arthur to stand. The wound was crippling, but not fatal, and could be healed with a few surges of wyrd and a few hours’ rest. But for now it was a complication. He leant against me and grunted.
“Put me in a bush and come find me later,” he said.
“Shut up,” I replied. “Jaxon, come on, if we cut across here, we can get lost in the woods.” I pointed to the low ground, between two cultivated fields. The wood was on the coast, between us and The Place Where We Hear The Sea.
Another arrow hit the dirt near my foot. The Pure One that fired it was on the edge of another platform and darted away as soon as he’d fired, disappearing inland, likely towards the nearest village.
“Okay, let’s move,” I said, helping Arthur off the path and towards the low ground.
“Three more,” said Jaxon, covering the rear. “We made a noise and we were seen.”
We couldn’t run. The ground was uneven, and Arthur gritted his teeth every few steps. Even when we reached the flat land between the two fields, I was carrying almost half his weight. To the left, over a bramble fence-line, was a field of corn, rising as a wall between us and a distant farm house. To the right, the field was ploughed, but devoid of a crop, meaning that anyone looking in the right direction would easily see us. The forest had appeared close as we walked down from the cliffs; now, as I helped my brother hobble onwards, it looked dangerously far away.
Across the bare field, I saw three more Pure Ones – an adult woman and two young boys. The woman wore a simple grey dress, and the boys scampered behind her when they saw us. They’d appeared out of nowhere, and were more surprised than afraid, as if they’d heard of the Invaders, but never seen them. Our height, our size, our weapons, our curse words – we must have appeared as nothing more than monstrous outsiders. Luckily for them, the woman and her children fled, disappearing across the field. I had no desire to kill three such Pure Ones, but would have been forced to, had they lingered or cried for help. Though the image of their faces stuck with me as I carried my brother onwards.
“Jaxon, check the forest. We need somewhere to lie low.”
“Aye,” replied the Wisp, leaving Arthur and me, and sprinting towards the trees. He kept his head low, but his eyes aware, scanning the farms on either side of us.
“Addie,” grunted Arthur. “The bastard mangled my leg.”
“A poor start to our glorious invasion of the Bay of Bliss,” I quipped, taking as much of Arthur’s weight as I could. “You’ve had worse.”
“Why me? Why didn’t he shoot you or the Icicle?”
“Shut up,” I replied.
We edged forwards, with my brother hopping across the bare earth, keeping weight off his wounded leg. Jaxon had disappeared into the trees, leaving the two of us to limp our way to relative safety.
“When they attack – leg or no leg – I bet I kill more than you,” said Arthur with a pained smile. “Twenty at least before they overwhelm me. Not a bad way to go.”
“Shut up,” I repeated. “You’re not going to die just yet. We’ve got a job to do.”
I heard shouting from the rocky fissures behind us, and the sound of running feet on wooden platforms. It appeared the local Pure Ones were quick to react when their land was threatened, as arrows began to thud into the ground behind us. Thankfully, we were beyond an aimed shot from the platforms and getting hit would be a matter of bad luck.
Jaxon reappeared from the trees and sprinted back to join us. “The forest is wild. No paths, just animal runs. With a head start we can get lost in there easy.”
“If we get there,” grunted Arthur, motioning to the Wisp to come and help him.
With Jaxon on one side and me on the other, we broke into a laboured run, carrying Arthur between us. Arrows now flew over our shoulders, as the pursuing Mirralite reached the level ground. I couldn’t turn to confirm their numbers, but they were a large gang, shouting at each other to cut us off.
The trees loomed ahead. Tall and green with a dense canopy, and leading up to the treeline, a mass of thick bramble bushes and felled tree trunks. We weaved past the first few bushes, keeping foliage between us and our pursuers, but it was clear we’d not outrun them.
I let go of Arthur, positioning as much of his weight on Jaxon’s shoulder as he could stand. “Take him into the trees, I’ll catch up.”
The Wisp nodded and started to move off.
“Fuck off!” snapped Arthur. “If you’re standing here, I’m standing too.”
I looked back along the dirt path, between the two fields. Ten or more Pure Ones were approaching, with dozens more holding back with drawn bows. Those at the front were heavily marked in blue ink, and swinging long-spears.
“You can’t fight,” I said. “Unless I kill the first few, they’ll overwhelm us before we get you healed. You and Jaxon find a place to hide. I’ll buy you time.” I drew my cutlass and appropriated my brother’s.
Arthur wasn’t happy, but the wound in his leg was now bleeding heavily, and he wasn’t so stupid as to ignore his big sister, especially when she was right. They hobbled away, past the bushes and into the trees. I turned to face the oncoming warriors, making sure I had relative cover from the archers. Bramble thickets would not stop a blade at close range, but did wonders when faced with long-range arrows.
“Once more for the Severed Hand,” I whispered, crouching out of sight and edging along a fallen tree trunk. My wyrd was already tingling along my limbs as a consequence of having to flee, and it was a simple matter to flood my extremities with power. Ten men was a lot, even for Adeline Brand, and I squeezed every ounce of strength from my body. I’d need to sleep to recuperate from the expenditure of wyrd, but it was preferable to dying in such a pitiful fashion.
The spearmen slowed as they reached the edge of the forest, clustering together to pick their way through the bramble bushes and fallen tree trunks. When I broke cover, it was behind the lead man. I cut his throat and threw him backwards, into the path of the nearest two. I then hopped over the tree trunk and engaged three more. With two cutlasses I could parry their weak spear thrusts and kill them with minimal effort. Their arms and shoulders were bare, giving me ample room for a killing or crippling blow. As long as they flailed individually to get to me, I was safe, able to tackle them in ones and twos, using the natural cover to my advantage.
“Invader!” they shouted, as if I was their worst nightmare, conjured from a dark pit to end their lives. Each man was frenzied, with tears of anger flowing down their faces. But still they died, unable to match my strength or speed.
My limbs began to burn as wyrd bubbled to the surface. I unleashed a ferocious thrust at a man’s head, driving the blade clean through his face, and wheeled to engage another.
Then I was cut on the cheek by a stray arrow. It turned me sideways just long enough for a glancing blow to strike the side of my head. I tumbled backwards, into a thicket, and struggled to stand, as the remaining Pure Ones surrounded me. I wasn’t sure how many were left, but four spears were being driven downwards. Two were deflected by my leather armour, one missed the mark, just to the left of my head, but the last found a gap between my breastplate and my belt. The steel bit into my side and I howled in sudden pain.
The wound was bad, but a split-second later my wyrd numbed the pain, allowing me to grit my teeth and wrestle the spear from its wielder. More thrusts came in, but I used the spear to pull myself upright and out of the thicket. I rolled forwards, thinking of escape. Behind me, a handful of Pure Ones were still alive, with many more approaching. Jaxon and Arthur had made their escape, and it was time for me to leave.
“Stop them!” bellowed a man at the rear.
“For the Lodge of the Rock!” screamed another.
I had to kill a final man who was quick enough to cut me off, but after he fell from my blade I was amidst trees and thick brush, running north as best I could, whilst holding my bleeding side. Arthur had been shot from cover, wounded by a cowardly attack; I had been cut in a stand-up fight, and gritted my teeth in anger that I’d been so sloppy as to disregard the distant archers.
My pursuers slowed, forming up into a single mob before they entered the forest. I paused next to a gnarled oak tree, and ran my hand down the bark, looking for a sign from Jaxon. Two horizontal cuts formed an arrow, pointing to the left, and I followed the sign, deeper into the trees.
The Mirralite made an almighty racket, stomping and cutting their way into the dense forest. I heard wails of anguish as men reached the bodies of those I’d killed. They were not eager to follow their brothers in death, but neither would they accept Invaders in their lands. And there was something else. They were afraid we would reach something. Some barrier beyond which they felt powerless. They kept saying don’t let them pass the vale, though it meant nothing to me.
They floundered at the treeline, arguing about where I was and the dangers of pursuing. I was well hidden and moving quickly away by the time they’d finished arguing. A good thing too, for my wound made running impossible. If it weren’t for the trees, providing support as I fled, I’d be crawling, with a hand pressed to my wounded side. Luck was with me and the Pure Ones followed only slowly, taking their time and spreading out, and I had a chance to tear a piece of cloth from my belt and soak up the seeping blood.
I moved past trees and around bushes, following marks from Jaxon and staying ahead of the cautious Mirralite, until a wide game trail crossed my path. A large beast hunted the area, and it’d trodden all foliage into a channel of mulch. On the opposite side, hanging on lines of woven rope, suspended on the low branches, were thousands of seashells. A salty smell hit my nostrils, and seaweed, hanging from the branches as ropey tentacles, barred the way ahead. I paused, before crossing the game trail and pushing my way past falling strands of seaweed and dangling seashells.
“Addie!” snapped Jaxon, crouching in the brush, between two fallen trees. “Keep low.”
I ducked into the brush, half vaulting, half falling over one of the tree trunks. Arthur lay opposite me, clutching his wounded leg. They’d removed the arrow and bound the wound. A subtle glow of wyrd swirled over the leg, and I saw my brother wincing as the wound was healed. It would take time, but he’d be fine. My own wound felt like a punch to the heart as I hit the ground and took cover.
“What happened to you?” asked Arthur, sweating from exertion.
“Shush now,” said Jaxon, poking his head over the log and scanning the wide game trail. “I want to see if they’ll cross the line of seashells. I think it’s a warning.”
I pulled myself to my knees, joining the Wisp in looking behind for our pursuers. “A warning from who?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But the spirits here are restless … hostile even. Just wait, we’ll see.”
From a little way down the game trail, a gang of Mirralite appeared. They broke the treeline, but wouldn’t cross the barrier of shells and seaweed. They looked both ways, but said nothing, though several clutched at private tokens or made signs of protection in the air. Grimly, the pursuing Mirralite stowed their weapons and gave up the pursuit, turning back towards their pastures and wooden hunting platforms.
“That answers one question,” said Jaxon. “They’re afraid of something. Now we just need to know what.”
“One tribe hates another,” offered Arthur, still clutching his leg. “Maybe an argument about who gets to fuck the village goat.”
I turned around and took a seat, pulling back a section of my leather breastplate. “Maybe,” I said. “But they looked afraid, not angry.”
Jaxon crouched next to me and prodded at the spear wound in my side. “Nasty,” he said. “Did you lose concentration, or perhaps you let one strike you to make the fight more interesting?”
“Just seal the wound,” I muttered, aware that my brother was smirking at me.
The Wisp placed his palms on my skin and the wound quickly became numb. As my own wyrd receded and exhaustion took over, I felt the gentle touch of healing energy, flowing across my skin. Jaxon put one hand against my forehead and smoothed back my hair. “Sleep, Addie, sleep. Rest in the arms of your wyrd.” I only distantly heard the words, as I fell into a deep sleep.