“Dusan is telling the truth,” Mirche said. “There’s no settlement, really. We’re just nomads, drifting from place to place.”

“To lie well, you must speak less,” Quillen said. “For example, you should have just said ‘no settlement’, without adding ‘really’.” He looked down at the dagger in his hand. “Both of you are bad liars. Which means you’re likely good people—and good people usually have trouble watching their friends get hurt.”

He gave Dusan a smile full of large, yellow teeth. Then, in a sharp movement, he slashed at Mirche’s left cheek. Mirche gasped, jerking his head back. A thin red line appeared on his skin, already darkened and swollen from the bruise. It widened instantly, filling with blood.

Dusan tried to step forward, but hands caught him, keeping him in place. A couple of men behind Mirche grab him, too, preventing him from moving. Mirche made no sound, even though Dusan could see tears of pain in his eyes. Mirche had always been stoic like this, even as a kid. He never cried when he got injured.

“Stop this,” Dusan said. “You’re hurting him for nothing. There’s no settlement. We’re as unfamiliar with this area as you are.”

“Good try,” said Quillen, wiping his blade on the piece of cloth he produced from his pocket. “Now, should I go for another cheek? Or an eye?”

“We’re not lying! What can we do to prove it to you?”

“Nothing,” Quillen shrugged. “You’re claiming to be nomads, but I can see well enough that you’re not. You live somewhere around here. Take us there. We might show mercy and only take our revenge on those who killed my people.” He raised the knife again, evaluating Mirche’s face. “I think I’ll go for the eyes. The left one is pretty swollen, but it’s in there, somewhere. Let’s see if I can dig it out.” He grinned at Dusan again.

Mirche drew back instinctively, but with the men holding him, he couldn’t escape. Dusan could sense his fear. Eyes were everything for Mirche. He was the best in tracking prey, attuned to the slightest clues that animals left behind—but to do that, he had to see those clues. Without his sight, he’d never be himself again, would forever depend on those around him.

“You can stop this at any moment,” Quillen reminded him. “You only need to show us the way.”

This choice was impossible. Leading them to the village would perhaps save Mirche from further torture but would result in him and the rest of the villagers being either slaughtered or sold into slavery. Dusan could perhaps lead them deep into the woods, as far away from the village as he could—yet they would probably drag Mirche with them, and torture him again when they realized that Dusan wasn’t taking them in the right direction. That would only postpone this nightmare, not prevent it.

Then, it hit him. There was a way out. He had a secret weapon.

“Reijo!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “I want to use my wish! Stop them! Destroy them!”

For a moment everybody stared at him. Even Mirche gave him a puzzled look with his one good eye. Blood dripped from the side of his face, soaking the decorative pattern around the neck of his pale-yellow tunic. Zora had made the decoration. She was good at needlework.

“Reijo!” Dusan yelled again. Why wasn’t anything happening? “This is my wish! Destroy them!”

Then, the laughter began. At first, a giggle here and there, and then, everybody was laughing—save for Mirche, who looked at Duson sadly.

“That was fast,” Quillen said, wiping his eyes. “Usually, I must work on men for hours, if not days, before they go crazy. You managed much quicker.”

“Who’s Reijo?” someone else said. “Your third friend?”

Dusan blinked, looking around. Reijo wasn’t a friend, that much was clear. Apparently, Reijo also wasn’t someone who kept his promises.

Then, he noticed a change in the sky. It had been clear before, but now, the edge of it was darkening. He felt the pleasant breeze that had been blowing from the sea change its direction. It blew from the shore now, carrying the clouds towards them.

“Nice attempt,” said Quillen, still laughing. “Yet playing mad won’t help you.” He shook his head, then looked up, apparently sensing the changes in the air.

“Looks like a storm is coming,” said someone.

“Right,” said Quillen. “Lock these two and get the ship ready. We’ll continue with them later.”

“It moves fast,” said one of the men holding Duson. “I’ve never seen such a fast-moving storm.”

The wind blew stronger now, making the baggy pants of the men on the deck flap around their legs. A triangular hat flew off the head of one of them, and he yelped in surprise and chased it across the deck.

“Why do you look so smug?” Quillen said to Dusan who watched the approaching clouds with rising hope.

“I don’t.” Dusan tried to wipe all expressions off his face.

Quillen watched him suspiciously. “Why did the weather change all of a sudden?”

“How would I know?”

“Indeed. All I know is you called for some Reijo, and then this began to happen.” He gestured at the racing clouds that had already filled half the sky. “Who is Reijo? Some local deity?”

“Not a deity,” Dusan said. “Just someone I know.”

The wind grew stronger, its roar drowning cries of surprise and confusion. The hands holding Dusan let go of him as people struggled to remain on their feet. Some of them lost their balance and slid towards the railings at the side of the deck.

With his hands tied, Dusan couldn’t do much when the wind knocked him off his feet. He rolled across the deck like a log before hitting the railing to which most of the men were now clinging. A few steps away, he saw Mirche hit the railing, too. He met his friend’s wide-eyed gaze, and then another figure concealed him from Dusan’s view.

“What kind of sorcery is this?” yelled Quillen, grabbing the railing with one hand and Dusan’s shirt with another. “Make it stop, or I’ll kill you!”

“I can’t!” Dusan yelled back. Fear and excitement made him feel light-headed. The ship creaked and moaned, tilting, still held in place by the anchor. Above them, the sky was as black as if the sun had never risen.

“If you started it, you can make it stop!”

“I can’t!” Dusan yelled again, and then, for some reason, he began to laugh. He was going to die, he knew, but he had done what he had to, and his village was safe. “I only had one wish, and I used it! I have no power over him anymore!”

Quillen’s face twisted, and then something sharp stabbed Dusan in the side. He glanced down and saw the handle of a dagger sticking out from under his ribs.

The deck rose below him. A deafening screech and a bang followed, loud enough to be heard even over the noise of the storm, and then the world whirled around Dusan. He felt like he was flying, and then a wall of water hit him in the face.

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