The 17th day of Lumord, 1251
The City-State of Vielrona
ARMAN GATHERED BLOODY RAGS from the cots and tried to ignore the five figures by the door. Despite his mother’s care, half the refugees who arrived four days before had already passed. He dumped the rags in a basket in the corner, glancing back. Fire chased ice up his spine. It was unpleasant, but alluring, like the burn of alcohol down his throat.
He forced himself to approach the women. Laen are never simply “women.” In his twenty-three years, he had never seen of the gods' creators. Now half a dozen of them stood in his mother's inn. Arman hastily patted a blood-stained hand over his curls and bowed. “Lady Liane?”
Silver eyes slid over him in absent acknowledgment. “Liane is fine.”
“My mother said you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. Vielrona promised to guard your people.” Even if centuries have passed and we have nothing to protect you with. He hoped the Laen could not read minds.
Liane scanned the injured filling the room with moaning, rattling breath. “The gods’ army won’t be far behind.” Liane’s hard eyes returned to the youngest Laen, bundled in a cloak. “We thank you, but no place is safe anymore, even one that once worshiped us.”
Arman followed her gaze. The girl looked thirteen, though he supposed she could be decades older. How do Laen even age? Out of all her companions, she was the only one who looked afraid. And the only one with armor.
Arman shuffled back a step, swallowing bitter dread in his throat. Even rumor of her presence would bring the wrath of armies. “There’s a road from the western wall,” he explained, not caring that his shaking hand waved north instead. “It’s narrow and rocky, so only shepherds use it.” He spoke to Liane, but his eyes did not leave the youngest Laen.
Liane's eyes narrowed on him.
Arman back up again, palms up. “I won't tell a soul, I swear.”
Liane eyed him a moment longer, then gathered her pack. “We have guards who were supposed to meet us in Cehn, though we were attacked before they arrived. If they come through, tell them our path.”
Arman frowned. “How will I know them?”
Liane sighed. A lesser woman may have rolled her eyes. Her hand snaked out and gripped Arman's brow. Cold seeped from her hard fingers and with it flooded an image. Arman jerked away, his jaw clenched against the sudden ache in his skull.
Liane swept past him, the others filing out of the room after her. Arman fell to his knees and emptied his stomach into a washbasin.
Φ
The dim common room of the Ruby Cockerel was deserted. Most patrons sought other alehouses since the Cockerel was transformed into a makeshift infirmary. Arman was grateful for the quiet. He downed a mug of cheap tar-whiskey and poured another before sliding onto a barstool. He was no stranger to death, but the past days weighed on his heart.
A week after smoke appeared on the southern horizon, the Laen arrived in Vielrona. With them came three dozen refugees and the threat of war—all that remained of the desert city, Cehn.
Arman hoped the sting of alcohol would clear his head. When the gods overthrew their creators centuries before, the world fractured. And the girl who just left is what both sides have sought for decades.
The oak door of the common room banged open and heavy boots sloshed across the floor. “Fates, this rain is horrid. Picked up out of nowhere.”
“Hey, Wes.”
A large-boned young man slumped into the seat next to Arman. His tan was several shades darker than Arman's, and heavily weathered by the heat of a smithy. He jerked a blocky head at the ceiling, “They still here?”
Arman shook his head. “Left a few minutes ago.”
Wes suppressed a shudder. “Probably them that made the rain. Hide their trail and all.”
Arman rolled his eyes and stood to pour Wes a mug of ale. “They can't play with the weather. I’m glad to have them out of the house, though.”
Wes accepted his mug with a nod of thanks. “The idea gives me the winders.”
“I am all for them winning the war, but that feeling when they look at you—like jumping into the Halen in winter.”
Wes eyed his friend. “I never felt that. Granted I didn't live with them. If we're not careful, you'll be chasing after them.”
Arman snorted and finished off his tar-whiskey.
“So why are we drinking tonight?”
“You're drinking because you tracked slush all over my mother's floor and you know she won't yell at you if you're tossed.”
Wes glanced guiltily at the hardwood. The two had been friends since Wes caught a five-year-old Arman riding his father’s sheep around like warhorses. Kepra Wardyn was as much Wes's mother as Arman's. The smith fished a towel from under the bar and began to boot-slide it across the wet floor.
Arman's mouth twitched at the sight. “You’re better than a maid. Do away with the smithy and take up a job here.”
Wes growled, “What would you do at the forge without me? You’ve no head for business. You'd be lost.” He shuffled carefully back toward the bar to gather the worst of the mess. “You never said why you’re drinking?”
Arman glared at the cloudy dregs of his drink. Wes did not strictly count, as he was closer to family, but Arman had promised not to tell anyone. “It's nothing important. Seeing all the suffering upstairs just wears on a man. Most won’t ever wake up.”
“Azirik’s army won't come here, Arman.” Wes's muddy eyes were earnest, “We’ve nothing they want.” He took a deep swallow of his ale. “Fates, your mood is enough to make a man drink.”
Arman fixed Wes with a pointed stare. “Those women were here, Wes. The god’s army followed them to Cehn and they could just as easily follow them here.”
“I’ll leave you to your brooding then.” Wes shrugged. “I should get home, I need to start working on that piece for Reskle in the morning.” He buckled his cloak again. “Will you be by?”
Arman nodded, “I have to finish the jewel-work on that hilt.”
“You're seeing Veredy tomorrow night though, eh?” Wes waggled his eyebrows suggestively from the doorway.
Arman's laugh scratched in his irritated throat. “Hopefully. There's still a lot to help Ma with, though. Out with you, you're letting the rain in.” He winced as Wes's exit rattled the glass in the windows. Fishing a clean towel from the bar, he went over his friend's slush trail again, gaze distant.
It was not a lie that the massacre in Cehn brought battle too close. Arman was barely walking when the rumors reawakened the war against the Laen. This time, the gods—and their human armies—hunted a woman who would bind the world together again.
In the wake of genocide, however, it was hard to hope.
Arman scrubbed his face with a groan. “Azirik’s army is looking for her, Wes.” His voice was low. He needed to tell someone, even just the empty common room. “The Mirikin are looking for her and she was in my mother's house.”
Φ
The 20th Day of Lumord, 1251
The City of Berrinal
Brentemir took a careful sip from his steaming mug of ucal. After two months among the Berrin, the fermented seaweed drink was the only thing he would miss when they marched. The rear of the berth house held leather-padded benches and hassocks, across which he sprawled. Despite the few seats left, the building was quiet.
His staff bearer flopped down beside him. Like Bren, he wore the brown uniform of a Mirikin soldier, though Bren's was newer. Ever-increasing height forced him to be outfitted more often than any man had a right.
“Evening, Korir,” Bren greeted.
Korir hummed in response. His lidded eyes spoke to time in the massage house.
“You’ll miss the attention when we’re back on the road.” Bren’s voice was low. The gray landscape lent itself to silence, and the Mirikin were reluctant to break it.
Korir shrugged. “There are a couple weeks left of negotiations, I’d say.”
Bren fiddled with the heavy copper emblem around his neck. The center shone from the number of times he had rubbed a thumb over it during prayer or thought. When they first set sail, he was eager to set foot on anything other than Mirikin soil. The past year hung heavy on his shoulders, however, and he was homesick. He knocked back his drink and raised a hand to order another when a head popped through the door from the front room of the berth house. “Corporal Barrackborn? His Majesty the King asks for you.”
Bren sat up with a groan. “Don’t bother to save my spot—I might be awhile.” He tugged the green wool of his cloak tighter and stepped into the damp air. Haphazard streets and suspension bridges wound between the different rafts. Berrinal was built on natural seaweed-supported islands and constructed rafts, and the constant rocking wore on Bren's nerves. Salt dusted his beard by the time he arrived at the top floor of the embassy.
Mirik may have been an island kingdom, but Berrin seafaring shamed all others. The sea filled every aspect of their world, from patron gods to officers' titles in their army. Bren tidied himself and pulled the leather cap off his short, auburn hair. He rapped on the door softly.
“Your Majesty? Corporal Barrackborn here.”
“Come in.” The voice was distant.
Bren kept his head down as he shut the door behind himself. “You asked to see me, sire?” He was careful with his words. Azirik was intelligent, but his single-minded drive could be described as insanity. Now the king peered at military maps scattered over his desk. Gray threaded his long red-brown hair for as long as Bren could remember.
“We are leaving Berrinal within a week. Negotiations finalize tomorrow. Save the hideous pomp, we are free to leave anytime afterward. I need a troop to move west. I sent Lieutenant Gransa south several weeks ago to hunt down rumors about Laen in Sunam—their city Cehn was defeated, but they lost the creatures. I want you to lead a second troop west, to cut off their escape in Athrolan.”
Anticipation thrummed up his limbs. “I am honored, sire, but would Lieutenant Serik not be more suited?”
Azirik's bright blue eyes flicked up to Bren with an unreadable expression. “Serik has been gone a week.”
Bren forgot himself, “What, by Toar, does 'gone' mean?”
Azirik moved to the window, ignoring his soldier's insubordination. “Perhaps you didn’t notice, Barrackborn, but Mirik is not what she once was.”
Bren noticed. He would have been a fool not to. Fighting for the gods changed Mirik. None dared mention the atrophy of the capital, but even from the barracks across the harbor, everyone could see the toll of Azirik’s declared war.
“Many lesser families sought safer cities years ago, when I first honored the gods with our dedication.”
Bren did not break the long silence that followed the king's statement.
“Barrackborn, the capital is closing. All the higher born have fled the kingdom. Enough of our soldiers have family in the lower nobility. Serik was one, and he tried to follow his parents. His desertion was punished properly two days ago.” He paused. “You are promoted to Lieutenant. You leave in four days at the head of Serik's troop. They’re your men now.”
Bren bowed his head, “Thank you, milord. I am grateful to do all I can for the gods.”
Azirik stared at the maps for another minute. He finally looked up, as if remembering Bren's presence, “You may go.”
Bren bowed and showed himself out. He planned to return to the berth house and order more ucal. Now he just wanted air. He had always worked hard to overcome his orphaned upbringing, including teaching himself economics. If the higher born fled the city, it did not bode well. The economy would be in waste and the common folk would starve. Commoners were the backbone of any city, and without them, the city would fall.
A particularly large wave made the ground lurch under him. He leaned on the wall at the edge of the ocean, searching for the fogged horizon. A promotion was good, and he hated the apprehension coloring his excitement. Questioning orders is not my place. Hunting Laen was an honor, but he wondered, after decades of war, whether the gods would care.
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