death of the undying by joshua poynton [x] words€¦ · poynton ± undying ± 2 i took a moment....

Death of the Undying

By Joshua Poynton

[X] Words

Poynton – Undying – 1

Act 1:

Chapter 1

Dialect Differences

We arrived in a village under cherry red sky drifting toward bruised purple and blue. Our

leader dismounted and hailed two people coming up the road shouldering laden packs

higher than their heads. The conversation didn’t last, for the two spoke with Oshac dialect. I

was commanded to translate, an impossible task some months prior. I would’ve been

slapped around, maybe refused a full portion of dinner. Not now. Without difficulty, I

became the bridge of understanding.

‘This is Aeston village?’ Bairnard asked. ‘Where’s…?’ He nudged me. ‘What do

they have? Leaders? Chiefs?’

I translated. The travellers shared a frown and responded, to which I conveyed,

‘They say he’s unavailable.’

‘What’s that mean?’


I took a moment. ‘Looks like most of the village is away for a week, a festival of

some sort.’ I asked the villagers why they hadn’t gone. ‘Seems these two are going home,

to the sea.’

I noticed Duval’s smirk and knew what he would suggest after the two villagers

continued on their way. If they would be permitted. Their packs, like I said, were plenty

laden. And what do the lives of two villagers matter to a band of poachers?

But Bairnard let them pass, despite Duval’s silent disapproval. Satisfied, he led us

down the slope into the village, a place we soon discovered was comprised more of mud

and filth than civilisation. As our tall, covered wagons swayed and slipped, I smiled

internally at choosing to walk rather than ride in the back, this decision being prompted by

the dog. My dog. It felt strange, thinking he was mine alone. Not the group’s dog. I fed him

from my own plate, bathed him, trained him, but could not name him. He was a mutt, that’s

all.

Stroking my dog’s muddied fur, I recalled the Oshac dialect. Dog and dialect were

linked in my memories. As I mentioned, a few months prior I would have failed to

translate, and a few months before that I did fail to translate, which caused the slapping-

around and dinner-withholding. After that, Bairnard found an old man in a rundown village,

paid him, and left me there for three months to study the dialect. The differences to Quyoh

were not too severe, and it didn’t take long to adapt.

In the mornings, the old man made tea and we drank it on the veranda while

conversing with simple sentences. I still remember the aroma, the warm morning sun

creeping up my shins to knees to chest, and when the veranda was steeped in sunlight I

helped the old man stand and we started on the chores. His age belied an active mind and


mouth, and he spoke almost continuously throughout the day. I, the youthful and fresh, felt

mind tire and mouth grow dry. But I persisted. His dog followed us as we worked and

spoke, barking if we addressed him. Then around the eighty-day mark he fell sick and died

a short while later. I helped the villagers bury him. I tended to his garden. By promising to

work harder and take less pay, I convinced Bairnard to let me adopt the dog.

I cherished those ninety days.

Bairnard and Duval stopped and dismounted in the village’s centre, a muddy

pseudo-courtyard. From a leafless tree in the middle hung paper talismans and ornaments

painted red and white. Duval acted as I knew he would. His scouts had already returned.

They confirmed nobody remained in the village. How perfect for Duval to lead our scouts;

with his frame he could turn sidelong and disappear.

Houses were empty of people but not goods. Bairnard’s lips formed a thin line, but

he nodded. Routine took hold. I helped unload the wagons and erect the tents. Others went

to ransack—sorry, inspect the buildings for food and provisions. They returned with a

significant haul.

Our original goal entailed a job with the village’s Councillor. We heard mobs of apy

wandered the surrounding area, picking off lonesome villagers or young lovers walking by

moonlight. The village would have paid us to hunt them, and their scales held decent value.

Two easy profits. But looting houses was easier. I found it difficult to believe the buildings

were truly devoid of people. Did Duval’s scouts confirm, or ensure this fact? I discarded

the thought. Knowing wouldn’t change anything. And members of the group called to me.

‘Boy, water!’

‘Boy, more stew!’


‘Boy!’

Three campfires burned. I kept away from the flames. Around them sat Bairnard,

Duval, and Sidney, and their respective followers. I ran between the flames, handling the

shouted errands, a harried silhouette. Sweat ran down my back. My dog trotted alongside,

happy for an excuse to run. He must’ve thought it a game. I almost tripped on him a few

times. I wouldn’t have minded if it meant dropping a pot on Duval, crushing his skull with

the heavy pewter.

‘Bring a cask,’ Duval snapped as I passed.

I scowled. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘You say something?’

I shook my head and went to the storage wagon. To his credit, Duval regularly out-

drank every member of our group. Our last cask of Roku whiskey sat in the back corner, as

if waiting for execution. It’s length was less than my forearm, but carrying it still proved

difficult. I chose to hoist it onto my shoulder so I could carry a bandage roll in my off-hand.

Sidney took responsibility for healing and had trained as a Hemomancer until being

expelled for unbecoming conduct at the academy. If Duval’s group tapped the cask, she’d

need bandages.

I returned to the firelight, straining under the weight. The bandage unrolled and a

loose length peeked through my fingers. My dog, seeing his chance, hopped and caught the

end in his mouth. He pulled. I yelled at him to stop. He pulled harder, and then split

between going toward the campfires and this new dog-oriented path, I encountered a thick

space of mud obscured in the evening gloom. I knew. I slipped and toppled and the cask

came with me. By coincidence or cosmic fate of the primordial beings, a cobblestone


protruded at an angle sufficient to shatter the cask. The smooth, golden, aromatic contents

flooded out and mingled with the mud around me. A drop reached my tongue. Amusing

that I stole the last taste.

Duval, however, did not find amusement in this. He loomed overhead as I laid in

the mud and gazed upon the stars, bright and far and wholly uninterested in my plight. A

crowd gathered. Duval yanked me by my shirt and slammed a fist into my nose. Another at

my mouth. A slap turned my cheek swollen crimson. Contrary to his thin fingers and bony

hand, he struck hard. Bairnard’s voice cut across the turmoil. I peered between the gathered

legs and spotted Bairnard resting on a log, his back to us. He prodded the fire and did not

look at us. ‘Enough,’ he said.

Duval snarled. ‘The Roku—’

‘He’ll buy you another. Two.’

‘Better six.’

‘Duval.’ That tone in Bairnard’s voice—it quenched like heated iron dipped into a

water trough. Still sizzled, though, and Duval shoved me roughly back into the mud.

My dog licked my cheek. I levered off him to a seated position. For me, the night

ended. I did not seek a meal that would not be given. Instead I surveyed the village’s

buildings and located a small hut. It’s mostly dry room beckoned, and I trudged to its

embrace. I leaned against the wall and slid until my backside touched the dirt. Knees raised,

elbows balanced on them, chin to chest, I thought of nothing. The campfires, the stew, the

warmth of flame and companionship not far behind me—I ignored them.

A shadow entered the doorway. ‘Let me see,’ she said, and squatted. Sidney tilted

my chin away from my chest, forced injury into the light. I noted her faded crimson tunic,


equal parts blood and dye. She grimaced and touched a cloth to my lower lip. The

Hemomancer magic stung but accelerated the healing. ‘Thank you for confirming a theory.’

‘Huh?’

‘Roku whiskey doesn’t need to be drunk to incite violence.’

The corner of my lips twitched.

Sidney gave me half a bread roll and two thin, rolled pieces of fabric for my nose

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said before kissing my cheek.

The bread didn’t compare with meals I ate at the academy, yet I savoured it. The

bruises would be visible soon; never took much for them to form. I lay in the corner, my

dog adjacent, and fell asleep.

#

Is it wrong to desire respect? Did the world owe me kindness? Sidney’s age did not number

much higher than mine. Did I owe myself respect? I hoped being a poacher—a fighter, not

translator and accountant—awaited. I desired what I desired.

I woke to screams, to yells, to the shouted word: monsters. As I expected. It was no

mob of apy. They were dangerous to individuals, not a band of armed poachers. I reached

for the window’s edge and gazed upon the carnage. Numerous khosk dashed among the

diminished campfires. Their long beaks jabbed at any visible flesh and yanked free sizeable

chunks. To swallow, they directed their beaks at the sky, and when they did they looked

like horses with pointed hats.

To their credit, the poachers collected themselves with proficiency into a spear

formation and struck back at the khosk herd. They aimed for the muscular limbs, and after


dealing enough damage to ensure they had the advantage the spear formation shifted to a

ring that shrunk around the wounded khosk.

As I watched, someone dashed into the hut with me and tripped on the threshold’s

uneven ground. I saw their face. They dashed on all fours toward a stack of woven baskets

in the far corner. A surviving khosk charged at the building and squeezed through the

entrance. I pressed against the wall while my dog stood before me and barked despite being

less than half the khosk’s size. This’s is, I thought. But the monster showed me no interest.

It’s beak jabbed at my dog, which dodged backward.

The attacks backed us into the corner. The khosk’s beak punctured the clay and

daub. He struck, landed. My dog whimpered. The sensation of sudden rage rocked me. It

spread across my body. It ached. I pulled my dog behind me and ducked under the khosk’s

beak. It jabbed into the corner and pulled away a chunk of wall from the hut and its

neighbour, recoiling toward the doorway. It blocked our escape.

While it struggled to reopen its beak, I dashed to the opposite wall and kicked away

the woven baskets. One of Duval’s scouts had huddled among them. He yelped. Must’ve

expected a beak, not my hands gripping his shoulders and pulling with all my effort. He

tumbled into the middle of the room, as if presented. The khosk freed its beak from the wall

fragment and advanced. The doorway cleared and early morning light waited beyond like

heaven’s gates. I scooped up my dog and ignored the garbled pleas, the wailing, the liquid

noise of precise jabs forcefully extracting flesh.

The fight outside had already ended. The poachers, professionals, worked the beaks

with hand axes. The skin and flesh served no purpose, poor-quality and poisonous


respectively, but the beaks could be sold to artisans; not for much, a third maybe of

authentic scrimshaw materials.

Bairnard shouted orders, Duval’s followers dismantled the camp, and Sidney tended

to the wounded. I hurried to her, my dog held aloft. Hunched over a man with visible

ribcage, she snapped when I called her name but softened upon seeing my plight. She led

me around the tree and said to relax, for my dog’s wound consisted of little more than a

graze to his leg. She bandaged it with practised ease, but then handed me a square of fabric.

I almost pointed out I wasn’t wounded but, ‘Wipe your eyes,’ she said. ‘Don’t wanna give

them ammunition, do you?’

I understood, though hadn’t realized tears fell.

Sidney hurried back around the tree and continued her duty. I took a moment to

embrace my dog and found him unchanged, as if the attack vanished from his memories.

He licked me and stood, only the bandage and a mild limp as evidence of change. I stayed

behind the tree for a time, not to care for my dog but to avoid the group. So when I left the

tree, I found everyone almost ready to move. The wounded were being loaded onto horses

and wagons, and campfire embers scattered. I checked multiple times to ensure the fires

were out. A khosk lay dead half-outside the hut I’d slept in. The dead would be left behind,

after few belongings were salvaged. Deaths among us were rare, but when they happened

monsters rarely left much to bury. The khosks fulfilled this convention. We lost two. A

good figure. Death by monsters was easy as sneezing, and about as common.

Bairnard spotted me and ordered I ride in the wagon. I jogged, head down. Sidney’s

three followers rode in the wagon. They were agreeable, albeit strange and almost mute.


Physically, they were almost identical, and their cold expressions masked every emotion.

The ride promised to be dull, and I could never wholly relax in their presence.

We departed Aeston village.

#

Oh, I forgot to mention how rusty my translation had become. My excuse is valid; months

without speaking the dialect left me confused. The word “festival” sounded like something

else. And it sounded like the two said they were going home, to the sea, but they could’ve

also mentioned something about the village’s population and recent troubles. Who’s to say?

It’s a good thing the group didn’t get drunk. Otherwise the Khosk would’ve found a

veritable buffet of dazed humans…

Was it worth it? My dog’s injury—it could’ve been avoided. If I was stronger, or

quicker. Or braver. I don’t know.

I couldn’t see much of our journey from the wagon, but when we stopped Bairnard,

Duval, and Sidney stood beneath a copse and exchanged hushed words, their heads

together. If we hadn’t recently lost two members, I would’ve dared shuffle close and

eavesdropped.

The wagon returned to motion. Rolling north, roads diverged east and west. Before

Aeston, Bairnard planned to hunt apy, go east to a town, offload the scales, and then north

to catch the tilador migration at the strait. But we rolled west. I thought little of it. The

khosk must’ve forced the plan to change.

I crossed my arms and shut my eyes but sleep did not reach me. We made camp at

nightfall. Again the three leaders conferred, this time up a hill and in the darkness. The

group talked little, slept early, and departed earlier. Why the haste? Maybe catch the


migration closer west, sell tilador fillet directly to the mainland? I soon knew, for smells of

the sea drifted to my nose. The salt, the gulls’ cries—nostalgia tickled me.

We had reached the village of Port New Ma, a settlement that drifted daily closer

toward becoming a town. Within a decade it may have become an important coastal city.

The whaling industry had exploded to a level that brought blue-hand merchants, and to my

understanding they funnelled a considerable sum into the location’s development. Scaffolds

littered the area and population appeared to have doubled since my visit a year ago.

Wagons couldn’t access the main road, and horses handled the crowds little better.

Amazing, really, how much changed in so few days. It helped that the village already

served as a central point of transport between the island and mainland. I, too, took a yearly

trip to the latter to attend the academy.

Our group circled to the southern edge and stopped in the outskirts, whereupon

Sidney and Bairnard dismounted, latter summoning me from the wagon. But I found

neither translation nor administrative tasks awaited me.

‘Here’s your stop,’ Bairnard said. He noticed my puzzled expression and engulfed

my shoulder in a hand. ‘We’ve got a job for you.’ I stammered a protest but he pressed on.

‘It’s vital, the most important task you’ve ever been given. Are you familiar with the

Harvester?’

I nodded. Who hadn’t heard of the infamous Harvester, if only in passing? Though,

infamous may be the wrong word. The legend, the fool, the undying. Many terms got

attached but title Harvester never changed. He never became Hunter or Poacher or

Predator, for they said he only harvested material from the monsters, never harmed them. It

wasn’t difficult to comprehend why people would call him a fool.


‘We’ve heard from a reliable source that he’s here for the migration and won’t be

leaving until it’s over. Gives you about three days.’

‘Three days to…?’

‘Befriend him,’ Bairnard said. ‘Become his assistant, basically.’

Sidney leaned against a tree nearby. My eyes found hers and she smiled, full and

charming. ‘You’ll do great,’ she said.

I shook my head without thinking. ‘But, why?’

‘While you relaxed among books we spent the better part of last year trying to

convince him to share some secrets, but he wouldn’t part with even one. Bribery, threats, he

didn’t take to anything.’

‘You didn’t just…’ I pantomimed a beating.

‘Think we didn’t try, Boy? He’s fast. Has an uncanny sense for danger. Don’t try to

surprise or fool him. He’s cunning, in spite of his looks.’

My words came slowly. ‘So, you want him to trust me enough to spill, and then

we’ll use the tricks to hunt bigger monsters?’

Bairnard smiled. Rare and far from handsome, but scarcity made it a special sight.

‘Smart lad. Glad you’re getting it.’ He called to Duval, who dismounted and brought a

pack. I shivered at his scowl, and rather than approach me he tossed the pack and spun on

his heels. Bairnard paid this no mind. ‘Inside’s some coin, provisions, clothes, and a journal

to record your findings.

‘When you return in say, nine months—’

Nine months!


‘—you can name that mutt. And we won’t make you go back to the academy.

Figure you’re plenty smart.’

The prospect of paying my over-sixteen tuition fee mustn’t have appealed either.

I stood motionless and found no further words. My emotions fought: naming my

dog but not seeing him until I returned, not going back to the academy but lacking

opportunities to study in peace. The advantages prevailed. My dog served as a bastion of

consistency in the poacher group, I wouldn’t be able to bring him to the academy anyway.

‘Can I say goodbye?’ I asked, and when permitted went to the wagon where my dog

sat. Duval and his followers, bored by the modicum of attention I received, had dismounted

and played cards behind the wagon.

My dog rolled onto his back, tongue flopping through a space where he lacked

teeth. Saying goodbye didn’t take long, and even less time was spent retrieving what I

wanted.

My internal debate persisted when I returned, but Sidney stole my attention. She

had pushed from the tree, took my hands in hers, and kissed me. Then I felt her breath on

my ear. ‘Promise we can do the rest when you come back.’

I don’t know how red my cheeks got or how much Bairnard and Sidney saw of

them, for they returned to the group and departed before I finished inspecting the pack’s

contents. I considered waving farewell, but their backs would have received it.

I shouldered my burden and entered the village.


Chapter 2

Port New Ma

I soon learned my estimations of Port New Ma were incorrect. It was not a village

becoming a town but rather a bulging almost-city just able to be called a town. Like a

rapidly growing boy unable to wear his clothes without stretching them, the town swelled

with activity ill-suited to the space available. When did it happen? No time. I let the

crowd’s current take me, spending a couple vague hours walking the village, in part

checking for possible locations but also enjoying the freedom. This levity was born from

arrogance; I possessed fifty rens and spoke most languages, how could the Harvester refuse

a petition to accompany him?

As I walked, a theory rolled around my mind. Why seek the Harvester now? He’d

been active for years. Then I recalled a conversation I’d overheard. It concerned Bairnard’s

second-in-command, his brother. He died the year prior, while I attended the academy, and

from I learned a black-spined boar caused it. They had given dogged pursuit for three days


only for it to strike in manner they couldn’t have anticipated, killing Bairnard’s brother. If

there was a slight chance the Harvester knew the secret to slaying the monster, it’s not

surprising I was sent to discover it.

Though, how much of the year did they actually spend trying to convince the

Harvester? When I spent those three months with the old man, they claimed to be hunting

in the eastern hillocks, but when they returned and my role as accountant continued I found

their expenditure unusual – to put it lightly. In particular was the loss of oru, a coinage

primarily accepted by the people of the western city-states on the mainland. The quantity,

too, caught my eyes, for they claimed it was spent on equipment yet still they wore cracked

leather and crusted tunics. And for a time, Duval spent more time during meals scratching

his crotch than holding a spoon. I questioned Bairnard, but…

The sky ushered in evening sooner than expected. I strolled into the main inn. The

front desk looked freshly installed, the walls were of smooth, dark wood, and the lighting

fixtures included crystal. I guessed the blue-hands did more than funnel investments into

the village; they cracked a dam and let the gold flow. ‘Five,’ the attendant said, when I

asked for a room.

I took rens from my pack and let them drop onto the desk with a metallic clink. The

attendant started to smile but regained control over his features. ‘Five oru,’ he corrected,

and added, ‘Sir,’ as if that softened the embarrassment. If I’d stopped and thought I

would’ve realized the blue-hands operated in the west, therefore using oru, therefore

making their establishments use oru, therefore making me the naïve fool that clearly

showed he was an inexperienced sixteen-year-old. Five oru converted to roughly fourteen-


and-a-half rens. I noticed a bank during my walk, but parting with such an amount so soon

into my journey, not including the conversion fee, frightened me as the khosk did.

I turned, remembered the rens on the desk, and shoved them into my pocket before

fleeing the inn. I checked another, and a tavern, and an eatery, but my hoarding instincts

had taken hold and refused to relent. I kept imagining the Harvester rejecting forty-nine

rens, and that one I’d spent on reserving a patch of dirt floor would forever haunt me.

The outskirts welcomed my return. Leaves, green and orange and brown, cast

sinister shadows across my path. Fear crept up my spine, but another sensation interrupted.

The bushes were less welcoming as I stood among them and lowered my trousers. I sensed

eyes upon me. It could’ve been the solitude, but I had travelled alone before. I hastened,

shook, replaced my trousers, and continued down a path that led to the beach. I sought a

cave, but harsh winds dissuaded me. Back to the trees, then? Neither. Back at the outskirts,

I crawled under a house on stilts, slipped into my spare clothes, and used the pack as a

pillow. The dry leaves crunched with every movement, but exhaustion and—though I’m

loath to admit—deep anxiety sent me into an uneasy slumber.

#

I did not wake to screams, however when I sat upright and slammed my head into the

house’s underside a cry was loosed.

A new day. Fresh opportunities. My store of resolve was refilled, and now

motivation for the task was two-fold. First, my obligation to the poachers. Second, the

Harvester surely didn’t sleep under houses. I removed excess clothes and ate a strip of

jerky. I chewed, and chewed, and knew a problem had arisen before I shuffled from the

stilted house. I didn’t know how the Harvester looked. Reputation, sure, but I assumed he


would stand out from the crowd and that would be enough. Bairnard held a decent

reputation as a hunter, but he resembled any gruff, muscular person.

This epiphany sent me into a frenzy, and harried by my ignorance I rushed to the

eatery. There weren’t customers so early in the morning, but I asked a man and woman,

looked like the owners, if they knew the Harvester. ‘Sure. He ate here the other day. Had a

mighty appetite,’ the woman said. I pushed for a description. The man took over. ‘Almost

tall. Muddy brown hair tied back. Looked pretty relaxed. Pretty sure he’s staying at the

inn.’

Almost tall?

It was a start. I thanked them and rushed into the street, almost slamming into a man

coming down the side. Without thinking, I asked the same question. ‘Season’s long over,

Boy.’

Of course, ordinary people may hear about him but wouldn’t have seen him, or if

they did not realized he was the Harvester. Think. If he was in town for the tilador

migration, he’d be at…

I ran down an alley, crossed a fence, and reached the docks. Ships were docked

nearby. Their colours were white, red, turquoise, and black accented in gold. Respectively:

Calcimancer, Hemomancer, Church of Elidred, and a royal family (albeit a small one) from

the city-state of Alneer. It reminded me of a joke, but in this case the punch line would be

replaced with bloodshed. Light rain drizzled. I blinked away the droplets and jogged down

the jetty. I should not have made such haste; there were few people to question. I started

with men loading the Calcimancer ship, but they shoved me aside. I nearly fell into the sea,


slipping on the planks. Adjacent, a fisherman chuckled. I did not see the humour. ‘Looking

for the Harvester, you say?’

I brightened, brows raised. ‘You know him?’

‘Aye.’ The fisherman’s eyes glinted and he sat with relaxed care, at peace upon the

jetty watching the wave with calm eyes. The ships could’ve been aflame and his ease would

remain. ‘He frequents the tavern and has a penchant for cider. Odd fellow, says he likes the

bubbles.’ The fisherman tapped his chin. ‘In fact, he’d be there around this hour. Likes a’—

he mimicked drinking—‘a morning primer.’

Again I thanked and rushed away.

The tavern stood on the waterfront and high, newly-built stone steps led to a heavy,

aged sliding door. I took the steps two at a time, thigh muscles straining, but halted with my

hand on the door’s surface. If the Harvester relaxed inside, I needed a plan. Without a

partial script I would stumble through an explanation then toss the rens onto the table and

hope he understood. Seated on the steps, chin in hand, I deliberated.

‘Hello, Mr Harvester—no.’ I shook. ‘Are you the Harvester? I’m here to—no.’

An explosion of colour caught my eye. A robe caused it. Lurid, tangerine tone

formed the base while pink curled in complex patterns and white flowers decorated the

hems. Colour caught but motion held my attention, for the man wearing the robe swayed,

jumped, and danced. He hopped up the stairs and slumped half-seated, half-splayed beside

me. Elbows propped on the step, he turned to me and gave a dullard’s smile. ‘Good

morning,’ he slurred.

I nodded and returned a placating smile.

‘I’m a prince, you know. Prince of the Southern Isles, here on pilgrimage. Yep.’


To be clear, Aeston and Port New Ma were situated on the southernmost island.

Rough seas, giant serpents, and storms waited to destroy any ship foolhardy enough to

attempt a crossing, but this was not the first time I’d heard someone lay claim to being from

the fabled Southern Isles. It’s akin to saying you’re descended from Elidred. Not

impossible, but improbable, nobody can prove you wrong, and it’s easy for cocky people to

say in an attempt to make themselves sound interesting.

In this case, the drunkard must’ve been a royal from Alneer.

‘Wow,’ I said, not wanting to disrespect a royal, no matter how they smelled, or

how matted the hair. ‘May I be excused, sir, for I must be away?’ I stood, but the man

grabbed my wrist and said:

‘What’s your name?’

I intended to return a fake, yet spoke before concocting one. ‘Mellom.’ We stayed

this way, me half-stood, his hand clasped to my wrist.

‘People usually ask, after they’ve given theirs.’

I pursed my lips. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Sorrel, of the Southern Isles.’ The smile returned, brighter. ‘And you’re Mellom.

Want some advice, Mellom? Can I call you, Mellom?’

‘Sure.’

He tugged my arm, taking my word as confirmation for both questions. His breath

smelled, and with the proximity I noticed his robe crusted in mud, marred with soot and

blood. ‘Don’t be here tomorrow.’ His easy countenance and casual tone made his words all

the more haunting. I yanked my hand away and slid open the tavern door with a wailing

creak, hoping the man didn’t see I needed to lean into it with my shoulder.


The door held noise well. I stepped from ocean waves and gulls to sloshing and

drinking and shouting. Despite the early hour, patrons filled the main room. They wore the

Hemomancer crimson, tunics pure and unwrinkled unlike Sidney’s. And in the corner, an

almost tall man with brown hair drank golden cider from a glass. I squared my shoulders,

puffed my slight chest, and strode to his table. The cup froze at his lips and piercing eyes

marked me over the frothy rim. ‘What?’ he spat.

‘You the Harvester?’ My deepened pitch lacked realism but I didn’t notice in the

moment. My foot tapped, a nervous twitch rather than impatience. I hoped the Harvester

took it as the latter.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘I’m Kane. I want to’—I almost said learn, but held my tongue—‘become your

assistant.’

‘Oh yeah? Why’d I need a thing like that?’

‘Nobody’s completely safe against monsters, might need someone to drag you away

while you’re guts are in the dirt.’

He lowered his glass and settled against the wall, brow unfurrowing. ‘Suppose I

have been getting slower, and hiring help ain’t a bad idea.’ He looked me up and down.

‘Sixty rens to start. You’ll get ten percent, twelve after three months if I think you’re good.’

I froze. Insides turned to ice. My mind sprinted through options. ‘I have fifty. I

can…get the rest soon.’

The Harvester pushed out his lips and shrugged. ‘Won’t be a soon. I’m leaving

tomorrow morning.’ He must’ve discerned my disappointment, and maybe the distress.

‘Listen, kid, you don’t want in this business. Monsters are bastards, the lot of ’em.’


‘But…’ I shook and considered crying but decided the latter a piece of over-acting.

The Harvester sighed, said:

‘Tell you what, chuck me fifty and help me with something. We’ll call it square, eh?

Then you can decide whether this life is something you want.’

I brightened at this and sped into the seat. He chuckled when I leaned forward,

maybe too intent. ‘I’d abandoned this idea,’ he said, ‘but with your help it might be

possible.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Know about the blue-hands?’

‘Of course.’ Everyone did. Why the secrecy?

‘Well, did you know they’re planning to outlaw monster hunting? Yeah, that’s the

face I made too. Not just hunting, either. Any monster-related trading. It’s why they’re

building this place up. Gonna make it their seat of power, and then they’ll bring in

mercenaries to enact their will.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I offered.

‘Indeed. But we’re gonna stop ’em.’ He scanned the tavern, seemed to deem it loud

enough. ‘Not far from here is their central office. There’s a stairwell around back. I’m

gonna make a scene out front, meanwhile you get into the main office.’ He removed a key

from his inner pocket and slid it across the table. ‘Stole this last night. It’ll open the desk

drawer. Take everything inside and meet me back here.’

‘How’ll that—’

‘It’s evidence. I’ll get it into the necessary hands. Let’s go.’

‘Now?’

The Harvester stood and shot me a disapproving look. I scolded myself; felt like I’d

already lost a few points. As I made to recover, the front door slid open and another group


entered. Stoic, impassive, they moved in formation. My eyes widened. They were like

mountains of muscle with humanoid features attached as an afterthought. The men wore

loincloths and bandages around their abdomens and forearms; women wore the same but

some also wrapped their chests. Calcimancers.

Silence reigned.

The Harvester and I were halfway across the room when it started. How long did it

take? Mere seconds, or did their restraint last a minute? The tavern was the vessel,

Calcimancers and Hemomancers the ingredients, like magnesium in water. A Hemomancer

uttered a sharp word first, or a Calcimancer spilled a drink. It didn’t matter the order, the

sides were on their feet and fighting.

The Harvester pushed through, slamming an elbow into a Hemomancer’s nose and

shoving aside one of the smaller Calcimancers. The door was still open. We burst into the

morning daylight and took off at a run, lest either side pursue us. I doubted it. Why strike a

mosquito when a bull charges? As we ran along the waterfront and back toward the main

road to the administrative building, I reflected on the Harvester. Tough, quick to act,

brave—my task served Bairnard and the poachers, but it also seemed the perfect

opportunity to become the man I wanted to be.

The Harvester placed a hand on the wall, panted, and retched. He gasped air and

told me to give the fifty rens. ‘Need to buy some supplies afterward,’ he explained,

massaging his legs. ‘I’ll do the distraction, now. Go in once the main office clears.’

I did as commanded, waiting crouched on the top step. Dust coated the window. I

wiped a circle in the corner and pressed my eye to the space. The blue-hand agent inside

wore a turquoise glove on his right hand, and the assistants wore like-coloured wristbands.


They bustled about the room doing whatever it was the merchant faction did. All I could

tell was a lot of documents changed hands and everyone held sour expressions like joy led

to bankruptcy. Work stopped as an explosive noise rang from the floor below. Glass

shattered. Dust fell from the ceiling. The stunned workers rushed to the door, and when the

last was out of sight I slipped in. It was obvious which desk I needed. Largest and shiniest,

and locked. I inserted the key and for a horrifying moment found it unmoving, but extra

force applied saw it click. Inside the drawer I found a leather notebook, twine-wrapped

papers, and two loose oru. I shoved the files into my pack, pocketed the coins, and started

for the door. Locking it behind me, I started down the stairs – straight into a man in a

turquoise glove.

His eyes narrowed, gaze flickering between me and my pack. ‘Who’re you?’ he

said, and reached for his pocket. Experience told me no answer would satisfy, the question

instead serving to lead me to guilt, so I shoved him and vaulted the stairwell’s railing. Pain

lashed across my ankle and I ran with unstable steps, but I survived a roundabout course

back to the tavern.

I found the Harvester outside. The tavern door slid askew of its rail, and peeking

inside told me the fight did significant damage to…everything. Blood whips had painted

the walls with splashed streaks, an inaccurate trail finding its way out the door and down

the stairs. And dents in the floor and walls, and shattered furniture, pointed to magically-

enhanced strikes. Regular people hurt each other, spilled blood. Magic users hurt

everything, shattered any semblance of peace. That’s what I used to think. The Harvester

broke my reverie. ‘Got it, kid?’


‘Yeah,’ I smiled, and unslung my pack. Two pieces of paper slipped out the side

and swung in the air, back and forth, reaching the ground with terrible gradualness, as if a

taunt heralding my ruination. Then I noticed a slit along the pack’s side. Frayed fabric

danced in the wind. Aside from my clothes and jerky on the bottom, the pack was empty. I

shoved my hand inside and rifled through the contents, even stuck my head inside. ‘T-The

guy, he must’ve—’

The Harvester snarled and seized my shirt with a curse, said, ‘Think this is a game?’

I recoiled as spittle dotted my face but couldn’t escape his grip, and before I could make

excuses he shoved me down the stairs. I met air, and in that hopeless embrace realized

serious injury could be inflicted. High stairs, enough force applied to make the shove more

like a throw, and uneven cobblestones to greet me. Roku Whiskey reached my thoughts,

my head transmuted onto the cask. Nothing like slow motion, only confusion; I collided

with something early. Whatever it was my nose rejected it, but my sense of touch rejoiced

at the impossibly smooth and silky cloth. I rolled away and found a tangerine robe where I

would’ve fallen, the man—it took a moment for his name to reach my mind’s surface—lay

splayed on the stone, features comical, a dazed expression plastered onto his face.

‘Sorrel,’ I said, shaking his chest. I panicked and slapped him. Unwise, yes, but I

preferred he woke from the shock than didn’t wake at all, and then having people connect

me with his death. And the theft of blue-hand documents. And being a poacher in a city

with a soon to be outlawed trade.

The tavern stood empty. A few pedestrians passed but paid me no mind. Others on

the jetties fished, loaded boats, and prepared for the whaling or tilador migration. Yet I was

truly alone, and in my frantic state I didn’t notice the Harvester vanish. But in his absence I


sensed my failure as if it were a tangible entity standing on the stairs, on the two documents

that fell from my pack, mocking me. Visible to me alone, it was indeed my ruination.

#

Sorrel’s tongue flicked around his gums and he soon roused himself, but before I could

offer an apology or steal his purse he leapt to his feet and sprinted away. I glanced around

the waterfront. The magic users weren’t around, nor other dangerous factions, and I could

hardly muster enough intimidation to frighten a mouse, and only if it were timid and having

a bad day. Like they’d caught their mouse-partner with a rat, and their mouse-boss had

fired them from mouse-work, and—

Sorrel must’ve fled because of the drink, or more potent substances. A suitable and

convenient explanation, since the current trend in royal circles was crushing nova-scales

and rubbing the powder on your gums and tongue. I’d heard they snorted salt, too, but this

could’ve been a rumour to manipulate gullible folks into trying it.

None of this changed the fact that I had failed. And had three oru to my name.

Eight, almost nine, rens, except minus the going conversion rate—never mind.

I figured fate offered me two paths: make money and survive until Bairnard

returned, or rekindle a friendship with the Harvester. Third path would’ve been contacting

Bairnard, but they didn’t grace me with the information about their next destination. As for

money, my academic skills in translation and administration were useful – but not in a city

like this, not after what I did to the blue-hands, and especially not when I looked like a

waif. So, I chose the latter path.

But my mind did not cooperate, and I fell back on what I usually did in moments of

gripping anxiety: slept. Not under a stilted house. Maybe the situation’s intensity fried my


reasoning skills, or apathy had set in, but I went to the second inn I’d checked yesterday. A

room only cost one oru, and I found it adequate for my requirements. That is, it had a bed. I

took a lengthy nap, ate some jerky, swapped clothes, and wrote some entries in my journal,

early drafts I suppose. Then I ate more jerky and went to sleep. I woke in the night and

discovered my body dissatisfied with my recent eating habits, or lack thereof. Eating? Not

much. Habit? No, sporadic.

No wonder I didn’t grow big and strong and manly.

On my third day in Port New Ma, I walked, this being my other tactic to stave off

the creeping anxiety. The hopelessness shed with time and activity, usually, and in this case

the sea was a pleasant enough sight. I was never one for blue skies and green fields. The

swirling grey storm clouds and swells of dark water always had a better chance at

transfixing me. As it did now.

I found the fisherman I’d met the previous day, unmoved since we spoke. I eyed his

trousers, tried to discern if they were different, and then the ground beneath, trying to see if

it was dry. Without asking for permission, I flopped beside him. He didn’t startle as I half-

hoped he would, instead offering a casual smile. ‘Find him?’ he asked.

‘I did.’

‘It looks like he he didn’t live up to your expectations.’

‘He did. I didn’t.’

The fisherman hummed. ‘Guessing a lecture about patience and changes during

youth wouldn’t take your fancy?’

I shook my head.

‘Fair enough.’


We sat like this for a time, content with the waves and salt and presence of another

human. There were fewer ships, the Calcimancer and Alneer vessels being absent. Odd that

the Calcimancers even bothered to travel this far south. They would’ve had to go east,

skirting the Hemomancer lands, and take a ship from Alneer or Narn. I couldn’t imagine

their goal. Protein? Fish served well, so I later learned. It couldn’t have been recruitment.

The Island, Doba, didn’t breed large people, only large monsters. Maybe they came to

expand, purge the island of monsters are raise the people to a civilized state like those on

the mainland. Sure.

Movement and shadow further out in the ocean caught my eye. ‘Didn’t know the

whales strayed this close,’ I mused.

‘Huh?’ The fisherman frowned at me then narrowed his eyes where I looked. ‘Must

be the tilador. Surprised a school this big is around so late into the migration. Wonder if—’

The fisherman turned, words hanging in static air. The shadow had reached us with

remarkable speed. Water steamed and erupted like volcanic geysers. From the spray leapt a

carp. Length was three times my height. It’s body shone pure white, speckled with orange-

red and charcoal black.

I marvelled at its beauty.

The carp eclipsed the rising morning sun and descended in an arc with mouth open

and landed on the fisherman. A thick whisker like knotted rope knocked me away and the

splash as jetty shattered floated me even further toward the waterfront. When I pushed

myself to my knees and wiped the stinging salt from my eyes, a chunk of the jetty was

gone. My side and ocean-side held by the leftmost underside beam and a sliver of surviving


timber. A noise echoed in my skull. Haunted. Had I heard piercing sounds of splitting

wood, or crunching of teeth and flesh?

Legs and a torso floated to the surface, borne by the waves toward the shore.

Work on the nearby ships halted and people on the waterfront came to see what

happened. They didn’t care the other fishermen that witnessed the carp fled without their

supplies.

The shadow moved, swirling beneath the ocean foam, yearning for blood.

Its tail flicked and crested the water, and then it converged on my portion of jetty

with the same unrivalled speed. There were worse deaths. I stood, figured it would have an

easier time with more visible target. And as water steamed and it leapt again and the

accumulated crowd screamed – I shut my eyes.

But my feet left the ground and calves scraped the water- and salt-softened wood,

and then I was tossed onto the waterfront’s stones like I weighed less than a bundle of

reeds.

Among the crowd’s legs, I heard someone say, ‘It’s him.’

“He” progressed toward the two missing segments of jetty, the carp back to being a

shadow among the waves. But he wore a tangerine robe. He held aloft a homemade staff

with an iron ring attached to the end and numerous smaller rings dangling from it. He

waved the staff overhead in broad sweeps and hopped backward when the carp surfaced,

but it cleared the jetty without impact. The dance repeated a few times, and on the final turn

the carp’s head protruded, mouth open. It’s ruby eyes bulged and shone like it’s body.

Something was tossed into its mouth. It submerged and returned with part of its whisker in

its mouth, depositing it with a thud the feet of the man in the tangerine robe.


I watched with intense eyes as the true Harvester unfurled a bag from his robe, lifted

the whisker with thumb and finger, and placed it inside, carrying it from the jetty like it was

no more unusual than buying dinner. He waved to the departing carp, a transaction well-

enacted.

The crowd parted and the man passed uninterrupted – almost.

‘Sorrel,’ I called, at last rising. ‘You’re the Harvester.’

‘Sure. So they say.’

I didn’t respond, and he naturally took this as an end to the conversation. He

continued up the waterfront but I pursued. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ A stupid question, but

my addled brain needed to process the events.

‘You asked for my name, and I like going by Sorrel.’

‘You asked for my name.’

‘That I did, Mellom.’

As we walked, it did not take long to recall my task. But my feigned deep voice and

fake name never reached the surface of my consciousness. ‘Can we be friends,’ I blurted. I

wanted to bite my tongue.

‘Sure.’

‘…Really?’

‘Yeah, why not.’

‘As in, I want to go with you to’—I almost said hunt—‘harvest monsters.’

Sorrel winced. ‘Not sure I’d put it that way, but yeah, it’ll be fun to have company.’

I said nothing more, afraid the slightest disturbance could shatter the perfect piece

of serendipity with which fate had graced me.


We went to the eatery. The man and woman welcomed Sorrel like a son. We sat at

rickety, splintered tables and ate broth with dumplings of an unknown meat from chipped

bowls. I adored the moment. ‘You know,’ Sorrel said through a mouthful, ‘I told those

fisherman not to be there, and they promised they wouldn’t, but maybe they were

humouring me. Looking back, I think the way they said their promises should’ve been an

indicator.’

‘How’d they say it?’

Sorrel imitated their tone and cadence. His hindsight assessment was spot on. How

did he not register voices so mocking and condescending?

The woman approached, said, ‘Full already?’ to which Sorrel laughed and assured

he was not. After playfully slapping his shoulder, she brought out a pallet tray of more

ambiguous meat, a loin cut, I guessed, with reddish sauce. Again we devoured.

‘Good thing the Hemomancers aren’t around,’ I remarked.

‘My wife was killed by a Hemomancer.’

‘Oh.’ I felt the scene’s perfection slip. Life’s paint ran down the canvas. ‘Sorry.’

‘Kidding!’ Sorrel chuckled but the hollow humour faltered. ‘Would that be

considered a good joke?’

I exhaled and tension in my lower back released. ‘By some people, maybe.’

‘I see you’re not those “some people”.’

Neither are you.

Is this how friends interacted? Talking and eating – joking?


Though I felt fuller than I had in weeks, Sorrel seemed to think it was an appetizer.

But he patted his robes then calmly laced his fingers together atop the table. ‘Do

you…happen to have much money?’

I paid with my two oru. My first thought had been to run, let him deal with the

trouble, but I suppressed the instinct and we left the table before more food was offered and

more money required from my lightened—now weightless—pockets. I hoped that carp’s

whisker would sell well.

‘Oh, hey, that’s cool. They got the printing press working.’ Sorrel snagged a flyer

from a beam near the door. ‘Wanted for theft and collusion. Bounty of a thousand oru.

Short sandy hair. Brown eyes.’ He laughed. ‘This guy looks like you.’

It did. Remarkably. Almost identical. I stood motionless, mouth dry. That running

instinct burned. How did the blue-hands even…?

Sorrel smirked. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

I readied to run.


Chapter 3

New Horizons

Sorrel’s robes brought a lot of attention, like a sun touring the grey and brown town.

Crusted and dishevelled, it remained the brightest thing around, and when I met him on the

steps outside the tavern I wondered why nobody had stolen them. I assumed he was Alneer

royalty and none would risk a threatening sidelong look, but I soon discovered the true

answer.

I ran. Sorrel followed. I sprinted, squeezed every bit of strength from my leg

muscles. Sorrel followed. He smiled and trotted along, no more troubled than if we played a

game. ‘Where’re we going?’ he said, voice flat and measured, nothing like the strained,

panting gasps I took. Bairnard’s words returned: uncanny sense for danger. Cunning.

Resigned to my defeat, I skidded to a stop and doubled over. The dumplings and

loins sloshed around my stomach and fought to return to the surface. ‘Go on,’ I spat, and

offered my hands. ‘Bring me to the blue-hands. Get your oru.’


Sorrel returned a quizzical look. Next it was replaced by exaggerated

comprehension. ‘You thought I was—I see, I see.’ He laughed. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘A thousand oru is…’ I didn’t need to finish. Despite our short time together, I

understood an aspect of Sorrel. Wrong word. I didn’t understand a thing about him; he was

as incomprehensible as the monsters, but I had quickly grown accustomed to his placid,

innocent temperament. ‘Forget about it.’ I sought a topic to fill the uncomfortable void, not

that Sorrel felt it. ‘What monster are you going after next?’

I startled. Sorrel’s countenance morphed. Darkened. He crossed his arms and started

down the road. ‘Can’t speak here,’ he murmured, brow furrowed.

Sorrel’s intensity persisted. Not wanting to interrupt, I took the two papers from my

pack and skimmed the topmost lines. Being boring business documents, they didn’t interest

me when I first stole them, but closer scrutiny told me much, much more. The blue-hands

didn’t seek to stop monster-related activities. They wanted to foster it, to fund its growth.

Who was the fake Harvester, and why try steal information about the blue-hands?

We crossed into the main road, and looking over my shoulder I found the answers

continued. How quick the pieces fell into place. The fake Harvester stood in the street, no

longer dressed as I remembered. He wore the white and turquoise coat from the Church of

Elidred, an iron pendant marking him as an agent of the church. He stood before the blue-

hands office and shouted, declaring them heretics, in his hand the documents I’d stolen.

Scattered groups watched, waited. Faces in windows did the same. A showdown: the

Church whose doctrines condemned any involvement with monsters, and the blue-hands

that, as I just learned, intended to profit from heresy.


I, too, wanted to watch, a twisted part hoping a crossbow bolt would whizz from the

window into the fake Harvester’s chest. But Sorrel showed no interest, and he didn’t slow

on my account. I threw more than one regretful looks back but followed.

The woods seemed to absorb Sorrel’s intensity to a degree sufficient for his easy

step to return. I had put the files away but had found something else to interest me. ‘Like

it?’ Sorrel asked, noticing I eyed his robe.

‘Well enough. Purple’s more my preference, though.’

‘I can see that,’ he said, and motioned to his face.

I touched my bruises and laughed, a real one. ‘That’s better.’

‘They don’t hurt?’

‘I meant your joke.’

Sorrel’s expression stayed impassive. I returned an uneasy chuckle that trailed into

the woods without echo.

We reached a point where two rivers connected, the Markus and Sharon, named

after Port New Ma’s founders. In such a secluded place, Sorrel could’ve attacked me and

running wouldn’t have been an option. But instead he crouched and nudged flat pebbles

with a branch in the shallows. He needed no prompting concerning why we walked out

there originally, and launched into speech. ‘I had planned to keep circling the island,

meeting monsters, learning, writing about them, you know how it goes.’

‘I don’t, but go on.’

‘Thing is, I’ve been deceiving myself. There’s nothing here that’ll end my

pilgrimage, and—’

Pilgrimage?


‘—if I go to the mainland, sure, there’ll be a bunch more monsters to investigate,

but I’d have more trouble with keeping myself focused. Basically, I thought this life of

solitude would be better, since I didn’t think I could achieve anything big over there. But

now…’ Without looking back, Sorrel handed me a different flyer.

‘Death of the Undying: a competition to end all competitions,’ I read. ‘Part cross-

continent marathon, part hunting extravaganza, part dare-defying game. All amazing

beyond comprehension.’

Sorrel flicked a pebble and snatched at it when it crested the water. ‘I heard people

were confused when a mountain stood up, only to discover it was a genuine Undying from

the time of Elidred. It was last spotted near the tri-border.’

‘You’re thinking of joining?’

‘I am.’

‘You realize what the competition entails?’

‘I do.’

‘Death of the Undying means to win you’ll have to—’

‘I won’t.’ Sorrel peered over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to save it. I was

hoping…you’d help.’

Barely a day acquainted and he was this free with his intentions. Stealing his secrets

may have been as simple as asking. Yet I didn’t. Mainland. More monsters. More secrets to

learn, I thought, and decided a journey would be more enjoyable than transcribing his

secrets verbatim into my journal. ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I said.


Sorrel shot to his feet and brightened considerably, as if a child simply needing an

adult to confirm his idea held merit. ‘It’s good to have a friend,’ he said, and patted my

head. I swatted his hand away, to which he frowned. ‘That’s not how friends—?’

‘No.’

‘Duly noted.’

We sat by the river and I asked if Sorrel had a plan. Oh boy did he.

#

Sorrel stared into the forest after explaining his plan. He put his fingers into his mouth and

cast a sharply whistled tune. Hand-sized creatures, technically monsters, flew from the trees

on wiry wings coloured and segmented like stained glass. Sorrel gave them sugar cubes

from his pockets. He tossed some to me and said I should do the same. The monsters

flittered about with uncannily human faces, their smiles almost convincing. They took our

sugar cubes and departed giggling into the forest. Sorrel said, quite confidently, monsters

weren’t so bad if you treated them well.

I knew firsthand examples that made me doubt his words, but my opportunity to

express them was dashed.

A woman arose, like an incredibly detailed and ornate fountainhead, from where the

two rivers met, not gasping for breath but rising as if on an invisible dais. It was like

Markus and Sharon gave birth. Her skin reflected the light and at the right angle she

appeared translucent. Sorrel watched like water-spirit women materialized daily. I,

however, did not remain so composed.

She arched her back and hair flung thus, and colours like sapphires, opals, and topaz

dazzled in the air above her head. Some reached the shoreline but when I dashed to pocket


them, they evaporated in my fingers. Sorrel, meanwhile, greeted her with a wave. I noticed

her state of undress. And I didn’t blush; the day was warm. Before Sorrel could strike up a

conversation, I removed spare clothes from my pack and offered them to her, averting my

eyes. Mostly. But she did not take them. Water swirled and engulfed her in a sky-blue

dress. ‘I am of the world’s blood,’ she said, ‘and have come to give a message to the

legendary magic user of Port Mare.’

‘Wrong river,’ Sorrel replied, toying with the fingernail-length fish swimming

around his feet. ‘Easy mistake to make. Port Mare’s on the east side.’

The water spirit went still. Could’ve been an ice sculpture. ‘Thank you, and

farewell.’ She began to evaporate.

‘And Port Mare’s magic user died two moons ago, slayed by her Hemomancer

lover.’

She re-materialized. ‘Then, another must find and protect the panacea. Do you

know of any who could be called worthy?’

Panacea? Sorrel and I shared a look. ‘There might be some ring-fighters doing

exhibition matches north of here,’ said Sorrel.

Evaporated. ‘Thank you—’

I found my tongue. ‘They’re not the sort of “worthy” you’re thinking.’

Re-materialized. Had the water turned a tinge redder? Darker? Anyway, who knew

water spirits could afford to be so fickle? Turns out they can’t. She told us her power waned

and she could not retain form for much longer. Couldn’t, or didn’t want to? Sorrel offered

to find her a bucket, his reasoning being so she could materialize away from rivers, but she


looked displeased and evaporated in her entirety. Sorrel didn’t look perturbed. ‘See, now, if

that’s not a good omen and call to adventure, then I don’t know what is,’ he said.

‘Ever read from Muro’s library?’

‘Do I look like a heretic?’

‘Well, it was mandatory where I come from.’ Then, again in a flash, Sorrel’s

countenance fell dark. ‘I’d rather not bother with refusing the call. Maybe I’ll skip it. This

hero business might be more tedious than I thought.’

‘You’re a hero now?’

‘Me, you, who knows who else? Let’s go.’ He launched down the path we’d come,

not at a run but fast enough to where I needed to put in an effort.

Sorrel slapped his forehead. ‘A bathtub! We could’ve lashed it between oxen and

brought her along. Ah well, next time.’

Next time? I wanted to laugh, but I shook my head and weighed Sorrel’s

assumptions alongside the encounter with the water spirit. I shook my head harder. Right.

Good omen.

#

There was a significant library at the academy I used to attend. More than anything I miss

the smell, the subtlety of every sound, the sense that words from the long-dead lay on thin

sheets and could be accessed at my leisure. It made me feel like a lord going wine tasting.

Sometimes between classes I would wander in, take out random books, read an

excerpt from each, and then replace them on the shelves and leave. Partly I sought to absorb

random facts, a portion of my youthful mind thinking if I could recite them people would

like and think me smart, but another, a darker, domineering part, sought to impress my will


upon those who came before me, those who dedicated long days of their lives writing the

books, those that copied the pages or operated printing presses. I held their knowledge,

their work and words. I decided what was read. I could’ve burned a page and those

moments they spent creating it would be gone, and I alone would know my hands

committed the act. No bloodshed. No wails. My own private murder. I held power, no

matter how insignificant.

Since then I’ve thought about this habit many times, and at each instance I rejoice

that I never crossed from thinking foolish thoughts to becoming a full. Priests from the

Church of Elidred often preach about the event horizon and how horizons present

themselves to us every day. Some are cruel illusions, and others lead to glory. Every

horizon Elidred crossed was of the latter variety. But I’ve always wondered: did he find

glory—his crossing heralding it so—or did the Church decide his feet were sacred and

every path taken must have been the correct one.

Sorrel loved speaking heresy, though he never appeared to find the words sick or

sour. I used to think it was because he’d never been taught by the Church, but these days I

lack conviction such a theory. He often spiced—or, to some, poisoned—a regular

conversations, bringing them to a loud silence, by speaking heretical words like they were

average thoughts. On one such occasion, on the topic of event horizons, he said Muro

crossed the incorrect horizons more often than correct ones, and rather than condemn him it

brought its own type of salvation; but instead of cutting his losses, he stoked the flames of

heresy. ‘Muro was Elidred’s brother, and they both walked broken paths and came out

better for it.’


Allow me a moment of heresy to thank the faces of the many-Gods, Elidred, and

every other deity, that no agents of the Church sat in the booth adjacent.

Back in New Port Ma, our first objective obstacle to winning the Death of the

Undying competition was reaching the sign-up point. Our little island of Doba was not the

site. We needed a ship, and the only two docked belonged to the Church of Elidred—which

lacked appeal after learning the true identity of the fake Harvester; one of us wouldn’t have

reached the mainland—and the Hemomancers. In the latter’s vessel at least lay some

flexibility. But not for freeloaders.

Here, witness power. We needed money, and Sorrel’s robes shone like wealth made

manifest. Here, witness the event horizon. I told—no, I commanded Sorrel to sell his robe.

Briefly, my body became the conduit for an echo of Bairnard’s tone I’d heard hundreds of

times. Sorrel hesitated, and it was not difficult to understand why. Just as my dog anchored

me to the chance at a life with consistent happiness, his robe anchored him to days gone by

and a place where those same days could be repeated.

Which horizon did I cross, and of what sort? In the physical sense, I needed to reach

the mainland: the competition, the blue-hands’ bounty, and my task for Bairnard. What of

my soul? I felt it shift and warp deep inside my chest when Sorrel gingerly handed his robe,

folded perfectly despite the tarnishes, across the counter and received a bulging purse.

Damnation or salvation?

In the afternoon we bought provisions, paid the Hemomancers for passage, and

scaled the gangway onto the vessel by sunset’s dying warmth. The ship’s long shadow

bathed the rim of Port New Ma in cold gloom until forced away by oar and crimson sails.

Act 1: Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3

death of the undying by joshua poynton [x] words€¦ · poynton ± undying ± 2 i took a moment....

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