《Voices at Sunset》


 Chapter 1

    The Feast of the Harvest had begun. As the shadows under the eye of the sun grew deeper, more villagers congested the streets with celebration. Clotheslines hanging from rooftop to rooftop carried paper-thin lanterns with yellow velvet light, like fireflies. From the eyes of a villager hurrying towards the town center, the sky appears simultaneously dark, clay, and blue.


    The village was hemmed in by the trees on one side and the long shore of Vorda¡¯s Lake on the other. Old and nameless, the village was remembered by visitors for its fortitude: a hardened gem buried in the recesses of the woods.


    There was little to celebrate there. Quiet but for the weekly messenger and tradesfolk, villagers kept amongst themselves, and few poked their heads in. Life played its harsh melodies, but happy tunes were rare. This was one of them. Not a soul was left inside; all had taken to the town center, crowding around the bonfire that seemed to darken the still bright land and casts sparks in the eyes of the villagers.


    But to Sartore, who watched from the far window of his bedroom, rough patches of warmth from the fire carried to him by the breeze, the crowd was a faceless mob of pretty colors. Sartore wasn¡¯t sure why he hadn¡¯t left yet. His parents had reminded him to when they had gone together some time ago, but there was a tinge in their voice, as if they knew. He watched them walk, their shadows reaching towards the fire with their backs to sun, and then become little more than additional bodies to him.


    Sartore¡¯s parents loved their cottage. It occupied the largest corner of the village, and outfitted it with hunting prizes of his father¡¯s and decorations of his mother¡¯s. It sat where the village ended, and the trees tapered off to the grassy hill. Behind the house was their own cut of the shore, and a beautiful view of the lake. Sartore had looked at it, sometimes for long stretches, but never seen it. Sartore liked the house less; it was the furthest from the heart of the village, and made his seldom appearances all the rarer. Harder to find friends from that angle, Sartore thought. But he didn¡¯t complain.


    A knock came to the front door. Sartore jumped, his feet filling with prickly heat and his heart acquiring the same skip, but he approached the door nonetheless, through the grayish brown wood and the large, empty hallway, that seemed to echo his thoughts.


    At the door was a young blond boy of Sartore¡¯s age. He was grinning before the door had opened.


    ¡°Stop trying to hide from me, you know I¡¯ll find you,¡± Liam said. Sartore laughed, although a small fraction of him was hurt. ¡°They¡¯re starting to hand out food, and if you don¡¯t come I¡¯m going to take yours.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± Sartore whispered, trying to frown, but failing. Liam stretched his lips even further, turned, and ran. Sartore, as far as he could determine, had no choice but to follow.


    It would have been obvious to anyone paying attention. The tremors of a hundred thousand hoofbeats against the earth, the many flocks of birds like one dark tapestry in the sky, or the shaking treetops in the distance. Any one of them would be cause for concern. But, buried in the voices, the music, the crackling and the food, there was no chance of finding it. Sweet aromas and fiery light had cut the rest of the world away.


    Liam found the crowds more tolerable, but equally dispensable. He skirted around the town center with Sartore at his heels, collecting other kids their age as they were spotted. Although Liam spoke happily to all of them, Sartore kept his mouth shut to all but him. Otherwise he remained quiet in the back. As the hodge podge crew went door to door, waiting in line to be gifted some of the food at stands at the front of various huts, Liam would always take the lead, and Sartore would stay at the back. Sartore could hear Liam chatting with old man Carrobrim as he picked up his golden biscuit, but Carrobrim regarded Sartore with little more than a dismissive glance. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    With their delicious morsels in hand, the gang curled around the side of the town, falling into a pocket of grass field, occupied by other children. Toys and wooden games had been left there by any adults who¡¯d managed to find them. Liam pounced on one of them, a fur ball that he kicked out of reach from a baby a decade younger than him, and kicked it to Ramma. Liam righted the now crying baby and patted him on the head, then turned back to the game.


    Sartore didn¡¯t like to think about it much, but it was true: he was a bad shot. His kicks curved, flew, fell short and swung far, disobeying whatever commands he¡¯d requested.


    ¡°Sartore still can¡¯t play!¡± Trass shouted, running for another wild shot of his and kicking up a cloud of laughter in the others. Trass passed the ball back, and Sartore caught it with his bare heel.


    ¡°Hit it here,¡± Trass said, crouching down and putting his hands on his knees, licking his lips. Another round of giggling. Sartore furrowed his brow and looked at at Trass¡¯s face, then tilted his head back down to the ball. Sartore wound back his leg and launched his foot into the ball. It went wide, back into the center. Even with Trass¡¯s pounce he couldn¡¯t catch it. Another round of laughter arose, and Liam chief among them. As Trass retrieved the ball once again, he shook his head in Sartore¡¯s direction without looking at him, and tossed it to someone else.


    The games ceased when Flachen, one of the town elders, raised his voice. Simply by rising from his chair, the crowd turned to him, as though he had already requested their attention¡ªwhich they gave readily. Even the young boys stopped. Behind him was a long table draped in white silk, with silver and white plates of food atop it, covering every possible inch. Upon seeing it, his nose, and consequently his stomach, was alerted of the various smells that wafted from there.


    ¡°The harvest is ready!¡± Flachen shouted. All bowed their heads, and repeated him in hushed tones. ¡°Tonight, we will eat together with our true faces to each other.¡± All nodded.


    To Sartore, the voice was dim. While the other boys watched and listened with gleaming eyes, Sartore turned his back and looked down at the field of grass. It appeared strange to him. The grass was shining, almost; he could see the different colors in every blade. Each patch became clear, as the wind carved out different sections that caught it differently.


    But past it, was the sun. The large bulb, painting the sky yellow and red. Each wave that stretched from the shore to the opposite end of the lake was colored with crescents of white over the dark, translucent blue.


    Another voice spoke up, and muddled the rest. There was no reason to search for its source; Sartore knew where it was. It came from the furthest corner in the back of his head. A chill ran up from his tailbone to his spine. Everything made sense now, Sartore thought. As the rest of the world to his back receded, the world in front of him stood to attention. The whispers were inarticulate, a warbling and incoherent chant, but they were enough. When he walked towards the water, and from there to the back of his house, he followed no map, and no instructions. He felt like he was following his own footsteps a second before he made them.


    Between the hill of grass and the muddy sand of the shore was a short stone wall that rose to just above his knees. He followed it its end, where it tapered off into the woods, just behind his own house. He didn¡¯t recognize it. He sat on the stone wall, turned to the lake, and watched the sunset. When his eyes set upon the sun, the voices rose again and cleaned his mind of things.


    Falchen¡¯s voice faltered. The villagers were distracted. He could tell why: although there were no storm clouds in the sky, the sound of rolling thunder was unmistakable. It must be on the other side of the trees, Falchen thought, regaining some of his bravado. But nothing caught. More murmurs and upturned heads.


    Then eyes pinned to the forest wall, over Falchen¡¯s shoulder. He followed their eyes. The trees were being shoved apart, almost torn from the earth. And in a second, whatever force was doing so would be in the village.


    Falchen saw only one figure at first. He was well ahead of the rest. He rode a dark-colored stallion with a gray streak in its hair. The man who rode it wore large, dark gray armor, with longsword drawn in his hand. Behind him, he seemed to be leading an army of infinite shadows.

 Chapter 2

    Sartore was in a waking dream. Voices chanted and sung melancholy hymns in his head; the ballooning sun hung in the reddening sky. The rest of the world was behind him. The sound of the breeze against his skin and of the water lapping at the shore under his feet came from the other side of the earth. Time moved at a curious pace; hours compressed into moments, and moments stretched into hours.


    The discord in those voices was haunting, each one calling for his full attention, and all getting none. But underneath that asynchronous mass of guttural noises was a cord that kept them in an invisible unity. Although impossible to focus on, it set him in a trance nonetheless. When those voices hit the same note together, as infrequent as it was, it sent a warm shiver down his spine. After enough time had passed, he could only feel a hot numbness, his flesh a shell to his surroundings, but his body soft and warm, his soul rubbery.


    Every wave merged with the next, until finally releasing quietly into the sand. The breeze skimmed over the surface like a skipping rock and pressed against him.


    And the sun grew. Its bottom had just touched the trees across the lake. It was enormous and yellow, and the further it descended, the larger it became. The sky, all scarlet, shimmered around it, as though a mirage.


    And then it locked. Just over half of it remained over the horizon. It was now so large that Sartore felt the sun bearing down on him, an enormous beast only a few inches away, snarling at him. The silhouettes of the trees had shrunk to black grass. Then, the voices bound together and sang in unison.


    Another voice emerged from the others, this one a whisper; but it was much closer than the rest. At first it was impossibly quiet, should a rustle in the leaves, but the whisper rushed towards him, his heart rate rising until his vision swam¡ªbut it stopped when the whisper, so close that it sounded like his breath when he plugged his ears, at last, spoke:


    Find the sun.


    And the dream ended. The sun was well below the horizon now, the glow of a pot of gold still visible. Although faint, there was still enough light to move. Although fresh in his mind, the memory, like any other dream, faded quickly.


    A cold shiver rocketed through his back and tensed his spine. For a second Sartore thought he could feel each individual muscle there. The last of that comforting heat had all but faded away. He hopped off the stone wall, noticed the awkward pain it had left on his butt, and turned and started up the hill. By now, he thought, the festival must have ended. There was no noise uphill, neither voices nor footsteps, and no smoke rising from the town center. The light of the street lanterns were dim¡ªmissing. There was a concerned peep in the back of his head, a different corner, worrying that his parents might be searching for him. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    When Sartore topped it, he noticed that his own house seemed empty. The lights were off, and from the back window, he saw his parents¡¯ bed, made and untouched. Sartore rounded the corner and nearly stepped on a plank of wood cracked at both ends, but flinched back when he saw it. He looked up. The village floor had flooded with a sea of wood and dead bodies. Sartore heard that same small voice gasp in the back of his head, and draw further into its distant corner.


    Under his feet, the wood creaked and snapped, some shedding off smaller pieces. Much was rotten, bugs crawling from beam to beam, or beam to body. Only a few houses still stood; the rest had been demolished. Their foundations, stripped of their walls, now formed many sets of jagged wooden teeth.


    Not far from the house were Sartore¡¯s parents, both face down and part submerged in the planks, their backs each curved far out of shape. Another muffled cry. Further down, as Sartore stepped over the bodies of his neighbors, he noticed Liam, head twisted to his back like an owl¡¯s, his cheeks spattered with splinters and dust. The rest of his body was tucked underneath a large slab of wooden wall which had split when it crushed him. His eyes still gazed in terror, but there was no spirit in them.


    Only Falchen¡¯s body remained above the devastation. He was outstretched on the tilted remains of the feasting table, sliding off in small increments. Small coins, difficult to make out in the remaining light, spilled from Falchen¡¯s jacket pockets and onto his chest. Sartore grabbed handful after handful and slid them into his pockets, an act always accompanied by a quick succession of short plinks.


    Sartore returned home, stopping to pilfer each body he passed. As he crouched over them, Sartore noticed hoofbeats in the dirt underneath the ruins.


    Find the sun. His mind burned red hot where the thought had been forged. He turned to the lake, savoring the memory of the sunset.


    Find the sun.


    After emptying his parents¡¯ pockets, he tested the door knob at his front door: unlocked. It was pitch black inside, with a faint light entering from his parents¡¯ bedroom. He grabbed the lantern hanging beside the doorway and stepped in.


    The hallway was large and quiet. The lantern could only guide him a few feet at a time, but left a ghostly outline of the many accessories hung on the walls. In an open room near the front, the dinner table sat, unoccupied, a cold plate of food waiting at his seat. His footsteps sounded large in their echo. He passed over his own room. In his parents¡¯, he saw the last glimpse of the sunlight, a fleeing aurora, at the horizon. He paused there again, imagining the red painting sprawled over it.


    His father had a small knapsack which he kept in the corner of the closet. It jingled with more coins when Sartore picked it up, and he dropped his own in along with the rest.


    Find the sun.


    Sartore walked back into the night. At the other end of the village was a dirt road. Sartore had never left the village, but he had heard rumors of the cities beyond this one. To the right, deeper into the trees, lay another village like this one. To the left, much further down, was a city by the harbor, where one could travel overseas, and across the world.


    Find the sun.


    He turned to the left, and in the night, followed the path.

 Chapter 3

    Deep in the forest, light was nearly absent. The sun had set long ago, and whatever moonlight remained was blocked by the branches and leaves overhead. The path ahead was muddy and tinted blue, the overlapping shadows only becoming real vegetation from a few feet away. Roots that had grown over the path brushed against moving feet, and the long and crooked arms of the bushes caught travellers unawares.


    But Taramiel, and the band of men behind him, were untroubled atop their horses. The path was narrowing, straightening from their former bent position as grass flattened by a footstep rises, but Taramiel drove through the path as easily as he had sprinting through it the other way. The taste of spilt blood was still fresh on their tongues, but they were satisfied for the time being, and returned to camp at their leisure.


    Each of them wore a suit of silver armor, a mix of loose chainmail and metal plates that could crack a poorly-swung blade; and each horse wore a coat of various shades of silver. Taramiel¡¯s was jet black, white a white man streaking down its back.


    Voices had picked up behind Taramiel. Usually a battle would leave them quiet, enjoying the wind and the songs of the animals, but that night¡¯s adventure had been a massacre. Many of those voices belonged to riders younger than Taramiel, he thought to himself. Unfit to lead. He should¡¯ve been, too, as he¡¯d been reminded frequently, but those complaints had ceased quickly.


    The dark fog was lifting. Some of the camp¡¯s light must¡¯ve reached them, accompanied by drunken shouts. The men were elbowing forward now, hooves stepping on each other to push the next rider forward. The light began piercing through the trees, and in a minute they were close enough to hear the crackling of the fires.


    And with a turn, they had arrived. Soldiers sat on dirt on fresh tree stumps with a campfire at their feet and buddies by their sides. Swaths of pine needles acted as makeshift carpets. Tents, cots and hammocks lay nestled between the surrounding trees. The clearing now made an open-roofed dome where smoke obscured their vision of the night sky.


    Half-conscious cheers rang out from the crowd before their producers returned to drinking. Taramiel dismounted, pausing to let the other soldiers run past him, and guided his mount to his tent, tying its reigns around the trunk. He slipped out of his armor and chains in the partial darkness. Some hadn¡¯t even bothered with the formality, and took long drafts with only their helmets off, rolling out of reach like the severed head at a guillotine.


    Taramiel wore a gray linen outfit when he rejoined the circle. He first moved towards some of his old soldier friends¡ªsince rising to general, he saw them rarely¡ªbut he couldn¡¯t refuse the raised glass of beer from the other huddled generals, no matter how much more bitter its bottom would taste.


    He sat down beside them and grabbed the drink from general Vexin¡¯s hand. The general smiled at him, dropping his hand back into his lap, and rocked back and forth, staring into the fire.


    ¡°Find any ladies in the woods, general?¡± Vexin added. Taramiel let out a smile that he¡¯d wished to suppress. Taramiel smiled, but wished he hadn¡¯t. He drew the drink to his lips, mostly to hide his face, and drank away the top third. From over the brim, Taramiel could see general Armund staring at him.


    Armund had a long beard colored like fresh ash. His eyes were set deep underneath his crown of a brow, and he wrapped a black robe around his waist. Taramiel could see the same bitter taste in Armund¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°Like the ale?¡± Armund said, tightening a smile over his scowl.


    ¡°I¡¯d take it over soldier¡¯s piss.¡±


    ¡°It is Soldier¡¯s Piss,¡± Armund replied, taking his own half-drained mug and pouring the rest into the fire. The flames bobbed for a moment, then returned to their previous blaze. He withdrew a flask from his robe, wrapped with black leather, and opened the nozzle with a twist of his fingers. ¡°You should have something good to drink, no boy¡¯s fare. I wager you¡¯d even enjoy it.¡± He brought it to his lips and took a short swig. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°Your piss is about as good as any others, I¡¯ll stick with mine.¡±


    Armund laughed, and rubbed his nose. ¡°This stuff is worth more in coin than you are to the Sacredate.¡±


    ¡°Right, those raids were useless trifles,¡± Taramiel said.


    ¡°You do cattle-work.¡± Armund¡¯s scowl had returned, and it seemed as though his mouth had grown wider, and his teeth sharper.


    ¡°Taramiel!¡±


    Every head turned to the tent at the back of the clearing. The fires seemed to shy away from the shout. A man wearing a black cloak folded the cloth door back, his head bent through the entrance, staining the soil in front of it with yellow light. Taramiel wished he¡¯d had more ale. His heart began to pick up speed, although he knew there was no need. He always reminded himself of that, but it never helped.


    ¡°The Sacredate requests your presence. Come now.¡±


    Armund smiled, but resheathed his teeth. Taramiel rose and stared at him as he poured the rest of his drink into the fire, extinguishing it. Now Armund was expressionless. Before he left, Taramiel noticed Armund examining the remaining suds in the large glasses, and sighing.


    It took longer than Taramiel had hoped for the camaraderie and the fires to pick up again. Drunken laughter and shouts had returned, but even the half-conscious were watching him approach the tent. Not until he was hidden within would it return to normal. Taramiel walked up to the Black Guard at the front, a head smaller than he was, and walked in when the Guard bowed and stepped aside.


    Gloss sat inside. Despite his gray hair, and the weary slump in his back, his skin was soft and absent of wrinkles. Part child and part old man, but nowhere in-between. He sat on a wooden throne of sorts, wrapped with leather straps, decorated with studs. Gloss¡¯ visit with these portions of his army had drawn into their fourth month. Long stays were rare, but, as Gloss liked to say, any commandment delivered to him by the gods would be followed.


    Signs of illness were prevalent. Gloss sniffled constantly, licked his lips. His skin was pale, and his hands trembled.


    ¡°Taramiel,¡± Gloss whispered, rising and steadying himself against the back of the chair. His black and purple robes dragged against the dirt floor as he approached.


    ¡°Have you been true, Taramiel?¡± Gloss asked. His amber eyes peered and narrowed into him.


    ¡°Yes, Sacredate.¡±


    ¡°Did you leave any of them alive, Taramiel?¡± Gloss¡¯ voice had gained an edge.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Are you certain? The gods will not tolerate dissidence.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Nothing left alive. We levelled it.¡±


    Gloss stepped back and drew a weak smile.


    ¡°Was there any good food there? I think I saw them cooking a delicious pig in my sleep.¡±


    Taramiel chuckled. ¡°I wasn¡¯t paying attention to that.¡±


    ¡°You should¡¯ve been,¡± Gloss said, sitting back in his chair. ¡°Villagers savor their goods. A village feast is the beast meal you¡¯ll ever have. In a city, every meal could be of those same delicacies, so they eat worse shit than the villagers do.¡±


    Taramiel nodded, and waited for Gloss to continue. Instead, when Taramiel looked at him, he saw Gloss with his forehead cupped in his palm, eyes shut tight and brow and nose wrinkled. After a second, a new face appeared, teeth bared and bent forward. Taramiel thought briefly that Gloss was coming for him, a punishment for some unknown crime, but instead Gloss walked past him and out the door.


    ¡°WHAT INSANITY IS THIS? PUT OUT YOUR FIRES AND END YOUR REVELRY. WE HAVE NO TIME, NO EXCUSES FOR YOUR PATHETIC SLACK. CLEAN OUT YOUR DRINK AND INTO YOUR COTS. THERE SHOULD BE NOTHING LEFT IN THE CLEARING NEXT I STEP OUT. GO!¡±


    And Gloss stepped back into the tent. He sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Two of the Black Guard tapped Taramiel¡¯s shoulders and ushered him out, where he was greeted by the stumbling feet of the drunk, gathering their things and slipping away with burnt logs and empty glasses in tow. Taramiel sighed, walking through the chaos to his tent and falling into the dark.

 Chapter 4

    ¡°Something¡¯s been moving around in the bushes.¡±


    ¡°Farrin, if you want to stop one more time I¡¯m going on without you.¡±


    ¡°No, honest, something¡¯s been following us for a while, by the road.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re just rabbits. Rabbits. Maybe a raccoon.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t just a rodent, Toledo, it¡¯s big, s¡ª¡±


    ¡°There aren¡¯t wolves or coyotes in these woods. The scariest thing you¡¯ll find is a bird giving you the funny eye, and trust me, you deserve it.¡±


    ¡°Stop for a second, just for a second, and we¡¯ll move on.¡±


    The two horse riders stopped, the first turning to see between the wagons strapped to each of their mounts, the second rubbing his face and looking up to the treetops.


    ¡°Did you hear that? Something touched the wagon, I¡¯m begging you, something isn¡¯t right¡ª¡±


    ¡°A damn branch fell from a tree, you better cut it out now, we have work ahead of us and if you don¡¯t keep your mouth shut the sun¡¯s going to rise before we reach the village.¡± The second rider opened his mouth to say more, but shut it and rode on. The first rider turned around again, watching the wooden box push past him, and he jumped forward himself before letting the other rider move too far, driving his foot into his horse¡¯s side and being met with a resistant grunt.


    ¡°Hear anything from the village lately?¡± the first rider asked.


    ¡°No. Not surprising though, place¡¯s small, they don¡¯t have anyone worth writing to.¡±


    ¡°You think Gloss made it to these parts?¡±


    The second rider laughed. ¡°Yes, and we¡¯ll get there and find everybody¡¯s already his slave, and then they¡¯ll nab us too! Maybe one of them¡¯s been following us the whole time, and you were right all along!¡± The second rider laughed again when the first turned his head to check.  ¡°To be honest, Farrin, I wouldn¡¯t mind seeing one of them. Change of pace. Hell, maybe we should just turn ourselves in. The city¡¯s going dry, and I heard they¡¯ve got their hands in some big pots of gold.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it would be good to associate with those kinds of people. I don¡¯t want to be robbed and tortured.¡± The second rider chuckled and shook his head. ¡°The king¡¯s good, they¡¯re talking nonsense anyway,¡± the first rider continued.


    The second raised an eyebrow. ¡°King¡¯s about as wise as this horse. Last time he said something that made sense this horse could do the same thing.¡±


    ¡°Well, things are okay here. We¡¯re not broke. Things are safe.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes, Gloss the friendly trading partner, we get along fine.¡±


    ¡°You said we were safe, Toledo.¡± The second rider rolled his eyes.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Look, things are good enough here. And no, Gloss isn¡¯t very friendly. To be honest, I don¡¯t know what, or who, keeps things and the king running, but it happens. Still. Gloss made a point, and it stuck.¡±


    The first rider turned again. The second had his eyes fixed to the road, his shoulders slumped, and a faint frown on his lips. His eyes were drooping.


    Unbeknownst to him, the first rider¡¯s wagon was unlocked. As the cart rumbled on, the door had creaked open, and two apples bounced out of it and rolled into the dirt. They took no notice of it. Soon enough, they had left the spot far behind. And when they did, Sartore emerged from the bushes, brushing away the bramble and thorns that scratched at his arms, and grabbed the apples off the dirt road, carrying them to a river a short distance from the path.


    After maneuvering past an obstacle course of roots and branches, he found a place to sit at the water¡¯s edge. Through the canopy, the moon shone like many spotlights on the earth, granting silver illumination to stretches of moss and grass. Where the light glinted against the water it seemed like white silk, but the rest was transparent. The stones under the water looked like python flesh.


    Sartore washed the apples. He held one up to the partially obscured white sphere in the sky, saw it through a drop of water that hung on the apple¡¯s surface; it reminded him, in some way, of the raging sunset he had seen a night ago. But the colors were different. The thought started an itch in his chest that, for now, was easy to suppress.


    Sartore took a bite, savoring the sound of his teeth cracking the apple¡¯s flesh. Some small animals scurried away, jumping from branch to branch or hurrying against the dirt floor. The noise didn¡¯t concern him; instead, he closed his eyes and ate, slowly.


    Sartore knew he was hungry. He felt like the space in his chest was getting sucked out of him or devoured. But it didn¡¯t bother him much.


    He dropped both cores into the grass, dipped his hands in the water and splashed some in his face. His cheeks felt warm. Sartore walked back to the path, listened for anymore travellers, and hearing none, continued down the path.


    The trail continued flat between the walls of vegetation. Most animals kept their distance, but a few brave ones crossed his path. A rabbit with a light gray coat sprang to him from a bush, and Sartore kicked it away. A raccoon approached him tentatively, and Sartore brained it with a rock, leaving its carcass in the middle of the road. Despite their absence, though, the animals kept his company. Owls perched on tree branches and crickets hidden in the grass kept the night alive.


    The further Sartore walked, the more he wanted to lie down in the dirt and close his eyes. But sleep seemed far away. The bend of a root was the wrong place to get some rest. The city came first, Sartore thought.


    The dirt road had an end. It was at the side of a brick-paved street, where other other similar roads ended like ribs connecting to the spine. The moon shone through a small part in the trees.


    Sartore heard horse hooves and wagons. He hid behind a thick tree trunk, poking his head out to watch. A small armada of people emerged, many drawn from different paths, and travelling forward. Some had large carriages strapped to their horses, the wheels creaking noisily under the pressure; some had mules to carry their luggage. More still carried their belongings on their backs, and a select few, mostly children, but a few vagrants, carried nothing. A few conversations sparked up in the bramble, but burned out to ash. With their coming, the chirp of the crickets that had carried him forward had disappeared, and left for him that eerie silence.


    Sartore returned to the road when the travellers had long passed, and the sound of them no longer reached him. He skittered to the corners whenever any others passed, often in long stretches as long chains of people moved, but there were enough pockets of space to keep him moving.


    The sun began to rise. There was a dull blue tint to the sky, and soon to the earth. Sartore could see the many colors beginning to stretch out above him. A deep itch settled in his heart; he needed to see it. He dashed forward, following the winds of the street until he could see the city on the horizon.


    And it was beautiful. There, shining from behind the buildings, came a golden glow that cast the structures in the same light. Whatever rough edges should have been there were gone. It came with the small sound of a choir, although Sartore wasn¡¯t sure if that part was just in his head.


    Sartore knew he¡¯d chosen right. And towards the light he went.

 Chapter 5

    The city was alive by sunrise, the streets packed with horses pulling carts, soon to be shopkeepers setting up camp and crossing the busy stream to their usual hideouts. Even from under horse hooves and trampling feet, everything Sartore thought he saw had beauty to it. The gilded path ahead of him was clear; a line drawn between those early travellers to the docks. Sartore hopped onto a range of white wooden boards, relishing the cool breeze, then hopped onto the wide railing that stood over the dock.


    And there was the ocean. His little lake from back home could fit in what he saw many hundreds of times over; and the water continued off the horizon, and pouring out to nowhere. The dark and azure scales of water surface shifted infinitely in every direction all moving at once, beckoning to one harmonious force.


    Sartore imagined seeing a large sea creature, like the one fabled to live at the bottom of the old Lake, leaping out of the water and falling back in with little disturbance. Sartore went a step further and imagined a leviathan that better fit the size of the ocean, but panicked a little at the thought.


    And the sunrise¡ª


    ¡ªhad already ended. Like someone turning out the lights, the golden shading disappeared. The small, white and murky circle of the sun already hung up in the clear blue sky. He¡¯d missed it. An even deeper panic set into his heart, like the feeling of a memory just out of reach, on the tip of the tongue, but despite the shock, Sartore could breath a little easier with a word of solace: Find the sun.


    ¡°Get out of here, rat!¡±


    Sartore scrambled back, teetering on the railing. A bald, burly man faced him with gritted teeth, brandishing his mop. Sartore¡¯s heart was beating in his head, chest, and every vessel.


    ¡°Get out of here, or I¡¯ll swat you off and scrape you off the docks!¡±


    Oh yes, Sartore thought. The docks. Now that the aggressive man mentioned it, the docks themselves were pretty far under him, twenty, maybe thirty feet below.


    ¡°Get!¡± The man said, swinging the mop at Sartore. Sartore leapt off before the man could connect and ran down the wooden boards.


    Sartore emerged on the other side of the rushing stream of people a few moments later. There were a few closed shops and an array of dark windows that watched the sidewalk. Sartore turned and watched the old man, mop in hand, hobble down the pier.


    While the sudden panic had gone, the tremors in front of him remained. It was, he discovered, a lot of people rushing past him now, more than he¡¯d ever seen. The largest gathering he¡¯d ever witnessed would have been the feast¡ª


    What feast? Sartore thought. His mind blanked; but the street and its people continued to roar, and his heart stuttered.


    But the wisp of a smell gave him some comfort. Somewhere on the left trailed the scent of fresh bread, flowing from the front door of a shop with the name ¡°Saveli¡¯s¡± hanging over its door. Sartore drifted there, pulling down the knapsack from his shoulders and pulling out some cash¡ª


    ¡ªbut it was gone. Gone for some time now, he realized. He felt for the missing strap on his shoulder and turned to it, but nothing appeared. Somewhere in the woods, he thought. The city¡¯s exit seemed awfully dark to him now, a verdant, many-toothed maw. And no matter how close they were, the blur of the faceless mob spat at him. Sartore found a small corner large enough to crouch in beside the bakery, and sat there, legs pressed against his chest. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    And soon enough, even the memory of the knapsack faded.


    Sartore could hear the crowded chatter through the walls, and the sound of steam rising over it all and fogging up the windows. The sweet smell of dough came in waves whenever the front door swung open. Those leaving would only afford a quick glance at Sartore before walking away with a spring in their steps. The occasional human would break off a corner of bread or confectionary and drop it into Sartore¡¯s lap; Sartore looked dumbly at the crumb, and waited to eat it.


    As the sun reached higher into the sky, so too did the shadows grow darker. The streets cleared soon enough, and to replace the constant shuffle came dark silhouettes emerging from the corners. Disgruntled characters with too many layers of clothing, young and old, carrying all of their belongings on their backs, the shadows long on their faces. They spat, shuffled along, scratched at their wild beards.


    ¡°You could be doing a lot better, kid.¡±


    Standing a foot from Sartore¡¯s corner was exactly one of those figures. He wore a faded green jacket that dropped to his knees. His beard looked like dirty black cotton candy. Sartore could tell everything in his eyes: greedy.


    ¡°I¡¯m doing fine right here,¡± Sartore replied, taking a small bite of one of those bread crusts. The figure¡¯s eyes flashed, and he gave his best attempt at a comfortable smile.


    ¡°You see all these people?¡± he said, waving his hand at the others. ¡°Each of them would¡¯ve made a lot more in bread if they were in your shoes. Do you know how easy it would be? All you had to do, all you had to do, was look up at the rich folk passing by and pout a little, beg a little, just for a little food, and they would¡¯ve given you their hearts and souls. But instead you¡¯re sitting here letting your opportunities go to waste. And they walked right past you like you were a mangy cat!¡±


    Sartore considered the words briefly, then turned back to the man, expressionless.


    ¡°Oh you damn child! You¡¯ll have to pay for that.¡± The man stepped forward, and Sartore realized that he had few avenues to escape¡ªalthough no panic accompanied the thought.


    ¡°What do you want?¡± Sartore asked. The man considered the question for a moment.


    ¡°Give me your shoes.¡±


    Sartore untied them and handed them to the figure¡¯s outstretched hand.


    ¡°These are nice. Good material, I think. I think I can sell them for a good price. But you were gonna keep wearing them out like the brat you are.¡±


    Sartore said nothing.


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you be. Disrespect me one more time, though, and I¡¯ll have to take everything else.¡±


    And the figure left.


    And sometime shortly thereafter, as the street became mostly uneventful, Sartore fell asleep.


    He knew only that his dream was some sort of memory, but not one he could remember. He stood in front of what must have once been a village, now uprooted and flattened. Bodies lay half-buried in the wood. Beside Sartore was the only house that remained intact. That one in particular rang some sort of bell, but the noise was quiet. He began to cry, hoping for something or someone to free him from this prison.


    That time was still to come.


    Sartore awoke as the sky began to darken, dried tears on his cheeks. There were more city-dwellers shuffling about now. The fog of sleep still clung to him, and kept part of him, the old part of him, in perpetual slumber. He rose, stretched his back and rubbed his eyes, and looked out at the shore.


    This is it. Finally. Here. The sun.


    Sartore walked to the same place he¡¯d sat before, and watched. But as the sun descended, so too did his spirits. There was a brief flash of colors, and then a darker, milky blue, and then night. And the night was cold. The tears might return soon, Sartore thought to himself, but there was one thought that would satisfy him, as far as he could be: there would always be tomorrow.


    Find the sun.


    But there was nothing to find here. Perhaps on the horizon, but not here. Not¡ª


    ¡°Hello, child.¡±

 Chapter 6

    The City Library always opened at the same time; and Maisero would always be waiting. He waited on the granite steps, cut into the hill that the Library topped, and looked out at the city; in the mornings, smothered by golden sunlight, it seemed tolerable to him. But only like that.


    ¡°Good morning, Maisero,¡± Natasha, today¡¯s librarian, said. She carried a large golden key around her neck, and stooped forward to unlock the large gate. Maisero pursed his lips and carried himself forward as Natasha held the door for him. No matter how old the librarians would get (although they tended to get younger first), Maisero would always be older. He nodded a silent thank you to her as he passed.


    The morning hour was the most comforting time he could find from beyond the high walls of the library. Too late for the poor to terrorize him, too early for the mindless knulls that packed the shelves of this city to burst forward and make their usual commotion. And so he took the morning route this way, at this hour, as he had for the last five decades. The commute home, as the library closed, was an adventure filled with cowardice and fear, but at least he would last. Once in the library, everything was okay.


    Maisero sat at a table behind one of the tall bookshelves. He tended to switch sitting location as every project of his ended. He dropped his black briefcase on the table and peeled open its leather flaps, removing from within a pad of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. His one complaint when he had started spending his hours here was that the high-rise windows gave little clarity to his work, but his eyes had adjusted.


    He¡¯d invested much of his time in new research for the library: examining flora and fauna on the banks of the waters, collected by other librarians on his behalf; translations of other works in various languages in the library basement. Art, literature, science, all here, all found and rediscovered by Maisero himself¡ªthough few, if any, knew his name outside the library walls.


    The shore of the city looked back at him now through a small square of glass beside him. The water glinting up at him, almost gleefully. It was terrible to behold. Who would ever want to step onto those docks, or even worse, sail into the neverending expanse? He had interacted with more than a few lousy sailors, and wasn¡¯t ready to take the same position again, not till the day he died.


    ¡°Hello Maisero,¡± one of the library attendants said. She was standing on the other side of the table, with a book held to her chest. She was new to the library, fresh out of one of the nearby universities. ¡°How are you doing today?¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine, all as usual.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good.  Listen, I know you finished something a few weeks ago, and we got a new shipment of books from overseas just yesterday, so I thought some of them might be a good place to start a new project. I brought one for you in case you were interested.¡± And with that, she held the volume out to him like an elementary school award. A Study of Fontanus. Maisero grabbed the book, felt shreds of the felt binding rubbing onto his hand. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    ¡°Thank you, Delilah, I appreciate your regular recommendations. I¡¯ll¡ªI¡¯ll take a look, I¡¯ll make sure to.¡±


    A flash of a smile appeared. Maisero thought that, even for her, it was a poor attempt.


    ¡°Of course. I hope it serves you well.¡± She nodded to him and returned to her desk, around the corner and past some of the shelves, just in sight from his angle.


    Maisero held the book up just a few inches past his nose. The gold letters of the title embossed on the cover were already peeling off, and the cover itself bent too easily in his hands. Better to hide the book away, he thought. It would fall apart in the clumsy, ravaging hands of regular library-goers. Besides, it was of little use to him. Of what diagrams he found flipping through the pages, all seemed to be of different flora, and such fancies were of an older pastime. Better to save the volume for a few generations¡ªlet somebody else find a purpose for it. For fontanus.


    In the meantime, Maisero could find no words to dig up on the page, and his incessant staring only gave him a headache. A good book, he thought, would relieve some of the tension. Maisero hobbled down one of the aisles, passing through Delilah¡¯s line of sight, and searched for a new title on the spines. Many names had been ground away, but Maisero no longer needed them: he recognized most of the novels on sight. It always hurt his spirit to find pages torn out or loose in a book¡¯s quarters. It would likely never be opened again, and would be given no funeral.


    He found more new material at the back. Most of them were novels. Maisero pulled them out from their neighbors, making sure the other books remained in place, and carried his treasure to one of the cushioned seats in the library corners.


    And from that seat he passed the day. The books that caught his attention were the most tolerable, and helped spin the wheel of the sun as it turned; but most were deadening. Some pages passed without a memory; other pages took ten minutes and a dozen reads to finish. There was something else on his mind, something in front of him that never appeared. It was no use trying to read while that distraction, whatever it was, hung over his head¡ªbut he did it nonetheless.


    The light dimmed; people came and went. A few stopped by to drop off books, others came to browse through the collection and take some out. A few hours before the library closed, Delilah walked around through the library with matches and lit the only lamps the library had. All in all, Maisero thought, it had been a quiet day.


    Maisero left just before the library closed, slipping into the dark.


    The marble steps were barely lit, small balls of light at their sides that barely spanned a few feet. Maisero kept his head down. He knew the way back to his old apartment, but had never looked up to see the path. In the dark, it was too frightening. Never mind the alien shapes of the run-down buildings¡ªhe always saw the figures that crept at their underbellies.


    The only place worth turning his head up was the water. Maisero couldn¡¯t help but watch the waves move, even for a second, before fear struck his heart and he scurried away.


    But this time, something else caused him to stop. A young boy, standing at the cliff and watching the water, his back straight, open to whatever winds blew his way. The boy was raggedy, sure, but there was something else drew his attention to him. The same obnoxious whine from the library, although perhaps a little more pleasant now. Maisero walked towards him.


    ¡°Hello, child.¡±

 Chapter 7

    Taramiel¡¯s head always cleared in the woods. There was little to do at camp, anyway, and little reason to remain there. Gloss was sick. He liked to say that the Gods punished his disobedience, the disobedience of his riders, with illness. And Taramiel believed him. So Taramiel kept out of their clearing, and brushed away the nagging thought that perhaps some earthworm in the village had wriggled into the dirt and out of his grasp.


    If there were good targets here, he had yet to find one. He had his bow slung over his shoulder and a quiver of hand-crafted arrows strapped to his back, but so far had found no reason to fire one. Small critters padded around him like any other element of the vegetation, while he cleared a path through it, stepping onto and over roots and small plants.


    Taramiel could see a stronger beam of light break through the greenery further down. Now, the forest cleared the way for him, leading him to the shore of an enormous lake, which turned down a snakepath of trees and past his vision. The cerulean surface of the water barely shifted, and shined like the folds of a young lady¡¯s dress. He could feel the warm blanket of the sun against his skin, the smell of life as the breeze scattered the loose foliage at his feet. There was a momentary vision in his head; him sitting in the dirt, dipping his hands into the cool water, skipping rocks as he used to as a child. His heart, his chest, beat for it. Others shared in the same vision; a large elk dipped its head and drank from the pool a few meters from him, its antlers like large, unbreakable branches. When it lifted its head, it had what Taramiel thought was the same shine in its eyes¡ª


    Taramiel hid behind a tree with his bow clutched in one hand and an arrow in the other. The vision he¡¯d crushed and let blow away in the same wind. He did not need to know the path for his feet to find it, stepping without interruption or noise between tripwires and unsteady terrain. Even when he crouched a few feet away, the deer failed to notice. As the beast stared out at the water, Taramiel nocked an arrow, and pointed it at the weak blesh behind its forward leg.


    The arrow sunk into the deer¡¯s side. The creature neighed, shaking its head back and forth and striking its other side against the trees. The arrow kept firm in its organs, mangling them. But with his target weak, he had no reason to wait. Taramiel withdrew a long dagger from his back and stepped forward after the elk¡¯s initial commotion had ceased. He grabbed its antler, exposed its neck, and cut a deep line across it. The meat fell to the earth.


    The rest of the ritual was a familiar rhythm, and would pass quickly. Taramiel withdrew a well-folded and compressed skin bag from his pocket, shook it out and laid it against the ground. With the same knife, he peeled away the elk¡¯s skin, and carved out the best cuts he could get with the least trouble. The rest he¡¯d leave for carrion. He severed the head from the bone, and with the bag of flesh in one hand and the prize in the other, headed for camp. The lake was long gone.


    There was little other movement. A few other riders had ventured into their own neck of the woods for food, but he found few of them. Besides¡ªthey were searching for a small meal and a poorly carved skin. Taramiel collected firewood as he went. Upon arriving at his tent, Taramiel dropped his bag and set the severed head of the elk in his tent, snout pointed at the sky and antlers holding it up, and built a quick bonfire. Over it he spitted his meat, and waited. As the flesh of the meat grew darker, so too did the sky, and the embers became like orange stars against the night sky before blinking out.


    Taramiel¡¯s dinner was quick. Two thick slabs of meat. The rest was salted and returned to his sack. He decided on a walk before bed, a good chance to clear his head. Most of the other riders were setting up camp for another night of drinking. The other generals had already arrived, their laughs and voices already muddied. The spots of fire were fewer, but most had decided this night as good as any other. Taramiel passed them all, crawling around the border of their clearing, feeling the heat against his cheek on one side and the cool moans from the forest on the other. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Then he heard screaming. Gloss¡¯ tent. Everyone¡¯s head turned, and after a moment, scurried back to their tents. Before Taramiel had the chance to blink, the fires had gone out, the riders (and the alcohol) had disappeared, and the clearing was empty and dark, but for the bright glow of Gloss¡¯ tent. And Taramiel. He crossed the clearing and hid in his tent, slipping into bed and hoping for sleep. Thankfully, the screams dimmed, long enough to keep Taramiel¡¯s mind untroubled . . .


    A dark shape stood in front of him, pushing open his front entrance. The humanoid silhouette tilted its head in, as though waiting to ask a question. No threat here. Taramiel realized he must have only been asleep for an hour or so¡ªnow only Gloss¡¯ light remained outside (as far as he could tell), and his head was far away. The figure in front of him, dressed in a black cloak, must have been one of Gloss¡¯ personal confidants.


    ¡°Good morning, sunshine,¡± Taramiel said. The cloaked figure chuckled. It sounded like a skeleton laughing at someone stuck in their catacombs.


    ¡°The Sacredate would like to see you,¡± the figure said. ¡°Must see you.¡±


    ¡°Now?¡± Taramiel asked. He knew the answer that would come, and knew that in a moment he would be crossing, upon shaky legs, over the dirt floor, but another second in bed would still be nice.


    ¡°I would come quickly, for your own sake,¡± the figure said, then dropped the flap of his tent. Taramiel rubbed his eyes and almost let his head fall back on his pillow, but that was a quick recipe for disaster. Instead, he crawled out from the tent, and when under the eye of the moon, finally rose. The face of the figure was now apparent to him; a well-creased and crooked.


    The cloaked figure led Taramiel slowly. Taramiel¡¯s heart woke up before he did, and sent a warm, all-erasing rush to his head just before he entered the tent. The cloaked figure held it open and shoved Taramiel in.


    Gloss lay in his bed, with his retinue encircling him. They fed him, and kept a fresh, cool towel on his forehead. He was a very old child. Each of the cloaked faces was worried, and Taramiel noticed that even the man who¡¯d ripped him from slumber had become grave. He shoved Taramiel forward, just a foot away from the others, and as he did, Gloss turned to meet him.


    ¡°Taramiel, you lied to me,¡± he whispered. Taramiel almost didn¡¯t hear at first, and then he wished he hadn¡¯t. It took him a moment to dig up some words worth saying, if that.


    ¡°I promise you, Sacredate, that I have done everything in my power to stay true to you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m sure. But you didn¡¯t do a very good job. You didn¡¯t kill everyone in the village.¡±


    Taramiel wanted to protest, but didn¡¯t. No matter what he saw with his own eyes, Gloss, even while stuck here, could see better.


    ¡°Sacredate, I apologize for my mistake¡ª¡±


    ¡°This goes deeper than a mistake, Taramiel! These mistakes are costly, and this one in particular.¡± Gloss was grinning now. ¡°You¡¯ve made an awful blunder here. Listen¡ªI can forgive you. But you must rectify your mistake.¡±


    ¡°How can I do that, Sacredate?¡±


    Gloss¡¯ smile grew wider. ¡°They will be leaving Palthos two days from now, at noon. Go to Fiarin and request a boat¡ªtake one if you have to¡ªand meet them at the sea. Destroy them.¡±


    ¡°Them?¡±


    Gloss laughed. ¡°The little boy found himself a travelling mate. Now go. Get some rest if you need it.¡±


    Taramiel did as requested. When he left the tent, felt the breeze and saw the night sky, it felt as though everything was watching him: the small creatures that hid in the underbrush, the birds that hopped on their branches, the trees that surrounded him, and the stars that peered down at him. He sighed. Awful blunder. First blunder, but still¡ªawful. Taramiel headed back to his tent to get some rest.

 Chapter 8

    Sartore dropped off the pier and swiveled to face the voice. It had come from an old man, hunched over and breathing restlessly. His jaw was rounded and carried a reptilian sack beneath it. The weather was cold; as he stood, he felt a shiver run down his arms and spine. And the shadowy, slackened case of a person in front of him, standing in the near-dark, didn¡¯t help either.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here to hurt you, child,¡± Maisero said. The child had more gumption than he¡¯d anticipated; fists raised and body bent forward. Maisero almost wanted to flee, but swatted the thought¡ªthis was, of course, just a child. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    For a second, Sartore did nothing. Then he dropped his fists to his sides and stood a little taller, now looking away with a knotted brow.


    ¡°Sartore, I think.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re you doing out here?¡± A flash of recognition crossed the boy¡¯s eyes. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you be home? Eating dinner?¡±


    ¡°Well, I have no house to go to here, it¡¯s only my first day.¡±


    Maisero paused for a second to register the words. ¡°Where did you come from?¡±


    ¡°A small village, not far. Just past the gates and around the corner.¡±


    Weren¡¯t the Sacredate¡¯s men near those parts? Shit. ¡°What brought you here?¡±


    ¡°The Sun asked me to come.¡±


    Maisero laughed, nervously. ¡°Got lost playing a child¡¯s game?¡±


    ¡°No, the Sun asked. Didn¡¯t I¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Sun doesn¡¯t speak, child, you¡¯ll have to be clearer with me.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it does. You¡¯re just not listening.¡± Sartore had meant it more as a quip to fill the space, now that he¡¯d run out of things to say, but instead the old man had grown silent.


    ¡°Are you planning on staying the night here, child?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we meet again tomorrow? Be awaiting for me here at around sunrise, and I can find you, take you to the library, and we can chat for a little bit. Does that sound agreeable?¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Sure, but¡ª¡±


    ¡°In the meantime, there are a few places around here you might be able to find shelter, perhaps one of the more lavish cots, or, if you¡¯re really, you know, struggling, just find yourself a good¡ªa good corner, and get into some cozy position, and get a little bit of rest.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t I come with you?¡± Sartore knew the answer he was going to get as soon as he¡¯d asked. The old man had flinched back like a child dodging his friend¡¯s fake punch.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Can I sleep at your house? It¡¯s going to be cold, and I¡¯m going to be hungry, and there¡¯s . . . strange people walking around. I can take the floor, anything, really.¡±


    ¡°Of course not, child. There isn¡¯t the space, nor the time, nor the accomodations to produce something of that nature that quickly. Things are in a bit more disorder than I would like, and I won¡¯t be inviting any guests in those circumstances. Now, I¡¯ll be on my way. Farewell, I will see you in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Please? I¡ª¡±


    ¡°You should be fine. Farewell.¡±


    And the old, nameless figure bent to hide from the thickening darkness ahead of him, the pace of his feet quickening as he disappeared. In some sense, the old man meant he might find a little bit of solace in the morning, if any could be recovered now, but that still left the task of surviving the night. Sartore turned, taking a last look at the docks and the wrinkled sheet of blue water. He might miss the morning; sleep through it. Miss the old man, but more importantly, miss the sunrise. But he didn¡¯t have time for those worries: the last of the evening-watchers had disappeared, and house lamps were blinking out. Soon, only rats would be scurrying around.


    Sartore hurried into an alleyway, hoping no one would spot him in the poor lighting. Most corners had already been taken by bodies, dead or alive. He needed a place these folks would probably avoid¡ªa richer neighborhood, perhaps. After few turns, winding himself deeper into the city¡¯s maze, he stumbled on a wide road with individual, autonomous houses. The tall silhouettes were each menacing figures, but alone, none of them were too frightening.


    His choice in hiding place was arbitrary. He found a smaller block than the others, crushed between the broader shoulders of its neighbors, and hid at the side of its rickety stairwell. He lay down in the grass, the moss under his head resembling a pillow, and fell asleep.


    Maisero found his way through a memorized sequence of steps. He didn¡¯t dare lift his head, lest some strangers see him, or recognize him as human. He knew when he¡¯d finished, and raised his eyes only when he knew his front door would be there to greet him. He climbed his staircase in a hurry, withdrew his key like a pocket knife, and wedged it into the door. He always thought he heard strange noises, or saw strange shadows, on his way. Not until he was safe at home could he laugh.


    No lamp was lit. He could see the outlines of the loose papers and manuscripts, the books left open and piled on top of each other, carrying a decade of dust. Maisero dropped his things, leaving his briefcase against a wall, slipping out of his clothes and into bed. He had a small window, where the sickly white eye of the moon always watched him. He never liked the view, but never bothered doing anything about it. Instead, he turned on his other side, and fell asleep.

 Chapter 9

    The morning light was dull, but there: sunrise was long gone. Overslept was an understatement. Maisero picked an outfit blind from his closet and slipped it on, deemed it agreeable enough, then stepped into the living room and lifted his briefcase from the floor. He opened it and withdrew the used pages, dropping them on the ground with the others, and took a new ream of paper with him.


    He only paused after gripping the knob of the front door. Most of the joints in his hands were throbbing. So was much of his back. It always came in the morning, and although he walked it out on his way to the library, it always returned the next day. It was only morning stiffness, he thought, and pushed the thought aside.


    Maisero twisted the knob and stepped into a wet morning. Fog had taken up the sunlight¡¯s airtime. Although the houses across the street were there, they were difficult to make out. Good, he thought; no need to worry about the eyes of his neighbors. The heavy air against his skin, by comparison, was a minor inconvenience.


    As Maisero finished locking the door behind him, he remembered his walk to the pier the night before. The dirty child that had been standing there, watching the fading sun and the rising moonlight. Strange thing, he was, but no better than a rat. The child would have already left by now, anyway, Maisero wondered. There was a small pang in his chest, but an easily ignorable one. Off to the library.


    ¡°Hello?¡± a voice peeped. Maisero hoped a second later, after regaining consciousness, that none of his neighbors had seen him jump like a startled cat on his porch. His hand was clamped back on the doorknob. The voice had come from under the stairwell. It had to be an intruder, waiting for him to let his guard down; or worse, a savage, intelligent animal, here to devour him; or even worse, some sort of demon here to punish him for his sins! Maisero smiled weakly. Still, he made no reply, and hoped the voice would stay quiet.


    ¡°Hello? Anybody there?¡± Maisero groaned silently, then took a violent step back. Eight small and slender fingers, dirty and greasy in the moist air, took hold of the wooden boards. Above them emerged a familiar face.


    ¡°Hello, sir,¡± the boy said, eyes wide and almost laughing. The boy was shaking, and his arms were covered in gooseflesh.


    ¡°How did you find me? Did you follow me last night, child? I will not¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, sir, I promise I didn¡¯t. When you left I went wandering in the city for a place to sleep, and I found this street, and I thought this little spot here was¡ªcozy¡ª¡±


    ¡°This? This¡ªthis is my corner, and you better get off of it and my grass immediately!¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Now the boy¡¯s smile grew a little wider. He got onto his feet and hopped onto the street, hands held behind his back. Now that he¡¯d mentioned it, the grass of his front yard was growing as spotty as his head.


    ¡°Sir¡ª¡±


    ¡°Hmm? What¡¯re you still doing here? Go back from wherever you came!¡±


    Now the boy¡¯s face fell, and a real pang stung in his chest. The boy¡¯s cheeks were as dirty as his hands. His clothes were too, and the holes in them weren¡¯t serving much purpose either. His first line of thought was a classic, tried and true: find the authorities and hand the boy over. Not your responsibility. But another voice, quieter but further lodged in his mind, shoved the other out of the way: Just take the boy with you! What will he do, take your things? You have nothing worth losing. That strain was a thought for another day, but something about it started to cool his head.


    ¡°What did you say your name was, boy?¡±


    ¡°Sartore.¡±


    ¡°Sartore. I¡¯ll have you follow me, if you will. I¡¯ll be taking you to the library. You, however, must follow me. If you get lost, get distracted, or for any reason deviate from my path, I will not turn back to save you. Understood?¡±


    Sartore nodded, and he grinned. Maisero noticed now how the boy¡¯s lips trembled; how the boy¡¯s body trembled. But¡ªno matter.


    Sartore followed Maisero through the twists and turns of the alleyways. Maisero kept as close to the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings as possible, head bent down. Sartore¡¯s legs didn¡¯t have Maisero¡¯s reach, but he could keep up.


    Eventually the stone walls and structures disappeared, and the pair arrived at the base of a long staircase, made of shining marble, topped by the library. The roof was held up by long pillars, and the sun was nearly blinding on its front face. Sartore thought it captured the same glow he had seen so long ago over the city.


    A day ago.


    ¡°Hurry up,¡± Maisero said, and started upwards. Sartore thought he almost lost the old man, and leaped forward to catch up. A few of those steps were enough to wind Sartore, but when he looked up at Maisero, he saw him entirely untroubled.


    At the top, Maisero finally turned. His face had hardened, having reached his empire.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Maisero part shouted down at the nearing figure of Sartore. Finally achieving the top himself, Sartore took a moment to pant and spit on the marble floor of the library¡¯s entrance. Maisero grimaced, but kept silent. Sartore scurried up to Maisero¡¯s feet when he had regained some strength, and waited there. Maisero took one gnarled hand and grasped the black handle of the library entrance, and pulled it back.


    The door creaked open. The dust in the library shimmered like specks of gold in the intruding light. Maisero shoved Sartore in and let the door shut heavily behind them.


    ¡°Keep quiet,¡± Maisero whispered, then moved forward himself. Sartore watched him fix his eyes on one of the tables, and there set up camp, dropping his briefcase and withdrawing a few sheets of paper. Sartore drew his breath, held it as Maisero¡¯s eyes set on him. Sartore stepped forward.

 Chapter 10

    In a quiet hour of darkness, one hundred men entered the city of Palthos through its open gates. A few of the city-dwellers spotted them through their windows and crept to the nearest hiding place to wait out their presence. Those that saw them were summarily killed before much fanfare could be made of it, their bodies left behind on the stone road, blood leaking into the cracks.


    A man stood at the corner of the docks, crouched down and tying a rope around a wooden pole. His skin was tanned and painted with the canvasses of his wars at sea, although they had become disfigured with age. He heard that army approaching, but paid little attention. Now he could hear them padding unsteadily on the wooden boards behind him, growing closer.


    ¡°Rise, sailor,¡± one voice said. The man snarled as he did so.


    Taramiel could see a vicious beast in the man¡¯s eyes. He was grateful to his sword drawn, the tip biting into the board below. Sure, one hundred to one . . . but still.


    ¡°Give us three vessels, and we¡¯ll let you live. Fast ones, ready for battle. Guide us to them, open your equipment to us and prepare our departure, and we will cause you no trouble.¡± By now Taramiel new that the man had spotted the crest sewn into his shirt: a black shield with a full sun and its rays outstretched in the top half.


    ¡°I ain¡¯t working with none Gloss¡¯ men,¡± the man said, and spit on Taramiel¡¯s shoe. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    ¡°Unfortunately, you don¡¯t have much of a choice.¡± Taramiel lifted his sword and dropped its flat side on the man¡¯s shoulder. The growl in the man¡¯s face seemed to grow deeper, and his teeth seemed to grow sharper.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you no damn boats.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡±


    Taramiel was half certain the man would bark at him before he cut out the sailor¡¯s throat. As it dropped into the cold ocean water, the sailor¡¯s skin turned paler, and shined almost like a white sheet as it fell, until submerged in the black abyss.


    Taramiel found three ships that seemed suitable enough. They weren¡¯t the largest in the docks, but they were sleek, and outfitted with rams, harpoons, and an armory of weapons. Some scaled other ships to pilfer them for other valuables, while the rest began rigging the three ships. Taramiel re-fitted sails and unlatched the ropes. Those movements were mechanical, learned from hours at After a few hours of labor under the light of the moon, the eye shut behind a protective layer of clouds, and they were left with a dim reflection against the water.


    And three ships were rigged. At the first sign of light, as the gray fog of the morning became visible, they were to leave the docks and sail forwards¡ªand find that sole survivor sailing away. Three boats, the Sacredate had said, would capture him.


    Taramiel and his men examined their ships one last time before falling in line into the cabins below. Taramiel went in last, savoring a final moment above-board, the cool wind blowing into his face and the stars spelling an unspoken pattern in the sky. But eventually, he followed. Taramiel found an unoccupied cabin and dropped into it.


    The Gods would wake him when it was time to rise.

 Chapter 11

    Sartore took the seat across from Maisero. Maisero had his hands folded over the table now, with his briefcase half-open at one edge of the table, half-vomiting its contents. Sartore realized, as he fidgeted to find a comfortable position in the chair, that he¡¯d fail to find one in the straight-edged wooden furniture.


    ¡°Unfortunately, child, I have forgotten much of what we discussed the previous night. Where did you say you were from, again?¡±


    ¡°A small village, not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, which village?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. It was always just¡ªthe village.¡±


    Maisero took the empty moment to consider the words, and Sartore watched Maisero¡¯s head thud with a frightening thought.


    ¡°Do you remember the path you took to arrive here?¡±


    ¡°I remember turning, once. Maybe a few times.¡±


    Another pause for introspection.


    ¡°Do you remember why you left?¡±


    Sartore shook his head. In fact, he thought part of him could still see a single glimpse of the village. But not his.


    ¡°In any case, if I remember accurately, you spoke of some strange incidents while we were still at the docks. Could you recount that story? Something about the sun . . .¡±


    Now it was Sartore¡¯s turn to pause. He leaned forward, propping his elbows against the wooden table (which were now at head-height), and stared down at the dusty square of rug in the table¡¯s shadow.


    ¡°I remember being at the shore of a lake, behind the village. I was watching the sunset. The sun started to speak to me once the colors started changing. I didn¡¯t understand most of it, but I remember it telling me that I¡ªthat I needed to follow it. And then it was like I woke up, and the sun was gone, and it was almost night.¡±


    ¡°How did the sun speak to you, child?¡±


    ¡°It whispered into my head.¡±


    Maisero almost snarled at him, but the expression, and the thought that drew it, faded quickly. ¡°And how did you stumble upon this city¡¯s gates?¡±


    ¡°When I left, I walked down to the road out of the village, and remembered hearing about a city to my left. So I went.¡±


    ¡°And your parents allowed you to?¡± Maisero paused. ¡°Where are they now?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    And that was when the idea came. All of his desperate, miserable searching, come to an end. He could see the cover now: Alien Boy, subtitle: Compiled Adventures. It would be an overnight sensation. Perhaps people would even have the gall to find the story interesting and engaging. That would be something, wouldn¡¯t it? Maisero almost let his joy leak into his face, but caught the smile before it hatched. All he¡¯d have to do is follow the boy around. Take some notes, he thought. It would be the easiest sell of his life.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Even interesting for him, maybe. See the ocean on the other side¡ª


    But that would require him to follow the boy. Ghastly business, really. No, he¡¯d have to hire a few others to do the following for him. No time for indulgences. He¡¯d collect their notes and write it himself, in his cozy study, the thin layer of dust growing into a soft coat of fur until the work was finished. And the fame, the glory, would return.


    ¡°You arrived at this city sometime previous to our chance encounter. What were you doing prior to that?¡±


    ¡°I walked up to the lake, thinking, thinking that I could find the Sun again at sunrise, but by the time I got there, there was nothing there.¡±


    ¡°The sun was gone?¡±


    ¡°No, it was there. But it wasn¡¯t in a talking mood.¡±


    Maisero thought the words over for a moment, then turned back to Sartore, and asked his next question tentatively:


    ¡°Where do you intend to go now, child?¡±


    ¡°I thought the ocean looked pretty with the sun over it . . .¡±


    Sartore winced when he saw Maisero¡¯s sneaky gag. It was as though Maisero had found a noseful of putrid shoreline decay.


    ¡°If you¡¯re heart¡¯s set on that, then, I may be able to find some work with some guidance,¡± Maisero said. Sartore nodded in agreement. Maisero rose, tucked his papers back into his briefcase, slung it over his shoulder, and walked down the side of the bookshelves, letting the child follow behind him. Sartore kept a few feet between him and Maisero.


    Maisero skipped the first two shelves. Between them, Sartore found two men with open books in their hands, one seated at a footstool, the other standing, head pointed into the open slot from which he¡¯d withdrawn the volume.


    After turning a corner into one of the shelves, Maisero stopped and strummed his fingers against the book spines in front of him. Eventually, he picked one, slid it out and held it for Sartore to see. Sartore immediately noticed the name embossed at the bottom.


    ¡°You wrote this?¡± Sartore asked.


    ¡°After many years of study, child. There should be plenty for you here. Follow me.¡±


    And you should follow him. Write a good story, a real one at that. See the water, those fields of daffodils on the other side¡ª


    Unsteady boats, scummy people, vomiting, the whole lot¡ª


    Maisero carried the book under his arm back to one of the desks, this time on the other side of the shelves. He laid down his briefcase against his chair, and waited for the child to be seated before opening the book and laying out its treasures.


    The colorful pictures caught Sartore¡¯s eyes immediately.


    ¡°There¡¯s an important city across the ocean,¡± Maisero said. He flipped a few pages forward, searching for the right page. ¡°I still remember old conversations regarding the city. It contained a large port, if memory serves me right. There were large masses of old and dusty ruins, but at the last inquiry I made, they were making preparations to rebuild some of them. They¡¯ve regained some of their stature as of late, after spending some decades poor and useless. But their investments have appeared successful.¡±


    Why¡¯d you never move there in the first place? Much better place to coop up.


    ¡°There we are.¡± Maisero had stopped, and placed a finger over an illustration, before turning the book for Sartore to read. The child stared at the book, and seemed to carry its weight on his head, afraid to lean forward and tip over. Tentatively he scooted forward in his seat, and scanned the lines. Maisero watched with some contentment as the child¡¯s eyes widened and narrowed.


    ¡°Is that where I¡¯m going?¡± Sartore asked, eyes pleading up at Maisero.


    ¡°I believe so, child.¡±


    And you as well.


    Leave the damned child alone, take him to the docks and get him out of here before he has another opportunity to distract from your studies. And pay somebody else to follow him.


    ¡°I can bring you there,¡± the old man said, after some struggle to form the words properly. Sartore nearly jumped out of his chair, and landed on his feet. ¡°Let¡¯s go, then!¡±


    The old man took his time, lips placed awkwardly on his face. He shut the book, enjoying the brief echo of the mass of pages collapsing softly on each other, then carried it back to its original spot in the shelves. It occurred to Sartore that few people had ever taken it out from its spot, given the excess of dust now left behind on the desk. Few other than him.


    And Sartore followed Maisero to the docks.

 Chapter 12

    The featureless eye above watched the critters below. Sartore thought he was getting special attention. He and Maisero shoved and doged between the other legs moving in the street. He could feel the skin on the back of his neck tanning into a strip of leather. A few steps ahead, he saw Maisero hunkered down with a hand kept above his brow as they went.


    Maisero¡¯s heart was ringing in his head. Every glance from the other street-dwellers caused him to hunch forward a little further. The children running between his feet and bumping into him didn¡¯t help things. He couldn¡¯t stand their laughter, and especially not their unearned tears. Maisero turned for a moment, saw Sartore disappear in a stream of equally-sized hooligans, then reappear when they had left. Maisero beckoned him to move faster, and they did.


    As Maisero shoved past a few more people, freeing himself from the crowd behind him, the docks appeared suddenly at his feet. He stood at the tail end of the wooden ramp that turned and bent to the waters. The ocean seemed to have no end, neither past the horizon nor in the deep below its surface.


    The water will devour you if you near it.


    Maisero recoiled from a tug at his sleeve. Sartore stood beside him, watching him. Now it was Sartore¡¯s turn to beckon forth; but Maisero did nothing. Sartore went on ahead, running down the ramp and heading downwards. Maisero caught the child scanning the bottom of the docks, as though searching for something.


    Maisero had never learned to swim. His last real contact with the ocean had been as a child, dipping his toes into the waves at the shore. Swimmers and sailors were blind, Maisero thought, to the fiends that dwelled below them, waiting for the end of a man¡¯s breath or the listing of a ship in the wind to bring the trespasser into the darkest shade below.


    As Sartore rounded the corner of the ramp and fell out of sight, Maisero followed.


    When he rounded it himself, Maisero saw Sartore standing at the ramp¡¯s conclusion, a flat wooden platform a few inches above water, admiring the massive sails that had landed here. Again, Maisero hesitated; he imagined approaching the child, only for a liquid tentacle to wrap around his ankle and drag him down.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Move it or I¡¯ll throw you in,¡± a voice growled from behind him. Maisero didn¡¯t waste a second in sprinting down the docks. His vision had gone gray and red, and he could see his heartbeat, especially as he looked down at his feet to see the shifting image of his reflection over the diluted blue. But his eyes returned to the ramp, where a short handful of loud knocks against the wood ended a few more feet from him.


    ¡°And what¡¯re you doing here, Misery?¡±


    Faori had a pipe gripped firmly in his scowl.


    ¡°Faori, hello,¡± Maisero said, offering his hand. When Faori pulled out his own, caked with wet soil and discolored nails, Maisero his his hand in his shadow. Faori grunted.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°Well, Faori, I was wondering if I could provide¡ªthis child beside me would like to sail down to Pallasi, and I would like to provide it.¡±


    ¡°The rat?¡±


    Maisero raised an eyebrow and turned back. Sartore¡¯s eyes had grown wide with recognition, and had slowly shuffled to Maisero¡¯s back.


    ¡°What rat?¡± Maisero asked.


    Faori laughed. ¡°The kid was running around the docks yesterday morning, making a lot of noise. Right, kid?¡±


    Sartore was completely obscured behind Maisero now.


    ¡°Sure, I can give him a ticket. You want to go to, Maisero? Go for your first sail?¡± Faori couldn¡¯t finish the sentence with laughing, a sound like the wrinkling of a sheet of paper.


    No.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Faori stopped. He examined Maisero closely, stepping closer to than Maisero would¡¯ve preferred, but found the answer truthful.


    ¡°You sure about that? Mind my words, but you were never much for sailing.¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll take this journey. Just the one.¡±


    Faori raised his hands and dropped them back to his sides. ¡°Whatever you say. Follow me. Head up kid, stop running around like a rat.¡±

 Chapter 13

    The ships that had come to rest at these docks were quiet. The only ones with any crew on board were the passenger ships that were slowly accumulating customers. Sartore watched a lavishly dressed family, with purple-and-maroon stained coats of fur wrapped around their shoulders, clopping up the wooden ramp to the deck.


    Maisero felt the world swimming as the water wavered under him, back and forth, pressing against the stone wall to his right and sending up a venomous spray of salt and seaweed.


    And the two followed after Faori, who walked quickly for a man with such a heavy gait and stagger. Sartore and Maisero chased after him. He turned and stepped behind a kiosk cut into the stone, shoved through the waist-height wooden door. Maisero dropped the weight of his back and shoulders onto the countertop, holding it up only by his elbows and forearms.


    ¡°Got any money on you?¡± Faori asked as he sifted through some of the drawers by his side. Maisero nodded faintly. He placed his briefcase on the counter and opened his front pocket, removing an array of papers and pamphlets from it. He kept his hand firm over them, bracing for a cold wind that had peeled off the top of the water. He imagined one of those slips escaping from his grasp, looping in the air and landing in the ocean, in a few seconds sogged, in a few more breaking apart and sinking to the bottom to be eaten by minnows, and those minnows to be devoured by more menacing creatures.


    Keep it together.


    At the bottom Maisero found a collection of loose coins.


    ¡°How many of these?¡± Maisero asked, dropping a few onto the wood with a startling clatter seemed to break the flow of time.


    ¡°Twenty, ten for the pair.¡±


    After some more digging Maisero had collected twenty coins exactly, gathered into a child¡¯s poor imitation of a mountain, and shoved them with his palms towards Faori. Faori swiped them and made two pillars of equal height from them, grunted with approval, and dropped them into another drawer just behind the counter, before shutting it with a hip thrust.


    ¡°Which boat do you want? That one¡¯s leaving in an hour, another one tonight.¡±


    Maisero turned to Sartore, but wished he hadn¡¯t. Although the boy had begun to open his mouth, Maisero knew what answer would come, and he fully intended to ignore it.


    ¡°Tonight. Send us tonight.¡± he said without looking back at Faori, and sunk deeper into the shadow of the upper lip of stone overhead. Now with Maisero¡¯s body completely enveloped in darkness, Faori thought he looked like a beast trying to crawl over the counter, and for a moment his heart picked up. Faori pulled out two strips of paper and an old and worn pencil, then scribbled a few notes on each. A few words were entered into an open volume at his side. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Here you are,¡± he said, handing one slip of paper to each of them. ¡°Bring that to the boat down at the south end here,¡± Faori said, pointing down the other end of the docks, where another boat of similar fashion waited.


    ¡°The ride¡¯ll be pretty empty tonight, but I¡¯m sure you won¡¯t mind that,¡± Faori said, nodding his head and moving out of the shop window. ¡°Now get out of here. No idling about.¡±


    Faori swept them away with his arms, and they scurried back up the ramp and took a seat at a wooden bench near the docks with the glittering water at their backs.


    Those hours passed in silence. Maisero bowed his head to passersby, while Sartore fidgeted beside him. It wasn¡¯t until the sun began to set that either of them made any real movements. It had been at the back of Sartore¡¯s mind all morning, and he jumped out of his seat the moment he saw the first blush in the sky. Maisero remained in his.


    In a few minutes the sky had become amber, then a raging flame that stretched over the sky; but the flames died out, turning to purple then to the fading black of twilight, without a word to Sartore. The stars above seemed to blink absently at him.


    ¡°We must go now, child,¡± Maisero said, rising himself. ¡°Our boat will be boarding soon, I think.¡± He pointed one unsteady finger down below, and Sartore saw the descending ramp of the boat as well. He saw in Maisero¡¯s face worry and a queasy hopefulness.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go, then,¡± Sartore said, clenching his throat and dashing down to the docks. Behind him, Sartore knew Maisero¡¯s expression had only grown more worried.


    But Maisero followed.


    Sartore stood a few feet from the ramp up to the boat and marveled at it. There was a quiet majesty to it, the sails furled up and quivering in the wind, the wide and empty deck. Maisero, who scooted up just behind the child, could only see the ship rocking back and forth, which already made him uncomfortable. Better the sight of that than the water, he thought; for in the complete darkness below, anything might dwell.


    Faori laughed behind him.


    ¡°Voyage well, Maisero, and have a good trip, child,¡± he said.


    Sartore went first, and he rushed up the ramp easily. Maisero watched him go for just long enough to see a foot slip out from under the child. Of course, Sartore caught himself easily. He stopped at the ship¡¯s entrance, both feet firmly on deck.


    ¡°Come on!¡± the boy shouted.


    Maisero took a trembling step onto the ramp. It was slick and well-tread. For a minute he couldn¡¯t uproot his other foot.


    ¡°Move it, or we¡¯ll leave you on the ramp,¡± one of the sailors said.


    Wouldn¡¯t that be nice?


    Another step. Good. Maisero kept his head up, let his feet drag against the boards and placed them firmly enough. The travel was going well, better, even¡ª


    Masiero looked down, and down into the black waters, and screamed.

 Chapter 14

    From the water arose a vision.


    The first thing that Maisero noticed was a body lying in the muck. Slumped over, like the rotting carcass of an old beast. It took him a little longer before the dust settled in his head and he saw that it was his face lying there, half submerged in the ground. He couldn¡¯t see any visible damage on his dead body, but he wasn¡¯t moving. His eyes were the worst part¡ªmotionless, pointed at nothing.


    There were people moving around the body, some shoving it with their shoes, but mostly leaving it alone. From among them, Maisero noticed a small pair of boots stop and kneel down, open his jacket and pull a few things from it. The figure placed a hand on Maisero¡¯s dead cheek, and left a smear of dirt on it.


    ¡°Shut up, goddammit! Get moving and stop shouting!¡± Faori yelled, snapping Maisero out of the nightmare. The rest of the world had acquired a metallic quality to it, and seemed to shine at him¡ªfrom a distance. That image of him remained in his mind, albeit fading, but when he looked back at the water (flinching as he did so) he found no sign of it. He fled up the ramp and out of the water¡¯s sight. The sailors on deck watched him wearily.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you shout like that?¡± Sartore asked, looking up at him, a little frightened. Maisero laughed. He noticed his heart beating restlessly, although by now that vision had completely left. A thrill was rushing through him.


    ¡°Oh, just a fright that I spotted, nothing in particular.¡± The words tasted strange on his tongue. He felt now as though nothing in the world could frighten him or challenge him, and yet here he was, admitting to a terrifying scare in the water. What did he even see, to begin with? It didn¡¯t matter. All he wanted to do was run and dance. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    But the feeling was leaving. The cold wind was returning.


    ¡°Did you see anything in the water?¡±


    ¡°No, of course not. Everything¡¯s fine¡ªspectacular.¡±


    Now when Maisero looked down at the boy, he noticed a stinging look of suspicion.


    ¡°What is your name again, child? I seem to have forgotten, and if we are to be acquaintances, your name would be valuable.¡±


    ¡°Sartore,¡± the boy said, and smiled. ¡°What¡¯s yours?¡±


    ¡°Maisero S¡ª¡± then he stopped. ¡°Maisero. Nice to meet you, Sartore.¡± Now Sartore was laughing. That sound was kind and warm at first, but then it gave Maisero a crooked ache in his head, and he stopped enjoying it. Sartore noticed it too, and stopped laughing.


    ¡°You folks can pick yourselves a cabin. Looks like nobody else¡¯ll be joining us tonight,¡± one sailor told them.


    ¡°Alright, thank you. After you, Sartore?¡±


    Sartore nodded, and they headed down. Sartore slipped into the darkness immediately, his eyes wide with wonder as he wandered in the wooden halls and absorbed the stench of its boards. Maisero saw it and sobered up quickly, the last of that toxic drink finally leaving his bloodstream. One small light hung at the entrance, and wobbled with the thrust of the waters. Now Maisero could feel the weight of the water too, and he felt that light happiness in his mind turn to a light nausea, and the small thin line of a throb in his mind. Maisero shook his head and descended.


    He followed Sartore¡¯s light steps to the right. From a door Maisero overheard an old lady scolding someone, who wasn¡¯t replying. Eventually he found the cabin of Sartore¡¯s choice. It had a small window, but no other light.


    ¡°Is there no lamp here, Sartore?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    Maisero nodded, and almost left to find a cabin of his own, but he stopped. Sartore had turned to watch the moon through the glass, and Maisero spotted it immediately: small brown boots. That dream roared back to life, and left him sick as he chose the next cabin over, and bereft of sleep when he laid to rest.

 Chapter 15

    The ship set sail a few hours after Sartore had fallen asleep. But his rest was short lived; a pesky wave tried shoving past the boat, and struck the hull with some annoyance before passing. The lurch awoke a number of passengers, and Sartore was one of them. The first thing he saw was the lamplight spying under his door frame as it swung back and forth. He smiled, stepped out of bed and fastened his boots before stepping into the hallway.


    The lamp was only a few meters away. It hung from a black hook in the ceiling by a small metal ring. The lamp was unable to find a decent resting place in the ship¡¯s perpetual movement. But the lamp didn¡¯t fall, nor the flame sputter out.


    Sartore heard laughing towards the front of the ship, and went there next. He stood in the light¡¯s radius, and could see no further than its circumference. But after a minute, the ship separated from the heavens; and after that, the ship took form.


    The laughing had come from a small handful of the original sailors. They stood in disarray near the front of the ship, their backs to him.


    ¡°That¡¯s the kid,¡± spoke a voice from overhead. Sartore noticed a shadow pointing at him from the crow¡¯s nest, the figure¡¯s feet hanging over the side. A different voice groaned, and Sartore watched one of the sailors turn and approach him, bent forward like an angered bull. Sartore quickly thought of running back to bed, or dashing to the side of the ship and hiding in the dark, but before he could decide, the sailor stood a yard away. His long and wrinkled chin poked into the dome of light, and Sartore could make out the black tentacles of hair that fell around his face. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    ¡°What¡¯re you doing up here? Go back to bed.¡±


    ¡°I just woke up.¡±


    ¡°Well, better run back to sleep then.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t want to sleep in your own room, I can always throw you in with the other sailors, I¡¯m sure there¡¯s an open hammock for you. That sound better?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Well, those¡¯re your options. Take your pick.¡±


    Sartore ceded. The lamplight seared his eyes lightly when he turned to it, and made his next step sloppy. He tripped and nearly fell to the floor, but caught himself on a wooden handrail.


    ¡°You¡ªyou alright there kid?¡± the sailor said. Sartore looked back, grinned, and nodded. The sailor nodded in return and walked away.


    On his way back to the cabin, Sartore spotted Maisero¡¯s door hanging open, and decided to peek in.


    Maisero¡¯s sleep seemed laborious. He was asleep on his side, his chest rising and falling in uneven cycles. Sartore thought Maisero¡¯s squished face and puffy cheeks looked funny. The sheets had fallen away from Maisero, as though they had tried getting away from him.


    Suddenly Sartore noticed a mealy taste on his tongue, accompanied by a dry stickiness. Sartore waved goodnight to the sleeping body and stepped back to his own room. Before falling back to bed, he spit defiantly into one of the cracks in the wood under his feet and laughed to himself. He fell sideways into bed, and peeled each boot off with the other foot. Accomplishing that feat, Sartore crawled up to his pillow, slipped under his sheets, and drifted back to sleep.

 Chapter 16

    A storm raged on the day Sartore and Taramiel first met. It had brewed overnight, and now poured into the ocean. The ship traversed against the chaotic waves that rocked it in every direction. No one could sleep through it, but few were willing to be awake.


    Sartore wasn¡¯t bothered by it. He awoke to the colorless dawn, unsure how much of the day had already passed. Through the constant patter of rain, Sartore heard the creaks of some of his neighbors stepping through the hallway, and quickly went to follow them.


    The few that had been brave enough to leave their quarters now pressed their bodies against the walls to keep from falling over. Sartore walked past them. He stopped at the staircase up to the deck, and saw a young man at the top clutching the handrail to keep the wind from blowing him away. After a moment it reversed course and slammed him into the wall, before switching directions again. In a moment of calm, the man tumbled down the steps, shoved past Sartore and scrambled back to his cabin. Sartore took his spot.


    Just as he did so, Sartore heard a shout from one of the sailors:


    ¡°Ship!¡±


    And indeed, through the fog came the shadow of a vessel, heading straight for them.


    ¡°It¡¯s not one of ours,¡± another sailor said.


    ¡°Start arming the boat,¡± came another. Half the sailors dropped from the sails and ropes, opened a hatch in the deck and fell into it. Soon after a fraction of them resurfaced, bringing with them crossbows and bolts, harpoons, spears, and knives, then began fixing these onto the rim of the ship. When they finished, the sailors still on deck returned to their former tasks, but kept their heads turned to the shadow. At that moment, Sartore could only hear the waves and the rain, and it was loud, but it was empty.


    Then the other ship came crashing through the curtains. Thirty-some arrows flew towards the sailors, and each of them ducked to the floor and crept towards their own artillery.


    Five cannons fired from the mariner ship. Four of the cannonballs dropped into the water at the other ship¡¯s side, and the last bounced off the other ship¡¯s hull. Another round of arrows fell, a little closer to the mariner¡¯s feet now, but still too far off.


    The mariners, now hidden behind the rim of the ship, gripped the handles of their weaponry. They poked their heads just high enough to see the small army of soldiers crowded onto the other ship¡¯s deck, partly armored. Each of the mariners shot low. Most of the shots connected, digging into the soldier¡¯s midsections. Those soldiers soon fell. One mariner stood up and loaded a pointed metal rod and fired. It pierced through one of the soldiers¡¯ chests and sent him back into a few others. In return, an arrow sunk into his shoulder. The mariner kneeled and pulled the arrow out of his shoulder, then slotted it into his bow and fired again.


    Sartore stepped a bit further into the deck. His eyes fell naturally on a man standing at the head of the other ship, had to be the captain, Sartore thought, who somehow seemed taller than all of the other men despite what appeared to be an average height. That captain fired again and sent an arrow cruising an inch above one of the mariner¡¯s heads.


    A wave launched the other ship into the mariners, the soldiers¡¯ bowsprit colliding with the ship¡¯s side, but the ship was sturdy, and although the impact left a serious dent, the wood held. The other ship bounced away and settled parallel to the mariners.


    Another round of cannonballs rang forth. Each one hit, leaving an uneven set of holes in the other ship¡¯s hull. Now the crashing waves were leaving deposits of water in the other ship.


    The face of the captain turned to Sartore. The man¡¯s eyes widened for a moment, then hardened again. He raised his bow and fired three shots in succession, but Sartore jumped back before any could hit.


    ¡°Get the boy!¡± the captain shouted. Sartore peeked again, saw the mariners waving him away, and decided to fall to the ground, out of everyone¡¯s sight, tucking his knees onto one of the steps and keeping an eye on the battle. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    ¡°Get on the damn ship and find the boy!¡±


    The front row of soldiers dropped their bows and each picked up a grappling hook at their feet. The mariners stopped for a moment, but it was long enough for the army to throw their hooks over the edge of the ship, catching hold. Some of the hooks crashed into the crossbows and destroyed them. The mariners pulled out their knives and made quick work of the rope, which fell to the side of the ship, and the hooks falling at the mariners¡¯ feet.


    Another round of cannonfire. Each struck true, near where the first successful shots had hit.


    In reply, the soldiers threw another array of grappling hooks, this time backed with better timing by arrows. One mariner was shot, the arrow digging into his brain.


    ¡°Get them!¡± the soldiers¡¯ captain shouted. Two soldiers crawled onto each rope. Despite the continuing volley from the other ship, the mariners reached out with their knives and cut at the ropes, albeit slower this time. A few ropes were cut through, and those soldiers fell into the water. A few others managed to reach the mariner boat first, swung their legs aboard and raising their swords above the mariners. A few stood and ended with arrows in their spine and blades in their throat. The rest fended off the soldiers long enough for friendly fire and the mariners¡¯ work at the soldiers¡¯ legs to bring them down.


    Then came the final shot of cannons. Again, each connected. The hide of the ship was shredded now, water pouring freely into it from above and below. The soldiers¡¯ ship was sinking.


    ¡°Drop the boats!¡± the captain shouted, continuing to fire on the mariners. The remaining soldiers ran to the opposite side of the ship and untied a set of knots holding up lifeboats. The mariners still standing continued firing, and the mariners from below finally hopped up from the hatch and manned the empty posts themselves. Before the soldiers fled, one mariner arrow managed to find a target, sending the victim to the ocean.


    And then the soldiers were gone. It took some time for the abandoned ship to finally sink; the mariners dropped their weapons and turned their ship away from the wreckage to keep them from colliding again. When it was finally taken by the waves, the mariners were unable to find the soldiers that had escaped.


    Bodies still lay on the deck. They slid back and forth in the rain.


    The weather seemed to calm then. A few of the sailors dropped their work again to tend to the fallen. The bodies of the soldiers were thrown overboard. Four mariners remained. Those bodies were lifted up by those still standing and carried to the sailors¡¯ cabins. Then all but one returned to the ship, the last pulling arrows out of the deck and tossing them into a stockpile of loose supplies at one corner of the ship.


    ¡°Boy!¡± came a shout. Sartore saw that it was the same sailor he¡¯d seen the night before. The sailor walked to him and sat on one knee. Sartore noticed that the other sailors were watching him.


    ¡°Do you know why those men were searching for you?¡± the sailor said, narrowing his eyes. Sartore shook his head.


    ¡°Ever seen any of them before?¡±


    ¡°I¡ªno, but¡ª¡± Sartore stopped, tried turning around to walk back to his cabin but was stopped by the sailor¡¯s grip.


    ¡°Keep going or I¡¯ll force it out of you,¡± the sailor said.


    ¡°The captain¡¯s face reminded me of something.¡±


    ¡°Of what?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    The sailor sighed, rose and examined the wet shin of his pants, then ruffled the boy¡¯s hair.


    ¡°They¡¯ll be back for you soon. You¡¯ll be surprised how fast their type can turn around. I¡¯d like to talk to you sometime after the storm rolls over, because I won¡¯t be happy letting you walk with them looking for you. Where¡¯s the old man I came in with?¡±


    ¡°Sleeping, I guess.¡±The sailor laughed.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get him out of there too, when the sun goes up.¡± The sailor looked at Sartore one last time, then walked back to his station and got back to work. The others, after hesitating for a moment, did the same. Sartore had an unsettling feeling in his chest, as though something had fallen out and slid away somewhere else on the boat. After a moment, he went back to his cabin.


    With one foot into his room, Sartore heard whimpering from Maisero¡¯s. Sartore stepped over and saw him with his face crushed into his pillow and his body shaking. There was no hint of vomit, thankfully.


    ¡°You should get up, Maisero,¡± Sartore said. Maisero swiveled his head to look at the boy before shoving his face back into the bed. Sartore laughed and walked to his own, his body sinking into the covers and his mind smuggled away by the rain.

 Chapter 17

    Sartore knew this place, before he had even opened his eyes to see it. But when he did, he was lost. There was a small lake in front and a short hill in back, and he was standing in the middle on a thin strip of sand. The sky was slowly being fed to a great furnace at the horizon. Some commotion emerged from behind¡ªsome screaming, some horses neighing. He turned towards it, and only saw a black wooden house on top of the hill, with small windows facing the water. Sartore stepped back from the noise, dipping one of his boots into an emerging wave; but he wanted to see nonetheless.


    Sartore now stood at the top of the hill, beside the house. He stood at the outskirts of a village, one he recognized¡ªbut couldn¡¯t remember. The village had been destroyed; most of the houses had been levelled, the rubble spilling onto the village floor. Bodies lay still in the wreckage. Presiding over it were a collection of men on horseback¡ªeach riding identical black horses, each wearing identical sets of silver armor and carrying the same long and bloodied sword.


    And when they all turned to Sartore, he saw that they all had the face of the soldiers¡¯ captain.


    The nearest of them turned to Sartore. Hands shot up from the earth like weeds in the path between them¡ªfrom the dead bodies that lay there. The horseman moved slowly, and the horse crushed each forearm and wrist with the accompanying crack of a twig.


    A woman leapt in front of Sartore from the rubble, knees bent and hands outstretched. She tilted her head back to Sartore, enough for him to see her, and she whispered: ¡°Run, Sartore, please,¡± before facing the horseman.


    The face reminded Sartore of something, he thought. The horsemen laughed, and Sartore didn¡¯t move, couldn¡¯t. The woman looked back, eyes wide and pleading; but inevitably, she stopped. Her hands drifted to her side, and she rose from her stance, let her shoulders roll forward and her head bend down, hair like a curtain to hide her face The horseman moved closer, and drove his sword into her chest. He lifted her from the ground, and tossed her to the side and back into the rubble.


    Finally, the horseman stood above Sartore. The horseman¡¯s ride neighed and raised its hooves, then rode over him. Sartore could feel his bones crushed, the metal imprint of the horseshoes in his flesh, his body collapsing into the dirt¡ªand as he died, he woke up.


    And when he did, Sartore thought he was in bed at home, with his parents waiting for him in the kitchen, and that in a minute he would jump out of bed and run to his parents and tell them about his dream, and they could comfort him and laugh with him. For a minute, Sartore could only see the night¡¯s aftertaste.


    And the feeling disappeared when he realized he didn¡¯t know what home, or kitchen, or parents his mind seemed to refer to. He was on a boat at sea; the morning light was falling into his face from the cabin window.


    Sartore got out of bed, slipped on his boots, and walked to the deck. The sun was bright and hot in the clear sky. To temper the heat came a cool breeze that carried the seductive and repulsive smell of the ocean deep, while the gentle skipping of the boat against the tide sent up a cold spray of sea water, which was almost soothing, if it would just stop flying into his face.


    Other passengers had come to celebrate the good fortunes as well, and ogle at the damage left behind from the previous day: the arrow punctures in the hull, the hooks in the rim of the ship, a shorter crew. Sometimes a passenger would stare at one of the sailors, and the sailor would look back until the passenger turned away.


    Sartore noticed after a few minutes that all of the sailors were watching him. He looked around, and saw the sailor who¡¯d spoken to him a few nights ago walking towards him. The sailor was bald, and the gray bristle on his face was growing into a fur.


    ¡°How long¡¯ve you been awake, boy?¡± the sailor asked.


    ¡°Only a minute,¡± Sartore replied.


    ¡°Get the old man and bring him here. I need to talk to you two.¡±


    Sartore nodded, and the sailor followed suit, before walking back down the deck. Sartore ran to Maisero¡¯s cabin. The old man was asleep, rolled into a ball with the sheets tucked under his chin. Sartore walked to the side of the bed and pushed Maisero back and forth: no response. Sartore crawled up the bedframe and fell on top of the old man, and Maisero awoke immediately. Sartore hopped off the bed and laughed. Maisero opened his eyes slowly, lifted his head, then dropped it back into his pillow.


    ¡°Oh, child, have we landed yet?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Sartore said, still laughing. Maisero groaned.


    ¡°Child, why did you wake me? This journey has been trouble enough.¡± Sartore stopped laughing.


    ¡°One of the sailors wants to talk to you. And me.¡±


    ¡°Tell the kind sailor that we can speak once we¡¯ve landed on shore, I¡¯m in no shape to speak on any important business.¡± Maisero placed a hand over his mouth, shut his eyes, and wiggled back beneath the covers.


    Sartore ran back to the sailor to report the news. The sailor did not find the news very amusing, and walked down to and stood in Maisero¡¯s door frame.


    ¡°You fucking slug,¡± the sailor said. Maisero awoke again, eyes wide and afraid for a moment, bu he quickly closed them again and shifted to the opposite side of the bed.


    ¡°Hello, sailor, welcome¡ª¡±


    ¡°Get up. Now.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m in any shape to follow your order, sailor.¡±


    The sailor walked up to the side of Maisero¡¯s bed and cast Maisero¡¯s blankets aside.


    ¡°No, don¡¯t, it¡¯s cold.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s going to be a lot colder in a minute when I throw you overboard. Now get up.¡±


    Maisero didn¡¯t reply. The sailor waited another second before leaning forward and grabbing Maisero¡¯s wrists. The old man¡¯s head shot up, face like a terrified raccoon¡¯s, but he still refused to move, and tried wrestling his wrists from the sailor¡¯s grip. After another moment of Maisero¡¯s struggle passed, the sailor pulled him out of the bed and let the old man drop to the floor, first his head and hands, and then inevitably the rest of him tumbling down. Maisero moaned, then balled up on the floor and stopped, moving only when the ship forced him to.


    ¡°Get on your feet,¡± the sailor said. Again, no reply. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Listen, old man,¡± the sailor continued, crouching down a few inches from Maisero¡¯s head. ¡°If you aren¡¯t up and moving in a minute, I¡¯ll be dragging you the rest of the way. I¡¯m sure everybody else on deck will think it¡¯s pretty funny, the rest of the crew, all the passengers out there enjoying the weather, and then you, an old, petulant cripple getting handled like a bag of dead meat in broad daylight. I don¡¯t like you much, but it looks to me like you¡¯re the kid¡¯s escort, so I¡¯m going to be taking you out either way.¡±


    Maisero lifted his head, looked past the sailor and to Sartore, standing by the doorframe, with the same, animal¡¯s eyes. Sartore hid momentarily in the hallway until he heard Maisero starting to rise. Maisero had his hands at either side of the floor, one leg up, and now the other one¡ªnow he was really crouched like an animal¡ªand then finally made the slow progression to straightening his wobbling legs. He managed it, eventually, one hand against the bed frame, another against the wall to keep him steady: bit the victory was short lived, as the long-festering vomit finally slid out of his mouth. The green bile collected in a corner of the cabin like leftover stew. The smell started searing Sartore¡¯s nose, so he plugged it with his hand. The sailor didn¡¯t react at all. He handed Maisero a towel from his back pocket, which Maisero desperately needed, now snot-nosed and green-lipped.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have someone clean up for you by the time I let you back. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± Maisero muttered, and shuffled slowly behind him. The sailor motioned for Sartore, who emerged and lead their little gang across the deck, the sailor tenderly nudging him in the right direction. As they crossed over the deck, Maisero kept his hands firmly around his face, to keep everything other than the sailor¡¯s heels out of sight. Sometimes Maisero would stumble, but the sailor would always catch him before he fell, and righted him.


    The sailor led them to a door in the bow of the ship, which he opened, ushering Sartore and Maisero in. The three of them had arrived at a better furnished cabin, with a table in the center and five chairs orbiting it, and large wooden chests against the walls.


    ¡°The seats are for you,¡± the sailor said. Sartore hopped onto the closest one, his feet still a few inches over the floor. Maisero shuffled around the boy and sat with a chair between them, dropping his elbows to his knees and hanging his head in the empty space. The sailor sat down behind the other side of the table.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name, kid?¡± the sailor asked.


    ¡°Sartore.¡±


    ¡°Sartore. The old man¡¯s?¡±


    ¡°Maisero.¡± Sartore turned to see the old man¡¯s reaction, but he hadn¡¯t moved.


    ¡°Alright, listen kid. Those people you saw yesterday were a troop of the Sacredate¡¯s army. You ever heard the name Sacredate before?¡±


    Sartore was shaking his head slightly, while Maisero was lifting his head as though he had just woken up.


    ¡°The Sacredate¡¯s men were here?¡±


    ¡°They stopped by for a quick visit.¡± Maisero¡¯s face became alarmed, and the sailor laughed, but with little humor. ¡°They attacked us during the storm.¡± Maisero¡¯s alarm grew larger, but a glare from the sailor frightened him and he dropped his head back between his legs.


    ¡°Well, kid?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Sartore said. ¡°Maybe. It sounds familiar.¡±


    ¡°Not surprised. It isn¡¯t a new word. It used to be the title of a particular line of kings, although they¡¯re long gone now. The new royalty is just trying to live up to the old Sacredate¡¯s ruins.¡± Sartore nodded vaguely. He didn¡¯t understand most of what the sailor was saying, but he liked the sound of the sailor¡¯s voice, something about the way he seemed to growl when he spoke.


    ¡°This Sacredate¡¯s different. He¡¯s been calling himself that since the first time he ever got anybody¡¯s attention. He says he¡¯s been chosen by the Gods to liberate the people from the current rulership. He says the Gods talk to him and guide him, and they give him visions of the future. He uses that to justify massacring entire villages and towns, raiding and burning cities to the ground. Sometimes he chooses to have a public speech somewhere first, then destroy it. Those who listen, or those who don¡¯t escape, join him. I¡¯ve never heard of him or any of his army losing a battle¡ªlast night must¡¯ve been some sort of miracle.


    ¡°You don¡¯t want him after you, kid. But you do.¡±


    ¡°The Sacredate¡¯s men are looking for him?¡± Maisero said. He stared slack-jawed at the sailor.


    ¡°When the captain of that troop saw Sartore, he told the rest of his crew to kill him.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°You think I have any fucking idea?¡± Maisero looked at Sartore, and Sartore thought that edges of Maisero¡¯s face had hardened into stone. Maisero held the gaze until Sartore was unable to, turning back to the sailor. Maisero kept watching.


    ¡°You said you recognized the captain¡¯s face?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Maisero nearly shouted. ¡°Child, you know them?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Sartore began, ¡°I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡±


    ¡°You vile¡ª¡±


    ¡°Quiet, old man,¡± the sailor said, and without hesitation Maisero did as requested, although his face became stonier still. Sartore¡¯s eyes had become very round, and he required some strong suggestion to refocus on the sailor.


    ¡°Look,¡± the sailor continued. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter to me how you know him. But as a general principle, what the Sacredate wants, I don¡¯t. And I don¡¯t want him to get you. With me so far?¡± Sartore nodded.


    ¡°Now, the Sacredate¡¯s probably already sending another troop for you. Already you¡¯re less safe than you should be. Hiding won¡¯t do you any good, he¡¯ll still find you; everybody eventually talks. You need some actual defense.


    ¡°Fortunately, where we¡¯re headed, there are some like-minded folks that I¡¯m sure don¡¯t want you running into the Sacredate either. It would be safer for you if you stayed with them until . . . later.¡±


    Now Sartore was looking up at the sailor with some dismay. Playing in the back of his head was the warm feeling of the sunset on his face and his arms.


    ¡°But¡ªI didn¡¯t come here to stay with them.¡±


    ¡°I know, kid. I don¡¯t know what your plans were, but I can tell you that you wouldn¡¯t get a day out of the port before you were swallowed up by the Sacredate¡¯s men. When things calm down¡ªlater¡ªyou can do whatever you want. Now¡ªwhere are your parents?¡±


    ¡°He says he doesn¡¯t remember them,¡± Maisero said, still staring Sartore. The sailor held his breath for a moment.


    ¡°In that case, old man, I need you to follow him.¡±


    ¡°Follow him? He¡¯s dangerous! He¡¯s¡ªhe¡¯s going to carry me to my death, you understand that? How can you trust him? I¡¯m getting out of here the moment I get back on shore.¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not. In a few days¡¯ time, when he¡¯s settled down there and there are other people looking after him, you can do whatever you want, be my fucking guest. But until then, he needs a caretaker, and it looked to me like you were already doing that anyway.¡±


    ¡°Well, not anymore, sorry captain.¡±


    The sailor rose and walked up to Maisero, leaving a few inches of space between them. ¡°No, old man, you don¡¯t seem to understand. You¡¯re going to follow the boy, look after him, or I¡¯ll be after you next. If the Sacredate¡¯s men don¡¯t catch you first. You think they¡¯re not coming after you either?¡±


    Maisero flapped his mouth open and shut like a fish, and made no noise. Sartore had begun to weep, lightly, and the sailor crossed back to Sartore and tapped his shoulder. Sartore¡¯s face looked like a smushed tomato.


    ¡°I know you don¡¯t like it, kid, but¡ªthat¡¯s the way it is. Let me cheer you up. Want me to show you around the ship?¡±


    Sartore nodded through his tears, and the sailor smiled. Together, they rose and walked to the doorway. Maisero watched them, still gaping.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be landing tomorrow while the sun¡¯s still up,¡± the sailor told Maisero. ¡°Enjoy it while you can. If you want a moment in here, go ahead and take it.¡± And the two left.


    Maisero sat still for a few minutes. He stared fixedly at the floor, playing the last few minutes over and over in his head, dwelling longer and longer on the angry stares of the sailor and the clueless, innocent face of the child. When the time had passed, he stood up, and without even the hint of a wobble walked out of the room.

 Chapter 18

    Land reappeared the next day, like a mother opening the front door to her child for the holidays. The deck had settled into quiet company; the children, Sartore included, mingling and playing with each other, while the adults did analogously. Except for Maisero. He was standing on the starboard side of the ship, with his hands crossed over the wooden railing. The cold salt-tinted air he breathed n was producing a hard lump in his throat that he couldn¡¯t swallow.


    He turned to the children at the sound of one of their nonsense english conversations. It was starting to give him a headache, and he found a suggestion in his mind like a letter sitting on the doorstep: kick them away, they¡¯re driving you mad. Maisero did no such thing. He did, however, turn back to the waves when he spotted Sartore, which threatened to open up the gates and loose the black demon that was trying to emerge from his mind. It took some time for him to force the figure back down, and calm his thumping heart.


    Of course he¡¯s a spy, Maisero thought. So what if that sailor can¡¯t see that yet. It¡¯ll be obvious, soon.


    Of course, the child had managed to fool the sailor fairly well, Maisero thought, so perhaps he really did have no escape, now that the Sacredate¡¯s men were searching for him too.


    He¡¯d have to take care of the situation himself, and soon.


    As the ship approached the shore, the shore took shape; the wooden docks, and the other ships that floated there; the miscellaneous people who idled there; the architectural majesty of the city behind it, and the green bushes and growths, the beautiful, multi-colored wildlife in-between. He had spent years studying and writing about this one shore, Maisero thought. And now that he could finally see it, the image was too bitter to enjoy.


    The boat slid between two prongs of the pier, and the sailors dropped a large anchor into the water. Children had already fled to their parents, and Sartore appeared at Maisero¡¯s side, looked up at him with a quick smile, then looked back ahead.


    ¡°Stand at my side, child, and we shall be out momentarily.¡± The words were rough and brittle, Maisero thought. Sartore had adopted the anxious, expressionless look of anxiety. The sailors dropped a wooden ramp to the docks, and the crowd on deck quickly formed a ball at the ramp¡¯s mouth and trickled out slowly. Sartore and Maisero were last out.


    That sailor was waiting for them at the bottom.


    ¡°Have a good trip?¡± the sailor said. His voice had two different cadences, it seemed: one for Sartore, who smiled and nodded; and another one entirely for Maisero.


    ¡°There¡¯s plenty of other people who can look after the kid,¡± the sailor continued. ¡°If you want out, you¡¯re free to go. The Sacredate¡¯s men will certainly be after you, so you¡¯re welcome to stay as well. Up to you.¡±


    Finally. Freedom.


    ¡°I¡¯ll stay,¡± Maisero said, and patted Sartore¡¯s head. Sartore looked up and smiled. The sailor nodded hesitantly.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to take you to the local library. The people I trust should be there. Follow me.¡± Maisero and Sartore did as commanded.


    As they left the docks, Maisero finally saw the fruits of his labor stretched out before him. Here was the vegetation he¡¯d written his volumes about: the flowers poking out of the bushes as they might be held in the ear of a woman, white and blue and red. It was more beautiful than anything he¡¯d ever captured on the page, through his words and diagrams; it all seemed useless and empty when faced with the real thing.Stolen story; please report.


    Then there was the architecture that grew like a garden a field of stone, tall, elegant and commanding, the way the buildings closer to him seemed to pass by faster than the larger ones behind forging the illusion of a massive cityscape the likes of which had yet to exist.


    Sartore had slowed down to gaze at the works. This made Maisero angry.


    ¡°Hurry, child, or we¡¯ll lose sight of the sailor. Stop dilly-dallying.¡± With a tug from Maisero, the child was freed from his curse, and the two walked onward.


    Where the maze of the city ended, there sat the library. It might¡¯ve been one of the tallest buildings in the entire city, the beige-colored walls towering above everything else. There was only one entrance open, at the center of the building, and it seemed to welcome them.


    And the library defied all of Maisero¡¯s imagination. They initially entered a hall that was like a spoke in a wheel, whose center was down ahead. Replacing walls were bookshelves, all brimming with pages and volumes, some crammed, others leaning over in uneven ways from the multiple books awkwardly removed from the space. Glass from above gave form to the world below, and when Maisero looked up, he saw multiple floors moving about in a similar fashion, with the end nearest him protected only by a short metal fence. He could see other men walking around, and them and Maisero seemed to share a likeness, and a manner; but they had not fallen down to some rung of decrepitude.


    Why have I never been here before? Maisero thought.


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing she¡¯s down the hall,¡± the sailor said, and again the three began to march forward. Maisero only realized the scale of the library when he reached the center, and saw the total extent of the library: four floors, eight spokes, and books everywhere he looked. There were more here now than he had ever seen in his life.


    The hall opposite them connected to another building: a large, quiet room of stone, where people sat, read, and studied. The sailor paused for a moment at the entrance, then walked forward towards a woman sitting towards the back corner, who had lifted her head and seemed to recognize him.


    The sailor bumped into a chair, drawing glares to the unlikely trio. None of them seemed to care. Maisero was almost happy to disturb the academics¡¯ studies.


    ¡°What do you want from me, Balto?¡±


    Despite the sailor¡¯s (Balto was a funny name) confidence, he was suddenly at a loss for words. It was the only time Maisero would ever see the sailor off guard. He took a moment to raise to his face a crooked smile, then spoke.


    ¡°I have a gift for you.¡±


    The woman gave Sartore a passing glance and Maisero a passing expression of disgust, which Maisero in vain attempted to return.


    ¡°This is a stupid gift.¡±


    The sailor laughed, then sat across from her, and she turned to him. When he knew he had her attention, he leaned forward, as though for a kiss.


    ¡°The Sacredate is looking for the boy,¡± the sailor whispered. The woman took a few seconds to register the words. Her eyes began to widen, and she looked back at the boy as though she¡¯d missed him entirely the first time.


    ¡°How do you know that?¡±


    The sailor shifted, uncomfortably, it seemed, in his chair. ¡°Two days ago a ship of the Sacredate¡¯s men attacked us. The captain told his men to kill the kid when he saw him. We sunk their ship, but I¡¯m sure the captain lived.¡±


    She was staring at the sailor now, a hand held up to her forehead.


    ¡°And what¡¯s with the old man?¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Just the kid¡¯s caretaker, I think. Not related or anything. But he knows a few things about the kid, here and there. You should take them.¡±


    The woman thought it over for a moment, then rose.


    ¡°You should all follow me,¡± she said, and she began walking out of the library.

 Chapter 19

    They left through the back entrance, left behind the dark library for the blinding light outside that rendered spots of Maisero¡¯s vision invisible. It was a few moments later, as he could smell the fresh grass and the smell of the sea blowing past him, that he missed the smell of those old pages. He turned to see the old door behind him creak shut. The others had left him behind and were approaching the nearest road, and Maisero hobbled fast to catch up.


    Just as the shore had been, so too were the streets. Lined with carnations, lilies, roses, tulips, bushes and vines left to roam wild along the tall structures man had built. From the scaly strip of cobblestone they crossed, shorter paths like legs extending from the body of an insect lead to small houses, with discolored and aging walls, topped with yellowing and whitening thatched roofs. The woman led down one of these paths and stopped at one of the doors. She knocked.


    ¡°This is an old friend of mine, don¡¯t be too disconcerted by him,¡± the woman said. ¡°You remember Edin?¡± she said, waiting for a reply from Balto. He nodded, and smiled.


    A seemingly young man opened the door and swung it back. He would have looked young, the soft and pale skin on his body, if not for the scars of lashes that crossed over his face and his hands and arms. The room he¡¯d opened the door into was dark, and curtains of dust hung inside.


    ¡°Hello Anastasia,¡± Edin began, smiling a little. ¡°Here for lunch? I can make something quickly, if you and your guests would like some.¡±


    Maisero wanted to encourage a positive answer to this, but was cut out quickly. ¡°No, Edin, it¡¯ll be alright. Would you come to the courtyard today?¡±


    ¡°What for?¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°The Sacredate is looking for the child behind me.¡±


    Edin¡¯s face grew cold and expressionless (although note whiter, he was already the whitest shade imaginable for a man). He nodded eventually, and shut the door without a word.


    Anastasia walked back onto the street. ¡°Balto, would you like to attend?¡±


    Balto shook his head. ¡°I¡¯ll be heading back to the ship now, we should be leaving off soon.¡±


    Anastasia grimaced, but nodded. Balto made quick work of a goodbye, making sure to give Sartore another pat on the head, then left on his way, chasing down the horizon. Maisero noticed that Sartore watched Balto fade away back to shore. Then, Maisero and Sartore followed Anastasia alone.


    Theories were starting to feed into Maisero¡¯s head. Why were these people being collected? For a secret meeting, of course. Why a secret meeting? Perhaps this was a growing resistance. A small armada gathering to build a bulwark against the Sacredate¡¯s forces. His suspicions were confirmed when Anastasia knocked at the next house: an older woman answered, which followed with a similar exchange, although she seemed less surprised than Edin had been. She said she¡¯d be there soon. Then came an older man, more cranky than the previous two guests, who decided that now was the appropriate time to complain and announce that he would take no steps outside of his house. After a quick threat from Anastasia, he promised he¡¯d be there as well.


    And on and on it went, until eventually they had reached the end of that stretch of houses, and there were no more people to collect There was a small fence marking the end of the road, and past it was a cliff thickly covered in green vines and bushes, tipped with flowers and color, lush and green; and yet, steep enough that one step there would send you tumbling the many hundreds of feet down, onto the rocks that the shrubbery clung to, and into the water


    Anastasia stopped there and turned to the two of them. Maisero had almost forgotten Sartore even existed, although he wished it had stayed that way. Anastasia paused, looking at them with some discomfort, then sighed.


    ¡°You two have to stay quiet,¡± she began.

 Chapter 20

    The water was freezing. At first the waves had nearly shredded his small boat to pieces, crashing over his head as it did so, but as the storm quieted, he managed to find a few wooden boards floating in the water to hold onto. But that all seemed pointless in the middle of the ocean; Taramiel was lost.


    Of course, Gloss would know by the time he returned to camp¡ªif he managed it. The punishment would be severe. Another betrayal, he thought. What else could he have done? He fought with all the strength available to him, and so did his men. What could he have done to win? There was no hope, then. Why bother to fight? Why did Gloss send him to his demise, anyway? Wouldn¡¯t he know? Shouldn¡¯t he know what the outcome is? What power was an obedient servant like himself supposed to garner by comparison?


    But those questions would only matter if he survived his journey. He looked once more around the water, and saw the horizon face back at him from every direction. He sighed. Now it was those damned gods¡¯ choice what would happen to him. Still clutching to the wood, he let himself nod off in parts, keeping his eyes open, and himself awake, long enough only to keep a hold of his position.


    And then his makeshift raft began scraping against something below. Taramiel opened his eyes, first emerging from a hazy fog, and saw beneath him soft and white earth¡ªsand. He let his grip go for a moment and fell into the water, then started laughing. He noticed a collection of heads turn to him on the shore¡ªhe was at a shore, he thought, a shore¡ªand watched him, eerily. Taramiel stopped laughing. The rest of his crew was there. Every single one that had lived. Of course, some of them had died on the journey, but even the bodies had decided to join them. And there was nobody else ashore.


    Taramiel rose out of the water and rallied his troops together. Bodies were meant to find the places of their death, as the Sacredate commanded, and the bodies of their comrades were propped onto wooden boards and pushed into the water far enough for the tide to whisk it away. None of them knew what shore they had landed on or where the nearest spot of civilization might be, so they decided to carve a path out in the woods behind the shore and hope for something. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    As Taramiel led the way, the same thoughts began to plague him. And the thought of that boy. He¡¯d almost forgotten him, but now with a slightly clearer ahead he could see him. The realization had completely stopped him. If he had not hesitated, perhaps he wouldn¡¯t be in the debacle he was now. What else could he have done?


    He thought he could hear Gloss speaking in his head now, in reply: You had no faith in me.


    But Taramiel knew it was a lie, and kept moving.


    As the night grew deeper, Taramiel broken out of the trees and found a familiar path. He turned down to the left, and saw the moon hanging above a decently sized city. Taramiel walked closer some, checked behind him to make sure the rest of his crew was still following, and then stepped up to the barrier of the town, and saw the large ships sitting at the docks and bobbing in the water. Taramiel smiled. Perhaps this was one way that he could repay the Sacredate.


    Balto spent a few days at sea to return home. The water was, for the most part, calm and kind. There were fewer people to take care of now, and he appreciated that. Although he missed something about the excitement of the fight. It was a feeling he didn¡¯t have the chance to revel in frequently. Now all that remained was the aftermath.


    And, strangely, he missed talking to the kid. Sartore, his name was. Balto laughed¡ªhe¡¯d almost forgotten the kid¡¯s name.


    As the sun rose one morning, he spotted land at the horizon. He nodded at the sight of it, and he went on with his regular business.


    But as they drew nearer, something was strange. He couldn¡¯t see the town hall. Or the stadium. Or any of the other buildings, for that matter. Sure, they were some distance away, and the glare of the sun might blur the lines, but Balto thought that the image was uncanny.


    Terror filled him as the ship slowly moved closer to shore. It dawned on him more and more, with every passing second, that those buildings really had gone missing. Soon he could spot the rubble where the city had been. Now the passengers had started shouting at the image of it, but Balto was frozen. The docks had been destroyed, too, with the ship skeletons part way through sinking below the water.


    Balto didn¡¯t have the strength to turn the ship around just yet. Doom, here, was inevitable.

 Chapter 21

    Sartore could sense something twisting in Maisero¡¯s face as Anastasia spoke. He didn¡¯t quite understand it. Part of him wanted Anastasia to stop talking, just to stop that ugly transformation, and Maisero¡¯s accompanying fidgeting and restlessness.


    ¡°When they gather, you will not speak, you will not complain, you will stand still and say nothing unless prompted. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Why is that?¡± Maisero asked. ¡°Do I not have the right to speak for myself?¡±


    ¡°Not for them, no. This isn¡¯t some sanctioned play we¡¯re putting on. You won¡¯t have the chance to martyr yourself if things go poorly for you. Understood?¡±


    Maisero whispered something under his breath, gritted his teeth together and clenched his fists while he stared down at the dirt under his shoes, but he stayed quiet. But that churning in his expression was still there; it had grown so chaotic that Sartore could feel something dark, like a shadow, cast from maisero¡¯s body.


    ¡°And where is this meeting to be held?¡± Maisero asked.


    ¡°In the courtyard at the center of the city.¡±


    ¡°What? In public? What kind of organization is this? No secrecy?¡±


    ¡°How would secrecy help us? You think trying to defend against the Sacredate would be best done in private? So that the everybody else who lives here has no idea what¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°So does the Sacredate, no? His spies will see everything.¡±


    ¡°Like his spies have ever changed anything, or a little bit of secrecy at that. He¡¯ll know whatever we¡¯re doing regardless of if his spies catch us doing it. He doesn¡¯t need them. They¡¯re more of a show than anything else.¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°When is everybody gathering?¡± Sartore spoke, head tilted up and squinting through the glare of sunlight. Suddenly Anastasia¡¯ expression grew softer and more relaxed.


    ¡°Now,¡± Anastasia replied, and after a moment of silence, turned and began walking down the length of the barrier that she had stopped at. Sartore began to follow, but Maisero stayed still.


    ¡°Wait, child,¡± Maisero said. Sartore turned around, but only for a second before he instinctively shot his head back at Anastasia¡¯s shrinking figure, making sure not to let her out of his sight for too long, just in case she disappeared. Sartore wasn¡¯t moving, so Maisero walked up to him instead and kneeled down in the dirt.


    ¡°I believe, child, that you and I have found ourselves in similar circumstances. Wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± Sartore nodded, although his eyes still followed Anastasia.


    ¡°Pay attention, child. You and I, we are being carried blindly and without hesitation into a trap. I¡¯m sure of it, beyond any shadow of a doubt. This will not end well for the two of us if we follow her, I promise you. Balto brought us here to be leveraged and bartered over. Anastasia is moving us towards this meeting of hers, which is cloaked in many strange rituals that beggar belief, which makes me certain that there is nothing genuine or legitimate in it. This is the unfortunate truth, child: we¡¯ve been lied to since we stepped onto the boat.


    ¡°So what do you say? I suggest we make our escape now, run down the coast, make a getaway via the nearest boat, and we can make due with what we have, can¡¯t we? Does that sound agreeable enough to you, child?¡±


    Sartore blinked back at him. Then he was reminded of Anastasia, and snapped his head back to her, beginning to run in that direction, but Maisero grabbed his head and body, repositioning it towards himself like a child plays with a doll.


    ¡°I need your answer now, child. Don¡¯t be concerned with such things, and give me an answer.¡± Now Sartore was concerned. He thought Maisero might reach out, grow some fangs in the process, and bite him.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so . . .¡± Sartore began, but he didn¡¯t need to finish the thought.


    ¡°Hurry up,¡± Anastasia shouted. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you two are discussing over there, Maisero, but I expect that you will stop whatever it is and come along already.¡± Sartore slipped out of Maisero grasp and ran towards her. Maisero sat there for a minute, then followed.

 Chapter 22

    The field was only a few minutes away.


    A flat stretch of grass, the wind just blowing over it and dragging the fresh smell of the day towards them. Gathered at the center was a circle of people, some of whom Sartore and Maisero recognized from their knocking, others that they didn¡¯t. The people were talking more like a community outing than whatever serious business had been charted out ahead. Maisero found it disconcerting that this moment didn¡¯t inspire fear and quietness in them.


    When Sartore and Maisero became visible to the crowd, the crowd turned to them, and watched as they entered. Anastasia smiled and waved as the circle parted to let the three of them in, then returned to her placid expression. The others did the same when they saw the boy and the old man.


    Anastasia stopped at the center, back straight and eyes trained on the others. Sartore pulled up beside her and tried for a similar stance, but couldn¡¯t quite pull it off. Maisero didn¡¯t make an attempt, and stood slightly further away. He noticed another crowd of people forming at the outskirts of the field, random civilians, he thought, who wanted to check out a piece of the action. So much for the secrecy.


    ¡°Welcome, everyone,¡± Anastasia shouted. The crowd replied with a mess of thank yous and greetings. Maisero found it jarring; no cult or organization would ever be so cheery with business like this.


    ¡°My apologies for any inconvenience with this emergency meeting,¡± Anastasia continued. ¡°Some news made its way to my door this morning and as far as I can tell it requires our immediate attention.¡± Silent nods now, although some with less enthusiasm than others. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°These two beside me have come together from overseas, united by an unknown force. That force that has brought them together, and now here, has made them all the more visible. It appears that the Sacredate is searching for them.¡±


    An expected small murmur appeared from the crowd, unevenly distributed through the perimeter. Now Maisero was thinking that this display was completely inappropriate as public behavior.


    ¡°I come here to have a brief discussion and collect on a vote. Balto brought these two to me on the command of keeping them safe. He believes they should be kept so as to keep them out of the Sacredate¡¯s hands. But the Sacredate will be coming all the sooner, then, and whatever preparations we¡¯ve made will certainly not be enough to prepare for that scale of invasion. What shall we do, then?¡±


    The crowd turned to each other and began to speak. Anastasia stood still; no one from the crowd made any movements towards them.


    ¡°Won¡¯t they be consulting us?¡± Maisero asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Anastasia said. ¡°This is their decision, they know enough about your current state to make it.¡±


    Maisero scowled, but said nothing. The three of them stood there, silently, as an hour passed, and the sun began to set, until finally the crowd quieted, and they had made their decision. Maisero¡¯s fate was out of his hands. Wasn¡¯t that always the case? Everyone was perfectly fine making those judgements for him. He would sit by the sidelines, either hiding or being swept away.


    ¡°Well?¡± Anastasia shouted.


    ¡°We¡¯ll keep them,¡± one link in the chain replied, which was followed by a cheer from the rest.

 Chapter 23

    Maisero and Sartore were slotted to get some rest in one of the cabins that were kept for visitors. Sartore was grateful that he had a separate room from Maisero. It wasn¡¯t long before night fell, and Sartore grew more comfortable with the little cabin and the encroaching darkness, and the mat tucked into a wooden frame that he was going to sleep on. There was a small cut out in the cabin where moonlight fell in, and Sartore thought he could be pretty comfortable in here for a while.


    Somebody knocked at the door in the middle of the night. Sartore hadn¡¯t yet fallen asleep, but had seen the shadow move across the window. He wasn¡¯t sure who would be up at this hour, but at the same time, he certainly was, so it must not be that strange. Suddenly, he imagined Maisero creeping up to the door, then himself slipping out of bed to open the door and see the old man bearing over him with some crude weapon in his other hand whose shape was defined by its silhouette, then Maisero raising the weapon over Sartore¡¯s head, and in one fierce movement bringing it down upon him¡ª


    ¡°Sartore, right?¡± Anastasia said, almost whispered, as she opened the door and walked in. Her hair had gotten frizzier since Sartore had last seen her, and she tried to brush away some of the curls that had fallen over her face, but to no avail, as they swung back to their former positions immediately. She didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    ¡°How are you?¡± she asked.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± Sartore replied.


    ¡°I hope this little room of yours has been comfortable enough for you.¡± Sartore nodded, and stared at her as she formulated her next words.


    ¡°How did you meet Maisero, Sartore?¡±


    ¡°Well, I was walking along the docks of the city, wherever Balto was, across the waters, and he found me, told me he wanted to talk to me, and I was mostly lost, didn¡¯t know where I was going, so I said sure, and I waited for him in the morning after some sleep, we went to the library together, and he told me about this magical place on the other side of the water, and we decided to go together.¡±


    ¡°Has he ever acted strangely, or done anything that made you think something strange was going on?¡± Sartore laughed.


    ¡°All the time,¡± Sartore said, and she started laughing too. But her laugh was restrained, more like a fish hook sent out to the water at a measured distance. She stopped promptly, too, just long enough for the laugh to seem normal.


    ¡°I think you should be more careful of him,¡± Anastasia said. Now her eyes narrowed, and she donned a serious mask, almost creased and wicked. ¡°He doesn¡¯t seem to have your best interests in mind. I¡¯ve been suspicious of him ever since he arrived here, and I think you should be careful around him. Do you understand?¡±


    Sartore nodded, but hesitantly. Something about this conversation was annoying him. And giving him a headache.


    ¡°Good,¡± Anastasia said, then rose and walked out of the cabin, waving goodbye with a cheerier expressiion that she had had her entire stay there. Sartore felt robbed, but he shook the feeling off, and tried getting to sleep.

 Chapter 24

    Taramiel hadn¡¯t seen Gloss yet, not with his own two eyes. His return to camp had been ceremonial, in some ways: cheers, celebration, shouts and general fanfare; while his hands and ankles were bound, stooped over the dirt and a lash applied heavily to his exposed back. Now he hid in his own small tent, trying to position his body against his mat, trying to sleep as the sun shined lazily through the walls that tried in vain to protect him.


    There was something mind-numbing about staring at the same morsels of dirt, and the same corner of his tent, for that long. Although he tried not to move, a fidget would eventually come, a small burst of energy, or a shout grown from deep in his chest. And he wouldn¡¯t be ready for it. No, he couldn¡¯t stay in the same position any longer. But every movement drew the outline of his half-formulated scars, poorly bandaged as they were, shooting to his eyes, as though he could see his own back like a map of roughshod roads. But he couldn¡¯t stay still any longer, he thought, as crazy as it sounded to him.


    In one motion, he partly lifted himself up from the ground, felt his skin wheeze and stretch as he did so, tilted in the other direction without letting his back touch the mat and let the weight fall on his other arm. Last came the fall, into the thin layers of blanket under him, his shoulder and his back shrieking. But it only lasted for a few minutes. A warm fuzziness rushed through his body from his head, and the new light that shined on him was new and comforting, not the old, dull patterns that had worn on him so heavily.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    His back was turned to the tent entrance, and when somebody entered, he didn¡¯t have the will to turn back and look. A voice said, ¡°listen closely,¡± and stayed there with the entrance open.


    There was another round of applause, shouts and the like, and although they had a more positive twist to them than the last round he had received, Taramiel still flinched back from them. It was a moment before the crowd had quieted, and then, of course, Gloss began to speak: Taramiel couldn¡¯t make out the words, but he could hear the complete silence from the crowd. He could imagine all of their eyes affixed up at that shining pinnacle, his short stature somehow lengthened into a massive shadow that lectured to them now.


    ¡°Do you hear him, Taramiel?¡± that voice came again. Taramiel didn¡¯t have the strength, nor the desire, to tell the truth. That earned Taramiel a kick to his spine, which got him to begrudgingly make some noise.


    Another round of applause followed. The man left. Darkness came soon.

 Chapter 25

    For a brief moment after waking up, Maisero had peace and quiet. He was holed up in his own cabin, small, cramped, splintering, but in that morning haze, it was nice; his head was pressed close to a pillow, and the sunlight falling onto his face made his cheeks feel like the warm crust of a biscuit. Outside, the trees seemed to shine with a yellow aura, and somewhere in their branches, birds were chirping.


    The birds fluttered away soon after. There was a collection of footsteps approaching him. He wondered, on mornings like these, why his body always woke him just when he needed to be up; he wouldn¡¯t need waking up, and he wouldn¡¯t be too early to the party either. His body knew something he didn¡¯t. He could hear Anastasia¡¯s voice as those steps rounded the corner of the cabin. If they hadn¡¯t been approaching, Maisero could keep up his little dream, but now his heart was pumping, waiting for the door¡ª


    ¡ªto swing open, and for Anastasia to barge in. There were a few other men, faintly recognized from the gathering the night before.


    ¡°I hope I didn¡¯t wake you?¡± she said (or really, commanded) to him.


    ¡°No, I was already up.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re coming with us to the library. Get dressed, we¡¯ll be waiting outside.¡± She shut the door behind her. Maisero slammed his fist into the wall, then got out of bed, threw on whatever he had lying in a bundle in the corner, and left his little cabin. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Sartore was already waiting outside. He was a few cabins down, and was dressed up and waiting for Anastasia to come by, it seemed. Anastasia patted him softly on the head, and the boy tucked himself neatly in the front of the pack, with a barrier of those other folks in-between them. And like that, their little brigade made its way to the library.


    Around the front door were some finely-dressed figures chatting over some food in the sunlight. They were stretched out just out of reach of the library¡¯s shadow, relaxing, smiling, laughing. It made Maisero sick. Anastasia recognized some of the people there and nodded in their direction, then stepped up to the door, swung it open, and allowed everyone to enter.


    The people who decided to stick it out in the library, Maisero thought, were of a different caliber. The type of person who wore the library on his sleeve as he frolicked around its perimeter were different than those who spent the same time deep in the library¡¯s corridors. Which one was superior was unclear, Maisero thought as he passed a man wearing an extra layer of dust over his clothes to keep warm. Anastasia led the crew up a flight of stairs, the stone floor now covered with a red felt material that was peeling at the edges. It didn¡¯t take long for them to crawl up to the new floor, which was lined with more bookshelves, and more of the outsider types crawling around, examining the spines.


    They ended up in front of another small wooden door that led into a study of sorts. It had a wide, square desk with Anastasia¡¯s name carved into the front, and many seats around it. Anastasia waved at them, and everybody took their seats, with Sartore and Maisero on opposite corners of the room.


    ¡°We¡¯re here to discuss more significant and serious matters,¡± Anastasia said after she took her own. She waited to take a breath before continuing. ¡°The Sacredate is moving, and he¡¯s coming for the city.¡±

 Chapter 26

    Taramiel sat, bound up, in the remains of camp. They had stayed here for many months, perhaps even a year¡ªTaramiel hadn¡¯t bothered to keep track. There was nothing left now. There were the ruins of small firepits, charred black, some tents still around, the cloth around them collapsed like the air had been knocked out of them. Some animals were beginning to poke back into the area, particularly squirrels, who found the wide plain an appropriate place to scurry across and race each other to whatever had caught their attention. The leaves on the floor, and the trees that remained standing, gave it a curious look; a beautiful dome built without human hands. But, of course, it had been.


    Taramiel had little to look forward to now. The ropes around his body were tight, body sagging against them as the threads rubbed against the flesh he¡¯d left exposed, his back feeling heavy and bruised; hungry, sleepy, aching. He¡¯d been left behind by the rest as a punishment. Gloss had made him an ultimatum: break out and prove yourself worthy, or be eaten alive here. Gloss had made some profound announcements then, mostly ones Taramiel didn¡¯t pay attention to. His mind had soured since then, in fact. Perhaps, he thought, the way his mind had tilted was blasphemous. But he didn¡¯t care anymore. He had to get out of this little trap, all to play the Sacredate¡¯s game, worthy as it was, to appease somebody else. He had committed no wrong; only failed to do something only he had any chance of completing. The other generals were all worthless. Foolish, toothless, corrupt or mad. The foot soldiers, the real warriors, they did all the work; them and him. And the Sacredate, of course, for guiding us where we were meant to be . . . Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Taramiel imagined seeing Gloss again, short and frail, and sending one fist through his body, hearing his bones snapping like firecrackers, body laid to rest on the ground, before being disfigured through whatever other means Taramiel saw fit. Evil thoughts, Taramiel thought¡ªbut he relished them.


    A few hours passed. Taramiel wondered if he would ever be free, or if he wanted to be. Perhaps death would be a more just ending than whatever other crimes he¡¯d be willing to commit if unrestrained. Perhaps he wouldn¡¯t have to listen to the orders of the frail man anymore if the road ended here. He sighed. Another two days without water would do the trick, and he¡¯d be a good meal for the rest of the wildlife, if he wasn¡¯t eaten overnight by wandering creatures.


    Something descended down the tree; a squirrel, perhaps, a multitude of them. They chewed through the first few rungs of his prison, then squealed and scurried back up the tree. Taramiel shook his head. He could hear the threads popping apart as he pushed against them. He thought, for a moment, of staying here, being left alone, by the others, by his own conscience; but he broke out nonetheless. He stood over the ropes slumped around the trunk; gathered his things, which were set behind the tree; and set off in the direction of footprints.

 Chapter 27

    It had been two days of hard journeying; only enough food and water to keep him alive, virtually no sleep. The path for Taramiel to follow became more and more obvious over time; trees crushed and splintered to widen the way, more and heavier footsteps following in. A ruined village at the side, much of the cabins burnt, bodies charred underneath the rubble. Soon enough he could even hear the commotion ahead of him, the mud and dirt under the feet of the Sacredate¡¯s army like a thousand leather-faced drums. He began to run, imagining to himself the kind of rampage he could make¡ªrunning alongside the army until he was just in arm¡¯s reach of Gloss, tear him down from his ride and end this damned journey once and for all, his torture along with it. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    But then he saw the army itself down the path, and he remembered, briefly, the Sacredate standing on a wood block speaking to a crowd, his old village, warning them of the coming change, and inviting them to make something of it. His heart filled with a cloudy substance, and his run slowed to a walk, trailing just behind the others.


    ¡°Is that Taramiel? Taramiel!¡± One of the soldiers shouted, turning to him and pointing at him. Taramiel increased his pace a bit and re-entered the crowd to a chaotic party, cheering and jumping to catch a glimpse of him. Gloss decided to turn around too, and gave Taramiel a small smirk before looking forward once again.

 Chapter 28

    There was a quietness where Sartore was sitting. He was in the middle of the library, watching as the people around him drifted back and forth, like ghosts forever haunting the same halls. There were books lying open on different desks and tables, Some people hunched over them with dark expressions over their faces, and a sense of disarray¡ªas though someone had shaken the room up and tried to put the pieces back together. Whoever had done it had done a pretty poor job of it.


    There was another shout from the back room. Sartore was pretty sure it was Maisero. He looked back, and thought he could see the door bend from the force of his shout. Sartore turned back around. What else was there to see? The small balcony that he sat on, overseeing the dust that draped over the tops of the bookshelves, the dead insects that lay there, cocooned in something he couldn¡¯t quite make out. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes. The sun was still up, spearing his eyes when he turned to it. He could recall Maisero from, what, a few days ago? Meek, he thought; perhaps a little strange, but meek. Who was there screaming in the room now.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Sartore.¡±


    Sartore turned around, saw Anastasia standing in the doorway, more disheveled than before. Maisero¡¯s face was bright red. The others sat, sweating, their faces seeming clammy, and looking back at him. Maisero, for Sartore¡¯s benefit, wasn¡¯t looking in that direction.


    ¡°You can come back in now,¡± she said, her voice sore. Sartore stood, up, his legs shaking a bit, and walked back into the room.

 Chapter 29

    Sartore stood a few feet from the front door of the library. The sky had been covered with clouds since he last saw it, and the wind had grown stronger as well. It was making his eyes water. The people that had been sitting around the front door were all gone, and although Sartore couldn¡¯t rotate his head (his eyes had fixed vaguely on the horizon), he couldn¡¯t see, or hear, anyone else. The breeze felt cool against his skin, goosebumps sprouting up his arms. His heart was beating for something, although he couldn¡¯t tell what. Soon this image would be gone, a distant memory buried by old age and newer generations.


    He could see, out of the corner of his eyes, everyone else¡¯s legs. Anastasia and Maisero were among them, although he couldn¡¯t tell them apart.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go warn everyone. Good luck.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. What should we do about the boy?¡±


    ¡°Sartore? Keep him safe with the other children.¡±


    ¡°No, Sartore stays with me.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s definitely not happening.¡±


    ¡°I am his caretaker, I have final say on what happens to him.¡±Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    ¡°Not anymore.¡±


    ¡°He is mine to take care of, you have no business demanding anything of me or of him. I¡¯m taking him now, and this¡¯ll be the last you see of either of us.¡±


    ¡°Where are you going to run to? Must be pretty far. Where are you going to hide? Somewhere the Sacredate won¡¯t find you? If you know of such a place, you could save a lot of people a lot of trouble.¡±


    ¡°Maybe we should keep him somewhere else? Find a safer place for him?¡±


    ¡°No, he stays with me.¡±


    ¡°And are you staying or going?¡±


    There was a moment of silence before the conversation continued. ¡°You all have the extraordinary idea that you have even a sliver of a fighting chance. Maybe all that weapons and combat training I¡¯m certain you¡¯ve been doing regularly with the townsfolk has armed them well enough to fend off the Sacredate¡¯s cavalry. Maybe whatever mercenaries you¡¯re going to send word for will arrive in the knick of time and already have the mettle to win a fight against any of the Sacredate¡¯s men. This is a poor story you¡¯re trying to spin.¡±


    ¡°Are you staying?¡±


    After another pause, the legs funneled into the gate exit and spread out from it. Sartore didn¡¯t move. He wanted to a dark cave that was so deep that at the end of it he wouldn¡¯t see any light, or hear a word or the wind blowing past him. Just lie down and fall asleep there till the storm passed. He had a terrible feeling, though, that even if he did find such a place, the weight in his head wouldn¡¯t disappear.

 Chapter 30

    They knew that they would be easy to spot. The trees swayed as they moved through them, and their chatter carried over with the wind and into the villages and towns around them. Hard to miss. There was no need for caution: they were an army large enough to crush even the standing army of the kingdom by the number, although, Gloss believed, each of his warriors could defeat a handful of theirs with ease.


    They watched the sky devour the sun, and leave behind only the dull remnants of its warmth, found in the gray clouds above them. They felt the wind grow cooler and harder, blowing at their backs, pushing them forward. They grew somewhat quieter as they approached their destination, but for anyone that lived past the hill, the voices were replaced by the grinding of metal plates and feet against the ground, a cacophony of of incidental sounds. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Eventually, the army arrived, just at the cusp of the forest. The ground sloped downward and merged with the flat land where the city stretched out below. Gloss knew the child dwelled here. They couldn¡¯t see a soul below.


    In a flash, the army descended on the city.

 Chapter 31

    On the horizon, Sartore could just see the line of men appearing from behind the cover of trees. He could see more heads overlayed between the front soldiers¡¯ shoulders further back. Sartore lay with his belly to the earth, poking his head out from the side of the house he, Maisero, and one of Anastasia¡¯s men had chosen to hide behind. His nose was packed full with the smell of dirt.


    ¡°Stop that,¡± Maisero said, grabbing Sartore by the collar and pulling him back up into a seated position against the wall of the house. ¡°They¡¯ll catch you that way.¡±


    ¡°Do you know how many there are?¡± Sartore replied, partly out of breath, and frozen; his eyes had found a resting place in Maisero¡¯s, and could not move; nor, Sartore thought, could he. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Did you spot them?¡± Maisero asked. He made as if to rise, but stopped himself, then gave Sartore another scowl. Sartore didn¡¯t reply.


    ¡°How many of them were there?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, they¡¯d just come out of the trees. I saw a lot in front, and more behind them, and then more behind that.¡±


    ¡°The scout who found them said their whole camp started heading towards us,¡± the other man said. ¡°She said she saw the Sacredate among them.¡±


    A second later, the valley was poured full of hoofbeats and men.

 Chapter 32

    The plan had been perfect. As the soldiers and horses rode down upon the village, an army of scrapped-together militiamen waited for them to arrive at the perfect spot for an ambush. It was, perhaps, strange to them that the valley was empty, and that nobody else was around, but it was a perfectly reasonable scenario to appear in, given the poor conditions of the weather and the relative unpleasantness of the atmosphere and muggy air brushing against them, as though the air itself would soon begin to weep. Perhaps it would.


    The soldiers arrived, finally, in the valley, and as their first action decried unto the world, they rode down a house, brushing the rock apart and bruising it. They hadn¡¯t seen that move coming, the militiamen: now there were two soldiers underneath the rubble, partly exposed after the dust that had been coughed up into the air had been cleared out, whose bodies were now weak and trembling, and saw the end of the line at the end of a lance and a sword.


    Whatever plan had been had was gone. Each house was just another bowling pin to knock down, with a small sequence of rewards behind each one. The soldiers looked at each other from behind each other¡¯s houses, nodded together in something resembling solidarity, and rose together. Some split backwards and ran for the forest. A few cavalrymen were dispatched to chase them down. They wouldn¡¯t make it far. The others, with spears and swords at hand, raised them and encircled the army from between each choke point of each house, guaranteeing at least one kill with every broken barrier. But instead, the cavalry mostly ignored the impetuous threat. Another house was shattered. One large brick struck a man¡¯s arm and he fell; he and his partner were taken care of quickly. The organized lines of men were cracked apart, and a few seconds later the grounds of the village had become a frenzy of villagers fighting back pathetically or turning their backs and awaiting their turn. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Maisero was still hiding behind one of the houses, his arm wrapped over Sartore and pressing him against the back wall while the boy tried to squirm out of his grasp. The commotion hadn¡¯t reached them yet. The soldier who¡¯d been stationed with them had left. Sartore was weeping and screaming, but Maisero figured only he could hear it. His heart was beating so fast that his mouth and tongue felt warm and heavy.


    ¡°We¡¯ll run, Sartore,¡± Maisero said. ¡°We¡¯ll make our way.¡±

 Chapter 33

    Taramiel knew the boy was in the valley. He could feel it. Inside or behind some house, hiding on the other side of a mound of dirt, the boy would be cowering in fear, perhaps with another soldier or villager hiding with him.


    But as the rubble piled up, wooden beams falling together like logs, that certainty in his chest began to fade. He began to scramble a little bit, unsure of where to put himself: he raided the houses haphazardly, leaving them half-standing and abandoned once he knew the boy wasn¡¯t there. Once he¡¯d exhausted the houses, he ran down to one of the farmer¡¯s fields, picked away at the hiding spots there: no luck. The valley was wide but his horse was strong, and it didn¡¯t take long before Taramiel had exhausted whatever other potential places he could find. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    He returned to the others slowly. The villagers were either dead or soon to join them. He looked up at the other horsemen, all watching him slowly ride back with suspicious looks on their faces. His skin felt like it would soon jump off of his body and run away or burn up. The clouds still hung gloomily overhead, gray, and his heart now throbbed with a strange feeling of longing. The treetops of the valley border seemed like teeth pointed up to the sky.


    Taramiel saw the Sacredate staring at him, and Taramiel knew that Gloss knew all.

 Chapter 34

    A witch smuggled Sartore into the woods. An arm was wrapped tight around his ribs, and he could feel bony fingers prodding at his throat. The witch fled quickly, ignorant of the forest¡¯s hands reaching for the boy and covering his face in red cuts.


    The sound of the Sacredate¡¯s men faded¡ªthen disappeared. Maisero stopped then, slumping to the ground and crawling to the nearest tree trunk, resting his back against it. Sartore, meanwhile, tumbled to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. He lay there until his limbs felt more like his own and less like clay.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± Sartore eventually asked.


    ¡°Do I look okay to you?¡± Maisero replied.


    ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°There you have it.¡±


    Sartore rested his head back against the dirt with a slight frown. Maisero thought this the perfect opportunity to speak again.


    ¡°For such a sterling child you¡¯re very ungracious.¡±


    Sartore picked his head back up and pressed both hands against the forest floor. ¡°About what?¡±


    Maisero slouched forward, drawing closer. ¡°How many times does everyone have to repeat this to you? There is an army after you. You remember them, from a few minutes ago? Killed the guard sitting next to us? Killed Anastasia? Killed everyone, I¡¯m pretty sure, except for us two. And that¡¯s only because I carried you out of there. And there¡¯s no telling how much time that bought us. They¡¯re probably coming after us now.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Obviously. You think a short trip into the woods is going to stop them? We¡¯re going to have to run again, and soon.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. Deeper, away from them. Further that way,¡± Maisero concluded, with a backwards jerk of his head.


    ¡°Then let¡¯s go.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t, I don¡¯t have anything left in me.¡±


    ¡°But they¡¯re coming for us!¡± Sartore jumped up. The boy¡¯s breathing was heavy, too.


    ¡°They¡¯re after you, not me. You need to get away, and fast.¡±


    ¡°But what about you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll catch up soon. Don¡¯t worry. Go until you find other people, rest there and keep going. I¡¯ll find you in no time.¡±


    Sartore stopped, then smiled, waiting for Maisero to smile back. Maisero obliged. Sartore took a few steps, said something that sounded like see you soon, and ran off.


    And Maisero was free. For a few minutes, all he could pay attention to was his breath, thick and warm in his throat, and the light falling to his feet from the trees. No noise came from the valley. It seemed he had finally been left alone.


    As he collected himself, his thoughts turned haphazardly to the old library. He could envision the high walls of stone, the great panes of glass near the ceiling that unfurled curtains of light inside; the dark wooden shelves against the walls and standing back-to-back, each holding books with faded bindings, the letters rubbed off of their spines. He imagined himself sitting at the end of a long table there with a large volume opened in front of him, time winding noiselessly past him. In an hour or so, he thought, he¡¯d head there.

 Chapter 35

    Beyond the woods emerged a field of sand and grass. As the evening sun set, the earth gained a purple shade, and the fires that populated it burned bright, revealing hundreds of tents, each larger than even the Sacredate¡¯s on the road, like those of a circus. When the army emerged from the trees, a face appeared from the door of each tent; each shouted with celebration. The Sacredate, sitting on a throne held up by servants at the front of the pack, outstretched his arms, and the shouts grew louder.


    Taramiel remembered a small exchange then, a brief reprieve from his misery while being pressed against at all sides, when another foot soldier had asked the Sacredate why he rode like that, even sometimes into battle, leaving his¡ªwell, frankly, frail¡ªbody exposed. The Sacredate had laughed as if the man were an old friend and clapped him on his back, with strength enough to stagger the soldier. And the Sacredate said, with glee, no arrow will ever fell me, and returned to his duties. And it was true. As if to spite the soldier, he made a point of riding in an even more extravagant and unnecessary chair, heads above the army, on the backs of many servants. Only one arrow drew close to him¡ªand, as if the world had known, the battlefield became quiet and watched¡ªand it sped just past his cheek, leaving no mark, and landed in the chest of the very same foot soldier, in the only space between two plates of armor, and he died immediately.


    Taramiel had to shove through more stationary idiots to make it to his tent. He would¡¯ve done anything to silence the night¡¯s festivities, to make one shout, shine one light on the insects and get them to break and scuttle back to their holes-in-the-wall. But only the Sacredate had that power. The truth was clear; he was the only one here, perhaps in the Sacredate¡¯s entire army, disciplined and determined enough to have the honor of fighting for the Sacredate. Careless and unhelpful, the lot of them were. The whole army¡¯s responsibilities lay heavily on his shoulders, and he trained dutifully to carry it. His reward was death by smothering with the drunken laughter of men no better than children.


    Even the Sacredate¡ªperfect as he is¡ªdid nothing more than push him around like a carthorse. Some part of him worried that the Sacredate might hear the next words he planned on thinking, but he didn¡¯t care any longer. The Sacredate¡¯s body was sick and twisted, unevenly built. His face seemed fairly symmetrical but always left a ghastly aftertaste in a man¡¯s heart. Even one of those pathetic soldiers could kill the Sacredate; it would be no more difficult than killing a 50-year old farmer. All he had was obedience and a booming voice, and apparently the favor of the gods. For years now the Sacredate had done nothing but raze village after village to the ground, and steal whoever had lived¡ªpreach to a few he deemed worthy. Where was his grand vision? Nowhere on this earth. Taramiel was enslaved to what was at best a disembodied voice.


    Perhaps half an hour after he had entered the tent, Taramiel left in search of someone to spite. The soldiers outside were trying to keep their eyes tucked away and safe from Taramiel¡¯s way. He caught a few people watching him, but they spun their heads around once they knew Taramiel had noticed. Something dark was beating in Taramiel¡¯s chest. He found an entire army worthy of the title of coward.


    ¡°Can¡¯t even catch a little boy, Taramiel?¡± Armund said. He was laid out behind a fire, his beard looking like the ashes of one. His face looked even more wrinkled and shadowy than it had before¡ªprobably because of the deep grin on his face. The group of soldiers beside Armund didn¡¯t dare turn their heads from the flames.


    Without pausing to think, Taramiel walked up to the fire and kicked it at Armund. The other soldiers scattered. Armund shouted and kicked the firewood away, and rolled around in the dirt until the flames had been extinguished. There were small burn marks in his face, one just over one of his eyes, and his cloak and beard had sustained injuries as well. He rose slowly, took a few heavy steps towards Taramiel (who still stood unmoving, but trying to keep himself from laughing), and had his arms outstretched towards him. Taramiel threw a punch that Armund dodged before lunging for Taramiel¡¯s midsection. They both fell to the ground and both lost their wind, but as Taramiel¡¯s lungs were still filling up he kneed Armund in the guts. Armund¡¯s grip relaxed and Taramiel flipped the old man over and sat on his stomach, trying to wriggle his hands towards Armund¡¯s throat. Armund kept his hands tight to his face and his face well protected, so Taramiel rained blows down upon him. But his seated position was growing unstable as Armund flailed with his legs from beneath him. Taramiel could hear some of the men around him talking about bets. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Stop bickering, the two of you,¡± the Sacredate said. With Taramiel¡¯s head turned, Armund wriggled out from under him and shot up, hands clasped behind his back and watching the Sacredate respectfully. Taramiel rose more slowly. A few guards pushed a wooden box in front of the Sacredate¡¯s tent, and almost as if he had willed it, the Sacredate appeared on top of it.


    ¡°I believe an announcement is due, given the length of my last departure. First, I believe some recognition for the work of our soldiers in the region East of here is in order. We have dealt justice to the silent and the stationary. Too many at the outskirts of the cities sit quietly and patiently for the world to reward them while the world falls perpetually into decay. And what they eat up, they steal from those of us worthy of the challenge. A new kingdom cannot afford such people. In our quest, we have destroyed port cities and crushed some semblance of a resistance, brought down by their own weakness. Here, we can vanquish all.¡±


    It was a miracle that anyone could hear him. Somehow, his voice traveled throughout the entire camp. The Sacredate didn¡¯t enjoy shouting, as it were, especially not over the thousands of men cheering at him. They didn¡¯t stop for some time, but ceased immediately the moment a frown seemed to appear on the Sacredate¡¯s face.


    ¡°But there have been challenges. In one of our raids, a child managed to slip out of our grasp.¡± Taramiel blinked, and he was certain some people had turned to watch his expression, which he kept frozen and forward.


    ¡°Although we gave the child great chase, he always seemed a step ahead of us. It appears as though every village he stopped at helped him, somewhat, on his journey. Although it is still a high priority that we catch the child, we must have gratitude to those who have aided us in the challenge: Taramiel led the charge against the child, and without him, there would be no hope of ever catching the boy. As always, Taramiel remains an honorable warrior.¡±


    And another round of cheering came. Even Armund was applauding for him, turned to him and grinning.


    ¡°It is time for our next journey to begin. We have gathered the strength of a thousand armies, and taken the world¡¯s corners; it is time we aim for the center. Next, we march on the kingdom itself!¡±


    Taramiel was one of the last people to make his way to his tent. His head was throbbing by then, and his body drained, but his heart kept beating furiously, as though it would jump out of his chest and flop around in the dirt like a fish. He played through old memories, resounding victories on the battlefield, the rush of war on horseback with the wind in your face. That was where he was meant to be. Not wrestling others on the ground. Why had he gone so far astray? He admonished himself as much as he could before slipping into bed, and closing his eyes.


    But no matter what he did, he couldn¡¯t get himself to sleep for a few more hours. There was something stuck at the back of his mind, something that he couldn¡¯t let go.


    What if he wasn¡¯t wrong about the Sacredate?

 Chapter 36

    Sartore¡¯s heart felt ready to pop when he broke through the vegetation and into the sunlight. He collapsed at the edge of the woods, underneath the heat of the sun, shivering as the wind brushed past him. There was grass poking into every part of his face; every once in a while, as his chest rose and fell, one blade would slide and feel like an incredibly sharp needle against his leg, and he would scramble madly to get away from it and clutch at the deep wound, only for feeling to be gone after he¡¯d let go.


    He let his head rest on its side, pointed down and back into the woods. Whatever business Maisero had left to take care of, Sartore thought, must be finished by now. But Sartore couldn¡¯t see him.


    Eventually, when he had the strength, and as the sun began to set, Sartore crawled back towards the trees and sat against one. He tried almost desperately to watch the sunset, but was drawn away by the woods¡ªevery time he looked down the path and found nobody there, he became more certain that Maisero was just around the corner.


    He fell asleep just before dusk.


    It was as if someone had painted in more features to the landscape while he¡¯d been sleeping. After his eyes cut through the sheet of white light that greeted them, he heard and noticed a creek flowing from the trees and out towards the horizon, which was spotted with a hill and loner trees that must not have been good at making friends, not even with each other.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Of course, Maisero was nowhere in sight. His anxiety was like a fresh coat of needles his heart wore. What terrible business had Maisero gotten himself caught up in? After far too long doing nothing but sitting there, staring either at the darkness or at his feet, Sartore reminded himself what Maisero had told him: I¡¯ll catch up with you. With little else to direct him, Sartore rose and followed the river.


    Over the hill, the procession of grass continued, forming an aisle for Sartore to cross through. The creek widened into a river, one that became progressively more violent. Sartore wasn¡¯t sure why there was more water here than there was flowing at any spot in the creek.


    Sartore saw a stork appear from some unknown point in the sky and land in the creek. Its feathers were unkempt, as if a child had glued them haphazardly onto its body. The stork rubbed the flat of its beak against its neck in a failed attempt to flatten its feathers. The stork did so with its eyes trained on something in the water. Suddenly, its long beak shot out snatched a large fish that the stork could barely keep a hold of, and flew away with it, disappearing to the same unknown point it came from.


    The river narrowed. Not far from him, Sartore noticed a city that the river crossed through. Sartore ran now, and soon arrived at the destination.


    When he stopped to catch his breath, he was arrested by the strangeness of it. The tall buildings, at one point perhaps magnificent, were now dilapidated. Even worse, there was not a single person in sight.

 Chapter 37

    His body ached while the sun set. He hadn¡¯t ran like that in a long time, sometime before he began dragging himself into the library and living in it like a bunker against the rest of the outside world.


    The first step of that journey would be backwards. It was fear of the woods that eventually got him moving. His legs ached, especially his knees and his ankles, and when he lifted his head from the bark he¡¯d been resting it on, his neck admonished him for pushing it out of place for so long. He didn¡¯t want to be stranded here when darkness fell, and whatever other creatures of the night emerged, so he walked slowly back to the village.


    He hadn¡¯t been expecting the smell. There was a thick layer of it that he waded through to get to the houses. He realized as he got closer that it was the scores of dead bodies that were producing it. He wasn¡¯t exactly sure what he was doing, walking vaguely towards the center of the village, where the stench grew stronger, until a thick gust of wind blew by and gave him an inkling of fresh air. He found this moment to be the appropriate one to vomit, and quickly the smells returned. But now he had a motivation: water.


    Maisero found two canisters of it in a cupboard that had been buried underneath two walls and a roof, all of which had been reduced to thin panes of wood and were easy to drag out of the way. He drank deeply from the first, and although he could wipe away the taste, he couldn¡¯t erase the jaggedness in his throat. But it was enough to rejuvenate him. He went in search of bags, and he found a couple of large ones made from animal hide. He found plenty of clothes (that he hastily tried on), food and water to pile onto there. There wasn¡¯t much money or jewelry; Maisero imagined that the Sacredate¡¯s men had looted the place before he could take a swipe at it.


    He ended his hunt at a mattress, still standing in the corner of what remained of a house. He found some large planks of wood to lean on the structure to obscure him from the rest of the world. It stank of wood, but that was far more tolerable than what he¡¯d endured outside. He wiped the bed of shavings, then fell asleep.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The bags were heavy to carry together. The day was windy and clear, and the sun as perfectly happy to declare itself in the sky. He had to drag his bags most of the way to the water. When he arrived there, he found more of the same; each of the ships had been destroyed, what remained of them floating precariously on the water¡¯s surface. They stretched like stepping stones far into the horizon, but stopped. But, mixed in among the destroyed ships was a small canoe, which he discovered was at least large enough to take him and his bags. It was moored too far up the sand and was difficult to dislodge, but he managed to push it out. His legs were in even more pain than they had been yesterday, but the task wasn¡¯t too troubling. Some sort of panic seeded itself in him, and he scrambled quickly to catch up with the ship, as though he would miss his own ride. He made it on, found two oars to carry him with, and began to row.


    The movement came far more naturally than he thought it would. That and a mixture of his own fear of the water kept him moving. The small ship struck the planks of wood frequently enough, but he got out of there without too much trouble. Faster, faster, there was something shouting at him. There was too much chaos behind him. Something he needed to run from. And somehow, despite the pain, the agony, and whatever else was thrown at him, he could¡ª


    He heard shouting. At first he thought it must have been coming from the water, and he actually glanced out from the side of the boat, only to realize that the only thing that would greet him there was his own reflection. No, it had come from another ship¡ªone that was sailing steadily towards him. The moment he saw it, a wave of relief fell over him. But so too did the reality of the water around him, and he immediately crawled into a ball at the bottom of the ship and lay there, waiting for the other ship to arrive.


    Although he¡¯d screamed for Maisero, Balto wasn¡¯t ecstatic about adding him to the crew.

 Chapter 38

    It took some maneuvering and wrangling to get Maisero onto the boat. A couple of the other sailors had to grapple for him to get him aboard, and eventually he fell over onto the wood and lay there. He was virtually non-responsive.


    Balto sighed, rubbed his face with his hands and walked back into his cabin, dropping into his chair and looking at the map stretched over his desk. He had rushed back as quickly as he could after finding the wreckage at home, but slowed once he saw the planks of wood floating slowly towards him, far from shore. He could only be certain of the countless deaths that must have occurred then. He tried not to dwell on the faces he knew. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Of course, Maisero managed to survive. What a relief.


    ¡°Should we give him a room?¡± one of the crewmates said, poking his head past the door.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± Balto replied. ¡°Watch him till he¡¯s better, give him what he asks for, within reason, but keep him outside.¡±


    The crewmate nodded and left.


    It was a miracle that Maisero had survived. He¡¯d check the field later to confirm it, but he didn¡¯t really need to; only Maisero was left from that starting crop of villagers, when the battle had started. Even the boy, Balto thought.


    And it was an even greater miracle that Maisero had found his way back to the ship, the only place where the lone survivor would be condemned to death.

 Chapter 39

    There was plenty of food for Sartore to harvest. A lot was left out in the open, packages and bags standing alone in the center of single-room houses. And it was far more than leftovers¡ªhe found thick slices of meat, fresh cakes and warm pastries. This small feast constituted his first meal in a handful of days.


    And yet, nothing else could be found. No beds. No clothes. No shoes, no belongings left behind, wherever the people that made these things had gone. The pastries were warm, Sartore thought to himself. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    He didn¡¯t dwell on the thought for long. He thought that this small village would be a good place to sleep before continuing his journey home in the morning. In the meantime, while he waited for the sun to set, he walked around the outskirts, finding new angles of the village and inspecting the surrounding grass vegetation. All of the greenery tapered off into the dirt once it got too close to the houses themselves.


    Sartore had no complaints when darkness approached. He walked slowly towards the nearest house, found a comfortable enough corner, and stuffed himself into it. Comfortable enough, he thought.


    He was, eventually, awoken by commotion outside.

 Chapter 40

    Some days passed. Taramiel spent most of his time training, on his own. It wasn¡¯t difficult to find a quiet space with some distance from camp. When he had the patience, he¡¯d return before the sun had set and eat with a few of the other soldiers he had a favorable opinion of. He wasn¡¯t sure the feelings were reciprocated. The Sacredate¡¯s men were mostly quiet around him, now¡ªunsure what parts of him they were seeing. The Sacredate had painted Taramiel as champion and nemesis, and while on the night the Sacredate had spoken the opinion of the masses had been unanimous, the revelry the Sacredate inspired always faded. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The Sacredate was on his way out. Soon enough the entire camp would disperse to the corners of the land and begin the final leg of their conquering journey. Sweep around the edges to collect the smaller villages that they¡¯d forgotten, then return to strike at the center. The Sacredate was about, preparing to bring the whole army to one point, and storm the kingdom¡¯s defenses. At this point, Taramiel thought, all of it was inevitable. He¡¯d lead a small army of his own like a loop from this place, trace out their path in blood and followers, and arrive at the castle at the center of it all with perhaps enough men on his own to storm the defenses on his own. And he was only one of five.

 Chapter 41

    Sartore had no trouble hearing the intruders approaching the small village. They reveled in the chaos that they created. They were laughing drunkenly as they stumbled down the dirt walkway that cut through the center of the village. Sartore could hear them entering the first house, a couple of them it sounded like, wedging the door open and stuffing the entrance. They greedily snapped up whatever belongings had remained on the ground and kept moving. Sartore couldn¡¯t remember which house he¡¯d scavenged from first, but he imagined that once this band had discovered the mark that he¡¯d left on these things they wouldn¡¯t be happy with it.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    And sure enough, he could hear a sudden quieting of the crowd outside, and then some violent shuffling, before Sartore heard what must have been the house being torn from its roots and tossed aside like a weed. They were moving more quickly now, and the extent of Sartore¡¯s borrowing was laid bare, with more shouting and destruction as though a riot had broken out in the village square.


    Sartore scrambled into a small closet in the small house that he had been sleeping in, and waited.

 Chapter 42

    The stench. Maisero didn¡¯t remember dwelling on it when he spent his first few weeks on the ship, but he could sure recognize it now. A bad mixture of old, wet wood and rotten fish, no better than the trash that a restaurant owner hides in the back of the property. But it didn¡¯t make him sick anymore. A smell he couldn¡¯t escape, sure¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t anything that he was unprepared for. Not after the week he¡¯d had.


    He could hear other sailors moving around on the deck and generally making a commotion. It was driving him crazy. He would be just about ready to explode out of his room and shout down the entire crew before he jerked and remembered that there was rope binding him in place. He wasn¡¯t sure how long he¡¯d been sitting there like that, in the relative darkness. Without anything to do, and without much to see, everything seemed to blur a little bit. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Eventually, Balto opened the door. His fifth meal so far from that seat. The food was also hard to chew on for Maisero¡¯s sensibilities, but he¡¯d learned to swallow it. Balto dropped the food on the table beside Maisero, just close enough for Maisero to lean over and grab at it with his teeth.


    Maisero threw in a question into the door frame before it had shut behind Balto:


    ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°The castle,¡± Balto replied, and left.

 Chapter 43

    Taramiel always seemed to find himself alone. He dragged his long sword against the grass, letting it drag against the exposed skin of partly-charred bodies, stripped of their clothes and homes. There were campfires at the edge of where this village once stood, where other members of his army might have waited for him. It was as if he¡¯d missed the rush to dinner, while the rest of the schoolyard boys cut him in line and left him behind in the dust, and he was left behind to fend for what was left, if he had the courage to step in line.


    But this was different. The small set of forces that he carried with him were perfectly obedient, and never dared upset him. He thought to himself that they were more likely to quiet down when he approached the campfire than they were to cheer for him. Perhaps that was a more effective way to lead an army. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    With the fire so distant from him, he could watch the smoke rise up into the night sky. Like the limbs of a ghost brushing up against the black canvas, speckled with white dots, the smoke seemed like it was growing ever higher, ever closer to its destination, but in reality, it never really moved.


    The smoke died out. The army, like a reasonable set of men, had left for bed. Now it really was just Taramiel, alone. His eyes were beginning to bug him, but he wasn¡¯t ready for sleep. Not yet. Here on the battlefield, his heart and his mind buzzed violently, and he could do almost nothing to contain it. Sleep would only aggravate it, he figured. He brushed away the dead bodies in his path, and kept pacing.