Twist was angry, but quiet, and I felt as if we were waiting for something. I could feel my wyrd pulsing, but not flaring too high. The spirit-masters aboard the four warships allowed every Sea Wolf to feel their wyrd, and I was no exception. I was a Sea Wolf, but fighting to the death held no appeal. Wisdom was hard won, and I felt as if I’d fought a dozen battles to realize the horse-shit of my own people. The last battle had been seeing the Sunken God crush a hundred Eastron beneath his colossal foot.
But Lord Ulric Blood hadn’t seen that, and he didn’t answer the Stranger’s question. Talk or fight? It was a simple question, with a simple answer, made complicated only by the third void legion, who’d suddenly appeared on the coast of Nowhere. Twist let me stand unaided, and I saw the spectacle as a vibrant painting, depicting the military might of the Sea Wolves and the Dark Brethren. Eight hundred pirates and killers, facing down five thousand void legionnaires.
“Loco, bring the boy,” said Marius Cyclone, called the Stranger, elder of the Dark Harbour. “Perhaps Lord Ulric will answer if we’re face to face.”
“He’ll probably fight,” I stated, as Loco led me from the cliffs.
The Stranger paused, looking down at me. The blue tattoo, creeping from under his leather collar, was clearer, and I saw the design of a rampant horse. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me through open, brown eyes, his expression neutral, but fierce.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” I asked. “Because I don’t think that will work anymore. Don’t kill them … I wouldn’t like it.”
His eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent. From his balled fist, a globe of wyrd pulsed, elongated, and hardened. He held his other hand out, and a bastard sword appeared out of nowhere. Marius Cyclone stroked a hand along the blade and sheathed it across his back. He didn’t smile, but I sensed that he wanted to. He just walked off, leading the way down to the beach.
*
“Marius,” grunted the First Fang, by way of greeting.
“Ulric,” responded the Stranger.
They stood, facing each other, close enough for either to attack if they wished. Neither of them did. The Brethren were in columns, facing their opponents with shields and spears. The Sea Wolves were in a mob, coiled and ready to die. Lord Ulric stood in the centre, his eyes down-cast and his fists clenched. Behind him, Ingrid Raider and Siggy Blackeye scowled their way forwards, leaving the swaggering form of Charlie Vane at the rear. Weathervane Will’s father had his whip coiled over his shoulders, and an unfocused grin on his face.
Ulric registered my presence, but was preoccupied with Inigo Night Walker. The First Fang did not appear impressed with the commander of the third void legion, and thanks to me, he knew Inigo had killed the Second Fang. He sneered as he sized him up, judging his stature and weaponry to be insignificant, like an alpha wolf looking down at a young challenger. “You didn’t kill him in a fair fight then?” mused Lord Ulric. “Tell me, was he on his knees? Did you execute him?”
“Address me,” said Marius Cyclone. “I have claimed the island of Nowhere. Vengeance for your son will have to wait.”
“And the Grim Wolf?” countered Ulric, not turning his gaze from Inigo. “Where does he skulk?”
“Xavyer Ice and I have come to an accord. You will submit and sit with us in peace. I want no more of your people to die.” He stepped to his left, blocking the First Fang’s view of Inigo. “I have a story to tell you, Lord Ulric. You will listen, for it is all that matters. You and I can save the Sea Wolves, the Winterlords, the Dark Brethren, even the Kneeling Wolves.”
The Sea Wolf elder grimaced and bowed his head, nodding angrily. “You shouldn’t have stood in front of him, Cyclone,” he snarled, flexing his huge shoulders and striding forwards. There was nothing but rage in his eyes, as if he’d barely heard what was said to him. He suddenly pulsed with wyrd, ignoring the army before him, and lunging at Inigo Night Walker.
Even the Stranger, standing between the two men, appeared startled by Lord Ulric’s sudden ferocity. Loco dragged me backwards, as the First Fang struck, sending a thunderous right-hook at Marius’ jaw. The Dark Brethren didn’t fall, but he staggered enough to expose Inigo. Ulric barrelled past the Stranger and tackled the commander of the third void legion, using superior size and strength to drag him to the ground. He didn’t even draw his twin blades, instead relying on his fists. It was a bizarre scene. Two men wrestled on rugged ground, between massed warriors. One man was huge and snarling, the other lithe and concentrated.
Marius Cyclone waved an arm at his warriors, signalling them forwards, though his throat was snared by Charlie Vane’s whip. Ingrid Raider and Siggy Blackeye both drew heavy cutlasses and stood ready, and the massed Sea Wolves roared in defiance. I found myself musing upon their arrogance. Or was it just foolishness? They couldn’t win and they were all going to die. They’d tell themselves that they fought for honour, that they were Sea Wolves of the Severed Hand, the finest warriors in the Kingdom of the Four Claws, and their wyrd alone would see them victorious. I didn’t know if I’d ever really believed it myself, but I certainly didn’t now. Killing warriors of Ice was one thing, but I’d seen them squashed like ants, swept aside by a creature of true power, and I believed what I’d seen.
“Advance!” choked Marius, struggling with the whip around his throat.
“I choose to fight!” boomed Lord Ulric, between fierce blows to Inigo Night Walker’s face.
The third void legion advanced in a single line, shields snapping together and spears levelled, whereas the Sea Wolves broke into loose formation and simply ran at the enemy, the sound of their leather and steel armour, and heavy cutlasses, lost amidst shouting. The men were mostly bearded, the women mostly tattooed, or wearing red face-paint. They showed prodigious wyrd, but no fear. Eight hundred Sea Wolves, with a few Kneeling Wolves, charging five thousand Dark Brethren, with more than a few warriors of Ice in reserve.
I stood off-centre, with Loco’s forearm pressed into my throat, and Twist insisting I watch every movement. I occupied a rapidly shrinking space. I saw Marius Cyclone coil his arm into the whip and fling Charlie Vane aside. I saw the two forces close, and I saw Ulric Blood pummel Inigo Night Walker to death. The Brethren’s skull had been split open by repeated blows, until only a pulpy, red mask remained. The man who’d killed the Second Fang, and kept me captive, was helpless as he died, his stiff formality and military bearing crushed as easily as his head. Ulric howled with anger and cried with pain, appearing as little more than a frenzied madman. The death of their commander, more than the threat of the Sea Wolves, drove the Dark Brethren forwards. They were more skilled than Blade Smile’s warriors had been, and far more disciplined.
Looking to my left, I saw an impenetrable line of shields and spears; to my right was an irregular mob of killers. The two groups bore down on me like the closing of a vice, but I found myself interested, rather than afraid. Twist was interested too, giving me subtle nudges in the leg, as if the spirit wondered what would happen next. He didn’t fling me aside, or demand that I run away. If anything, he wasn’t certain that the conflict was actually happening at all, or perhaps he was just grateful that we were not being forced to view any more primal destruction. Mortals killing mortals was trivial compared to the truth of the world. The truth of what actually existed in this realm of form, hidden between dreams and reality, waiting for its time. Again, I wished I could talk to my pain spirit, perhaps ask him what we should do, or whether we were still totally sane.
As the two forces clashed, I found myself enveloped in a circle of steel and blood. No-one attacked me, but everyone attacked everyone else. Sea Wolves vaulted over rectangular shields, flailing with their wyrd and their cutlasses. Void legionnaires drove their spears into flesh, attacking in a persistent rhythm, and advancing. Ulric Blood was a focus of attention, as was Marius Cyclone. Both sides wanted to kill the opposing elder above all things, and their efforts focused on the central ground, where lay the bloodied corpse of Inigo Night Walker.
I wasn’t hurt, or barrelled to the ground. The battle happened around me, staying out of arm’s reach. I occupied a small circle of pebbles and sand, across which no blade was swung. For a moment I smiled, thinking everything was a dream. The death and destruction was played out in dull shades of black and grey, with every actor moving, killing, and dying in slow motion. None of it touched me. None of the warriors even looked at me. My smile turned to a frown, as I saw the involuntary nimbus of wyrd I’d summoned.
I looked at my arms. I was glowing a subtle blue from every inch of my body, and I could feel tiny thorns caressing my face and hands. I hadn’t pushed it outwards on purpose, but I’d somehow removed myself from danger, using my wyrd to stay isolated. I looked upon the battle from another place, and I suddenly felt sad.
The Sea Wolves were losing, but their ferocity, and disregard for their own lives, gave a false impression of their might. They fought as individuals, using their wyrd to kill the enemy any way they could. I saw Siggy Blackeye tear out a legionnaire’s throat with her teeth, and Taymund Grief repeatedly head-butt another until both their faces were covered in blood. I saw it all through a lens of sadness, that gradually turned to anger.
The Stranger flickered from place to place, killing as he desired, before holding position and allowing his warriors to advance past him. The First Fang described an arc of death with his twin blades, cleaving shields and heads, and creating a bulge in the legion’s line. But none of it really mattered. The Sea Wolves couldn’t win. They were my people and they were all going to die.
“I want them to stop fighting,” I whispered to Twist. “I really want them to stop fighting … and stop dying.” My hands started to shake. “Why won’t they stop fighting? Why won’t they surrender? They need to know of the Sunken City, they need to know of the Sunken God.”
A few feet away, Taymund Grief received a spear thrust to the face, sending a slow-motion spray of blood across my field of vision. The tip emerged through the back of his head, and was withdrawn, sending his twitching body to the ground. Through my shield of wyrd, the blood appeared black, and Taymund hit the ground like a limp fish.
Greenfire must honour us.
“Please,” I cried. “Stop fighting.” No-one heard me, and people kept dying. Through sheer weight of numbers the void legionnaires pushed forwards, marching over piles of dead Sea Wolves, and my small, isolated world was enveloped by thousands of Dark Brethren.
Greenfire must let his wyrd shine.
“Twist, help me,” I muttered. “They have to stop fighting.” The pain spirit scurried around my leg, causing little pain, but sharing my distress. “I don’t know what to do. Help me. Please.”
Our control was minimal. We could keep our wyrd restrained, or we could unleash it. We decided to unleash it. “Stop fighting,” I shrieked. “Now!”
My shield of wyrd pulsed, flaring in and out, like a crackling bonfire of pale blue. It jumped around me, dancing in the air and growing in size. Tiny twigs and thorns wove themselves into the nimbus, before it erupted outwards as a globe of energy. The battle slowed down even further, though the nearby void legionnaires now registered my presence. They pointed, and spoke in alarm, though their mouths moved too slowly for me to make out what they were saying. I saw Loco Death Spell, his mouth formed into a shout as he tried to reach me, but he couldn’t penetrate the expanding globe of wyrd. As his arm reached through, I saw his fingertips smoulder and burn, then the skin of his arm peel backwards and the bones disintegrate. As my expanding wyrd flowed over the young void legionnaire, his armour was reduced to rusted flakes, and his skin fell into a blackened mess.
“Loco,” I whimpered, wishing I could undo what I’d done. The young man had been my guardian for weeks, and though we’d not bonded, I found myself upset that I’d caused his death … again without meaning to. I’d torn him apart, from his armour, down to his bones, until nothing remained but red and black mist. But he was just one of many.
People started to run, and I realized they were running from me. The Sea Wolves were lost amidst a forest of black-armoured void legionnaires, most of whom were caught by a violent shockwave, pulsing away from me. I screamed and grabbed my head, half in anguish, half in pain. I couldn’t look, for fear of what I’d see, but neither could I stop. I kept seeing the Sunken God behind my eyes, towering over the island of Nowhere, and stepping on Eastron as if they were ants.
I used all the wyrd I had. I used too much, and I felt my mind break.
*
My vision was foggy. My head was throbbing. My body was numb. I was lying down, with two shadowy figures standing over me. It was night-time … no, it was still day, but I was inside somewhere. I tried to blink, but my eyes wouldn’t co-operate. I tried to move, but my muscles wouldn’t work. Everything was grey and glaring, with no fine detail or texture.
“Is he alive?” asked one of the figures.
“Still breathing,” replied the other. “But unresponsive.” A hand was waved in front of my face. “He’s been staring for hours. Just … staring. I’ve been talking to him, but … nothing.”
The first figure knelt down next to me. My head was jostled to the side as if he’d slapped my face, but I felt nothing. “Do you think he knows how many people he killed?”
“I’m not sure he knows anything anymore,” was the response.
I shouted internally. How many? How many people did I kill?
“But he’s known pain,” continued the second man. “It may have been all he’s ever known. The pain’s keeping him alive.”
He was right. Twist was encircling my mind, like a stalking animal, prowling around his wounded cub. He trusted no-one and nothing, but wouldn’t let us die. He didn’t know how many people we’d killed either. The pain spirit couldn’t comprehend such things. We wanted them to stop fighting, so we made them stop fighting.
“If he’d been born a Dark Brethren, he’d have been trained as a wyrd-master. The fucking Sea Wolves cause me to be weary. So powerful, but so very primitive. They’ve ruined this boy. I would wager that, even now, he just wants to be accepted as one of them.”
The man stood from my side, and I saw the shape of a large sword, slung across his back. It was the Stranger. He’d survived the eruption of my wyrd, and not yet thought to execute me. What was he waiting for? I couldn’t be any good to them like this, and I was guilty of killing … I didn’t know how many of the third void legion. I knew I’d killed Sea Wolves too, but tried not to think about it. If I thought about it, I’d have to consider that I might have killed the First Fang.
“It’s time,” said Marius Cyclone, putting his hand on the shoulder of the other man. The Stranger was much taller, and I realized he was talking to Ten Cuts, the speaker of the Mirralite and the pale man’s closest ally. “We need to take him now, before the pain stops keeping him alive.”
I was in a tent with a coned roof, and two more figures entered. They picked me up, though I couldn’t feel their hands. My head swam, as I was thrown over someone’s shoulder. I felt like I was falling into water, with no control over my limbs. Everything was black and white, and crackling at the edges. Outside the tent was an endless sea of shifting grey shapes. The sky, the ground, the cliffs, the sea, it was all monochrome.
“Back to the Maelstrom, my lord Marius?” asked the man who held me.
“Indeed,” replied the Stranger. “As quickly as we can. This whole place stinks of death.”
“In the years not yet lived,” offered Ten Cuts, “this place will be called Duncan’s Fall, and will be sung about in mournful songs.”
“We need to get his body to the doorway,” stated Marius Cyclone. “Hurry.”
I was falling away, as if my mind was giving up. Twist was shaking me, but I couldn’t cling to consciousness. I couldn’t feel my body, so I couldn’t feel the pain. I wondered if this was death, madness, or some new part of my journey. My eyes closed on the grey landscape, and I lost all sensation. But I wasn’t dead. Slowly, like waking from the deepest sleep, my senses were reordered. I rose above myself, squeezing out of my body, until I was unfettered by the realm of form. I felt the warm caress of soft fur, and I heard a distant howl.
Pinpoints of sensation returned, though everything was vague and hard to discern. I felt as if I was moving, maybe even flying, but without a physical form it was impossible to tell. All I could be certain of was that whatever was left of me was clinging to something. Something large, and something benevolent. I heard another howl, this time low and sorrowful. It was the Old Bitch of the Sea, and she carried me above my body, into the void sky, and towards the Maelstrom.
I couldn’t see the huge, blue wolf, but I could feel her. As we soared away from the realm of form, the totem of the Sea Wolves looked back, and showed me what she saw. There was a circle, visible beneath us. It nestled between cliffs, set back from the shimmering water of the Red Straits. In the centre, rocks and sand had been churned into a crater, with rings of red and black dust piled around it. Beyond the dust were larger rings of piled bodies, broken into arms, legs, heads and twisted metal. Further outwards, the circles were less distinct and flickered, as if fires were burning all around the circumference of the circle. How many people had I killed? More than I could count.