CHAPTER I

  THERE ARE NO MONSTERS IN THE MYSTS

  2 Paragon, Year 23 of Peace

  Leaguetide Marker XCVII, Eastbound Divine Channel to Arx Boreas

  Tonje gazed upon herself in the small mirror of the bargehold. The mysts did not intrude into this space and she was thankful for the reprieve as her hands braided the final device of her beard. The light blue bristles were thick and in need of a wash but plied easily to her fingers as she set three rings of weather blue-green copper into the root of the braid and tightly wove the motif with the utmost care, alternating each plait inwards. As she ran out of hair to entwine, Tonje bound the trio with a small iron clasp that clicked gently as she pressed. Four designs built out from her chin, each setting the foundation for the next as they formed a mural on her face.

  Her fingers traced downward from the roots of her beard, securing each twist and weave and knot as she whispered the pattern’s meaning with a smile.

  “Creativity

  Fidelity

  Honesty

  Compassion”

  These were the values passed down by her mother and her mother’s mother; her face a shrine to the legacy of the Honningvhis line–Tonje proudly vaunted these devices. While other Cloudfolk understood her values with a simple glance, those outside her own ancestry, especially Sternfolk, required a less direct approach. She had to verbally explain her values, but of course you couldn’t just introduce yourself with what mattered most to you. According to her Second, a Sternfolk lad named Neville, it was ‘presumptuous and just plain impolite.’ Tonje had found it was a slow game, you had to build a relationship through things that did not matter until finally you could reveal your true self, sometimes requiring years of consistent effort. This was far more inefficient than simply putting your values on display but was, eventually, very worthwhile. Tonje deeply loved all those in her life she had told her values.

  A bracing snore disturbed her peace and she started in surprise. Anchored to nearly every unoccupied surface in the bargehold were hammocks. Within, the night shift held fitful slumber–there were few who could claim restful sleep on a canal voyage. In tidy piles across the cabin were the crew’s effects and provisions–supplies that ran thin as they neared their final destination.

  There was a knock on the bargehold door as Neville’s dulcet voice sounded through the grey-white fibrula of the door.

  “Skipper, we are coming up on a leaguetide marker soon. You want the helm?”

  Tonje stood as she responded, wincing as the stiffness of sleeping in a hammock caught up with her.

  “Aye, I'll be out in a few beats.”

  Her vest felt stiff as she pulled the linen over her shoulders, she pitied the noses of the dockworkers they were to encounter at their final destination–the collected grime of twenty days without bath left a rather malodorous taste in even Tonje’s acclimated nose.

  Tonje pulled the bargehold door open and walked out onto the deck of The Whale. As she strode to the helm, the mysts rushed to greet her, thick greys and whites that formed a murky nebula. The familiar damp felt chill on her skin and wet in her lungs, digging beneath cloth and permeating into bone.

  Her grandmother had told her the mysts of Arkhos were not like the mists or clouds of their ancestral home–they did not retreat from the light of day even at its apex. She had warned that as strangers to this Realm they must take extra care to not become lost in the mysts, that they held secrets and horrors in equal measure and would swallow those who became lost. Worse still, she had cautioned, were those who had become forfeit in the mire and succumbed to its vile nature, becoming the very monsters who would lure the unwary to their demise.

  The smooth fibrula of the helm soon found her hands as Tonje fondly recalled listening to such tales. The mysts were indeed strange, but she had encountered no monsters within them. Sure, the occasional bandit or hungry beast, but no monsters enticing her into the murk. She had made countless trips between the Arx and had not once lost her way. She vividly recalled the disquiet of her grandmother and her warnings never ceased to echo in her bones. Tonje smiled, she did not fear the mysts, but her grandmother had made damn well sure she respected them.

  Above, high in the summer sky, was Usil, the Arkhosian sun, bestowing occasional allowances of summer warmth as its radiant splendor showered against the murky nebula. The mysts had fully returned two weeks prior in the midst of Harbinger–mere days before they had departed the Caldera, signaling the true beginning of the Arkhosian summer. Her grandmother often called Usil harsh compared to the sun of her home, but Tonje was born on Arkhos and had never seen the sun of another realm. Even in the light day, she was unable to see far into the mysts–it became impermeable to sight just past the prow.

  Tonje's shook herself free of the lazy spirals in the air, it would not do to become mesmerized by the myst–staring too deeply or too long had driven many a sailor mad. Instead her gaze was cast across The Whale. It was an ungainly construction, more raft than boat. At almost ten paces wide and almost twice that in length, the Whale was built solely to maximize the amount of cargo she could carry. The vessel had no mast nor sail, she was carried solely by the flowing waters of the canal. The Whale was held aloft by a pair of narrow pontoons along her length and rested low in the canal, their cargo manifest was weighty. Tonje often enjoyed sitting on the deck and resting her arm just over the railing of the barge’s edge, her fingertips would barely kiss the water’s surface.

  The grey-white fibrula hull of Whale had been through many traumas; dents, bruises, cuts, scrapes, and even burns scarred the barge. In an ill fated evening of merriment, Tonje had partaken a helping of Grandmother’s Tea, but underestimated just how potent the hallucinogen was when combined with the inebriation of alcohol. She winced at the sight of the still blackened patch near the helm; the Guild never bothered to paint the barges nor replace anything that still worked in function.

  It was a sad reminder; though she belonged to The Whale, she could never claim the vessel as her own. Officially, the barge belonged to the Guild of Trade and–as she was no galleon of the great seas–received no true title. To them, she was just one barge amongst a large flotilla of identical craft. But she was Tonje’s whale.

  While she had never seen one of the majestic leviathans, nor even been to sea, Tonje had given unsanctioned title to this floating collection of fibrula plank. As a youngling, Tonje had excitedly received a bound book from her mother that detailed many of the facts and behaviors and first-hand accounts of one Archivist Rivkah, whose love for the animals built even more admiration in a young Tonje. Her mother must have paid a small fortune for such a collection, but The Collected Journals of Archivist Rivkah Regarding the Arkhosian Whale was one of the few belongings that accompanied her every journey. She longed to see a pod breach together and serenade the sky with whalesong. Tonje let the joy of her childhood’s wonder wash over her as a warm smile grew under her beard and Usil’s glow bathed her face.

  The Whale had departed nineteen dawns ago from the Caldera, a guild tradeport that was a critical junction of goods between East, West, and North. She currently played host to many stacks of crates bearing the mark of the Consignatory Guild, a dozen or so casks of alcohol, and a handful of mixed use pallets. Each bundle was tightly secured by thick hempen netting into stacks a good head higher than the tallest of her crew–three heads taller than Tonje. The hull of The Whale was a tidy grid of these securings with tight but manageable walkways between. It was in these tight spaces that she spotted the crew lounging about.

  She did not begrudge the layabouts, most had completed their tasks and were resting or keeping their attentions away from the mysts. Most were Sternfolk, natives of Arkhos whose ancestors had survived the Realm’s destruction during the Childrens’ War. Most Sternfolk were all deserving of the name Tonje thought; far too serious, self absorbed, and had a constant aura of dourness about them. Most of her crew had irreverent and shameful barren chins, absent entirely their mother’s legacy. The handful of other women aboard were all Sternfolk and had shunned Tonje’s offer of alchemical supplement to help promote the growth of facial hair. Tonje was thankful Cloudfolk had no such differences between the sexes, indeed Tonje’s had outgrown her father’s by a full two hands. A young Sternfolk lad named Martin approached the helm, he was the only one of her crew to accept her offer of help in flourishing a nascent beard–she would yet make his ancestors proud.

  As she saw his face, Tonje hissed at him.

  “MARTIN! WHAT HAVE YA DONE?”

  The lad took a step back, replying cautiously.

  “What do you mean Skip?

  “YA FACE. WHAT DID YA DO TO YA FACE?”

  “I just combed it straight Skip.”

  “NO NO NO! I CAN’T STAND TO LOOK AT YA! GET!”

  Neville, seated just beside the helm, chuckled as Martin scurried away.

  Tonje wheeled on him with fury.

  “WHAT? HE DESECRATED HIS FACE! LOOK HOW GRUNGY HE IS! HIS ANCESTORS WEEP!”

  Neville looked up from his game and gave her a quizzical look.

  “Skip, how many times we have to do this? Martin just wants to look pretty for Mortimer, you scared him half to the heavens above.”

  She scoffed in response.

  “PRETTY? PRETTY GRUBBY I SAY!”

  Neville’s eyes rolled.

  “His ancestors are weeping. Really? Over some scruff?”

  The pair rehashed an old argument they had fought several times previous.

  Neville explained it was taboo to rely on the deeds of your forebears, that Sternfolk strived to live off their own accomplishments and merits. Tonje argued that was stupid. The debate flowed as predictably as the canals–a straight and direct line from point to point. Tonje impugned that Sternfolk filled their ancestral void with colorful garments and fanciful trinkets; chastising it as unnatural and artificial. Neville fired back that she couldn’t appreciate aesthetics if it rose out of the canal and bit her in the ass. The finale began with the loosing of direct insults as Tonje grew amber in her cheeks while Neville grew red across his face.

  “MATERIALISTIC FOOL!”

  “NOSTALGIC PEACOCK!”

  There was a break in the air as Tonje raised an eyebrow at her Second and spoke without yelling.

  “Peacock?”

  “Aye Skip, peacock.”

  The pair raucously belted out laughter into the mysts.

  As The Whale settled into the myst and glided along the canal, a Leaguetide Marker punched through the mire. Tonje guessed the obelisk was near four paces tall; its red brick dominated the surroundings. Near the apex, a set of numerals were illuminated by a shining blue-violet light–XCVII.

  Neville looked up from his cards as they flowed past and simply asked.

  “Last one before Arx Boreas yeah?”

  “Nay, one pillar more and we be home free; about a tide and a half to the Arx. Didn’t I beat this route into ya skull before we left?”

  “Musta filled my ears with cotton. Any plans for the capital?”

  She groaned in response, which turned to cheeky.

  “A proper bed to start, I ain't rested right proper in a near month. And what of ya, what’ll ya spend ya pittance on this time? Certainly not Stern Hamak again?”

  He smiled with a sloppy grin.

  “I recall a clean sweep of the table, your coin included.”

  More seriously, Tonje replied.

  “Mayhaps, but ya nearly swept a blade right into the ribs, as a treat.”

  Neville shrugged with response.

  “Nah, just a happy little misunderstanding.”

  The Sternfolk lad diverted with happy whistling and a smile as Tonje looked him over. His face was pale and unblemished; his very rough beginnings of a beard sprouted in thick brown curls that matched the mop atop his head. Even seated on the deck, Neville’s face was nearly level with Tonje’s; he was tall and sturdily built. Neville was a young adult by Sternfolk standards at twenty five summers with enough world-sense to be a parent. By Tonje’s measure, though, Neville was still a child; Cloudfolk were not adults until they lived thirty winters. Tonje herself was still something of a young adult at forty three, but Cloudfolk lived near twice as long as most Sternfolk.

  Martin lurked out from behind a stack of crates, staring cautiously in her direction. Tonje would never forgive his affront, but it seemed likely to her she would forget it. She shook her head in disappointment, but offered no commentary as he pulled a seat next to Neville. Several others of the crew ringed to watch as well, confident that Neville would finally lose this game.

  Before him was a prepared lattice of hamaqqa cards, lain face down for a solitary game of Magic Square. It was a game of chance and some small strategy, though Neville claimed he had never lost. Tonje had never seen him lose, but she had also never caught him cheating, he was simply the luckiest idiot she had ever had the fortune of meeting. The memory of their last outing in the capital some weeks prior took hold of her faculties.

  It had been a night out on the Arx and the pairs’ fate had been bound for the Domi House of Falling Cards. Their poison of choice; Fool’s Folly, more gently called Stern Hamak. Neville sat in the Fire seat–Tonje sat allied in Stone–with three strangers who had the genuine misfortune of the sailor’s company. While the Domi cultists had found Neville’s string of victory trick-after-trick and round-after-round most amusing, his tablemates–including his allied seats–were miffed; Tonje herself was rightly steamed.

  A particularly feisty Ardorfolk in the opposed Air seat took particular offense at her now empty coin purse and had stormed away, Tonje had thought nothing of it at the moment. A full game later and Neville was weighed down by his winnings while Tonje had lightened her burdens with a range of inebriants as they had exited the Domi House.

  In a suppression of her disappointment and anger, Tonje had become tipsy and sulked in her steps, verily missing the ambush that lay in wait. The Ardorfolk--bearing the dress of a mercenary--had rounded on the pair from behind a street corner and shoved a long knife towards her Second. In a lucky stumble, Neville had fallen and embedded the blade into his sack of winnings, wrenching the knife free in his fall. Fortuitously, his fall had tripped the merc; she planted face first into the street pavement. Neville and Tonje had simply glanced at one another before bolting away into the anonymity of the night.

  It had neither been his first nor last display of dumb luck, Tonje recalled a particular incident where he had singularly gotten the drop on canal pirates who had taken The Whale and, by some act of providence, were removed in turn by increasingly unlikely happenstance; a wayward apple causing a fall into the water here, a precarious crate crashing at just the right time there, and even a resonant lamp thudding into the pirate’s midst in a blinding flash of magical light. Neville had dove into those remaining at the opening and--by some miracle of the Numen--emerged unscathed. He had simply shrugged away the display and avoided speaking of the incident to this day.

  A cheer erupted beside her and Tonje was broken away from her memories; Neville had successfully placed each card of the four Minor Winds. The mysts seemed to swirl round him in congratulatory spirals.

  Martin protested incredulously.

  “That ain’t possible, you done won every game since we left Caldera. How is you cheatin’?”

  He reassured the group, gently tugging on Martin’s beard like an overbearing uncle as he addressed the assembly.

  “Nary a sleeve on me Martin me old chap, how coulds me hide a card up me skin? Is alright lads, ain’t your faults you don’t have no thoughts amongst ya. Lucky for you lot, the Skip and I got thoughts aplenty to keep you layabouts gainfully employed. Now back at it you scallywags, Skip wants the deck mopped shiny for when we get to dock."

  Tonje chimed in.

  “That’s right ya bunch of scamps. MOVE WITH PURPOSE!”

  Neville and Tonje offered each other a knowing grin as the crew came to life. There was a somberness in Tonje’s eyes, Neville connected with them on a level Tonje could never hope to reach, not for a lack of trying. She was, at the end of the day, a stranger to this realm.

  Tonje shifted her focus back to the helm; The Whale was soon to encounter a Spur. It was nothing that would shake crew or cargo free, so long as she kept the helm through the rapids. The Divine Channels, most just called them the canals, spanned huge distances across Arkhos. Staged at regular intervals, the Spurs–through some blessing or magic–pushed the waters with new purpose. She needed only keep The Whale situated across the immediate pitch, the waters would settle soon after. Tonje kept her eyes affixed on the edges of the canal, resolute in keeping distance from the edges.

  She tensed her legs and waited for the rush, this was her favorite part of being a barge skipper. Through the vibrations of the helm, she felt The Whale shudder as they breached the Spur. There was no sign nor marker that designated the rapids, Skippers internalized the disturbances on each route. Most Spurs, though, lay close to the leaguetide markers.

  Tonje consoled the vessel as The Whale groaned.

  “Easy there old girl, easy.”

  The Whale jerked forward as its bow caught the Spur, heaving the vessel forward as water rushed them forward. Tonje turned slightly–she could feel they were slightly misaligned–and they were through, now moving double the pace.

  She addressed her Second.

  “Keep an eye on the helm, yeah?”

  Neville flashed her his thumb and pinky--a gesture of affirmation–as he focused on yet another round of Magic Square.

  Tonje made her way to the prow of the barge, water gently roared against in the late morning air. Positioned at the bow was their guide through the mysts, Humility; fiddling a sheathed blade at his side with the dual thumbs of his hand–he had four in total. Wearing the classic greyed brown and green diamond patchwork cloak of the Myst Hunter’s Guild, Humility looked the part; fearsome and mysterious in equal measure. Humility rarely left his post, choosing to stand vigilant against the mysts. He had remained awake since departing the Caldera nineteen days past, alchemy sustained him in the absence of sleep.

  Humility was of the Lucidfolk ancestry, another tribe not native to the Realm of Arkhos. He was the first Lucidfolk Tonje had met and she found him quite intriguing. Like others of his ancestry, Tonje had seen Humility change the color of their skin, sometimes to that of their surroundings, others as a seeming emotional response.

  Half his face was now obscured by a rigid mask while above his nose slits, the skin echoed the diamond pattern of his cloak, interrupted only by his paired eyes. Surrounding double crescented pupils–characteristic of his ancestry–were dull grey orbs; each swirled and changed much like the mysts themselves; Tonje knew this was the true mark of being a Myst Hunter.

  The Myst Hunters were invaluable to the barge canals, they could see through the mysts. Tonje had heard dark tales of the group; the Hunters had made dark bargains with myst monsters and carried their taint with each step, that each Hunter was destined to become a wraith in the mysts. Even if the stories were true, Tonje didn’t mind; Humility's appreciation of her puns more than made up for any potential darkness or blight.

  Tonje stared straight ahead as she shouldered next to Humility.

  “Mist you at breakfast.”

  Tonje waited for a reaction with a cheap grin under her beard; she was soon rewarded by Humility’s gruff and muffled lilting timbre.

  “What, can I do for you...Skipper?”

  “Nothing, simply wished to give ya your daily pun.”

  Neither of the pair turned to look upon one another, instead, they gazed across the span. While Tonje could make out only a narrow radius surrounding The Whale, she focused her attentions on the canal and its waters. The canal was a triangular wedge constructed of eerily similar hexagonal stones with a point at its bottom, water filled it save all but a hand and a half. The waters were pristinely clear; Tonje knew they never clouded nor froze and never ceased nor ran empty. She had never seen sediment nor debris along the canal bed, Tonje supposed the waters must run far too fast for such collections to form.

  Tonje addressed Humility quizzically.

  “Who ya think built the canals? Me gran thought it were the old Immortals.”

  “We have had this conversation before.”

  “That we have. Oh, but I do have new material for ya. What did one eye say to the other?”

  She knew he would not respond.

  “Just between us, something smells.”

  Tonje heard one of the crew titter not far behind her.

  “Say Humility, are you a thief?”

  In objection, the Myst Hunter responded.

  “No, why? Has something gone…missing?”

  Tonje wore an enormous grin as she landed the punch.

  “Because ya always take things. Literally.”

  “I do not take things, who speaks such…lies?”

  “Just a joke, we would be lost without ya.”

  Tonje let her focus drift back to her surroundings. The very top edge of the canal was mostly flush with the earth surrounding it and was cut from the same hexagonal stone that made up its entirety. Out of the earth grew grasses taller than Tonje, stemming out in many directions from a single crown; each blade the widest at its midsection before tapering back to a sharp point at its tip. Tonje had been through this range many a time, her favorite period of the year to make the run was in very early winter. The prettiest small white flowers would erupt along the grass blades in defiance against the withering of the season; Tonje found some unexplained comfort in the act.

  She spoke again, letting the question float in the myst.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “How long ya been doing this Humility?”

  “We have voyaged by canal for…nineteen sunsets and just over two tides. I am…surprised you have not been keeping track.”

  She frowned, slightly.

  “Naw, I mean runnin’ with the barges and the Myst Hunters.”

  “That was your humor, yes? Three years and…four months since I joined the Guild. I have..guided a near dozen canal runs.”

  Tonje stood aghast for a brief moment before blinking it off, the mysts must have been having her hear things.

  “Ten years next Empress. Ya like out here, on the canals?”

  “The canals are neither…here nor there. A reprieve from the Arx…is most pleasant.

  An uncomfortable silence filled the air between them until Humility exclaimed in alarm.

  "Skipper, there is something in the water. I see water pooling over the canal."

  Tonje responded as she glared into the obscuring mysts with futility.

  "How long? Can we maneuver round?"

  "Some three, maybe four hundred paces out. It fully obstructs the canal and its waters."

  Guessing they had maybe three dozen heartbeats, Tonje turned and trumpeted her voice across the barge without further delay.

  "UP LADS UP!

  WE NEED TO SLOW!

  MAKE READY!

  MARTIN, SOUND THE BELL!

  NEVILLE, YOU HAVE THE HELM"

  The barge crew sprung to life at her command as an iron bell clanged, uncovering long poles to scrape against the canal and anchors to fully stop The Whale, when the time was right. Bleary eyed night crew stumbled into daylight and fell into line, defaulting to the rote memory stored in their hands.

  "SCRAPE!"

  The crew plunged the poles into the canal, angling out and to the side until they made contact with the hexagonal stone. The barge began to jerk and slow as the crew fought to keep contact.

  Humility urgently whispered to the skipper.

  "Faster."

  Tonje cursed as she shouted again to the crew.

  "NINE FUCKS, ANCHORS UP LADS!

  BRACE!

  AND…THROW!"

  As anchors flew into the grasses, the crew leapt for any desperate handhold. Humility dove to the deck and covered his head as Tonje locked herself against the railing near the prow of the barge.

  It was eerily tense as all waited for the rattling to stop.

  The chains pulled taught and the anchors found purchase in the grass and earth and stone.

  The Whale first jolted hard to port, but a loud breaking of iron sounded over the water and they began to gain speed once more.

  Then, the Whale lurched hard to starboard, spinning as the barge arced towards the edge of the canal. Tonje heard a cry and saw someone catapulted overhead with a petrified scream. The prow bounced up and over the canal’s stone edge in an ugly screech, but she did not stop there; The Whale continued up and over, fully grounding herself in the grass in a symphony of cracks and moans.

  Blessedly, the barge finally came to a stop. Tonje and Humility had been bounced around and she had felt something twist in her leg. Tonje rose to a knee quickly, wincing at the effort as she searched the waters for any of her crew. She found only one, but the sailor seemed somehow perched atop the waters. No, not water; he was on ice.

  She remarked to Humility incredulously.

  “Tell me I am not seeing the canal frozen solid.”

  He rose in a grumble and responded candidly.

  “I cannot, it appears as ice to me. I do not like this Skipper”

  “Me neither.”

  Tonje frowned in confusion; it was a summer day, not that the canals froze in winter anyway.

  She could not tell who was on the ice, but yelled out to them.

  “Stay put, who knows how bad ya graceful flight injured ya!”

  The crewman offered a knowing salute of affirmation as they struggled to find purchase on the unsteady ice. She looked around to the rest of her crew, laying eyes on each in turn until all were accounted for. They seemed shaken and bruised, but all alive.

  The Whale seemed sturdy enough, the landing had not broken her. Being grounded outside the canal was not a good situation, but it was far better than hitting that ice at speed.

  Martin limped over and offered her a hand.

  "Skip, what do you..."

  His question lingered amid a gentle pop. Tonje was coated with a warm spray. Martin's head was gone, his eyes and nose only an afterimage of iridescent color.

  The rest of Martin collapsed, his knees buckling first as his torso slid and fell the opposite direction. Tonje froze and recoiled, her hand finding bits of Martin now coating her beard. Martin’s corpse continued to spew lifeblood, the scarlet pooled between the fibrula planks and began to run down the deck.

  A second pop, playful in any other context, echoed across the running water. It was followed by a second meaty thump. Another of the crew fell as a chorus rose.

  “BY THE NINE!

  NUMEN SAVE ME!

  OH FUCK!”

  Tonje picked pieces of Martin from her beard, her hands and fingers shook in abject horror as she found warm bits and discarded each without a glance.

  POP. Thump. SCREAM.

  Neville's baritone voice trumpeted to the crew.

  "TO ARMS!

  TO ARMS ALL!"

  POP. Thump. SCREAM.

  Tonje scrambled into the cover of a loosened stack of crates. The netting was ripped and torn crates threatened to tear free, precariously leaning outwards; she braced gingerly with careful breaths as she more frantically raked the grisly reminders from her face.

  POP. Thump. SCREAM.

  POP. Thump. SCREAM.

  Tonje fought back a hurl of wretch as she unearthed a tooth. Fixating on the small mass of white somehow focused her; she projected her voice across The Whale.

  "KEEP LOW AND STAY COVERED!"

  It grew deathly quiet on deck, the crew followed her lead. Tonje drew a spiked axe from her hip into a familiar grip; she savored the thought of cracking open their assailants. Humility had drawn a wicked blade and held it low; it curved away from the spine and broadened from the middle into a wide head, like an axe and sword had an awful child.

  Tonje nervously whispered to Humility.

  “What can you see? Are they trying to climb up The Whale”

  He responded with a hint of frustration.

  “Grass. Myst. Ice. I do not see anyone out there.”

  Humility continued in a confident wrath, she had never heard his anger before.

  “But I will find them. And I will end them.”

  A bank of particularly thick myst washed over the prow, obscuring it and the guide entirely. Heartbeats later, the mysts vanished and so too had Humility.

  She offered a whispered prayer for Humility.

  “Empress, guide his blade and lead him from the path of harm.”

  Then offered one for herself.

  “Empress, fill me with your courage so that I may face what I must.

  Bulwark, lift up my devotion so that my faith never wavers.

  Give me this, and my remembrances are yours.”

  Something changed in the air, but Tonje felt an empty dread rather than hopeful comfort.

  Tonje’s ears popped. There was a sudden stinging pain behind the bridge of her nose; she only felt stings such as this as heralds to massive storms. She expected the crew had barely noticed; Cloudfolk were more sensitive to such things. A light began to glow in the east, and Tonje looked once more upon the ice. Malevolent black light streamed forth as the ice cracked and groaned and moved in a slow drift towards the Whale.

  No, the ice wasn’t moving, it was growing towards the Whale. Black light ominously flared in slow cadence as a crackling filled the air, there was no sign of her ice-wrecked crew. She offered him a quick prayer as grasses near to the berg grew stiff with rime, seemingly freezing the plants whole. It would not be long before the ice was upon them. Something tapped her shoulder and she jumped, ready to strike with her axe.

  Neville’s comforting voice whispered directly into her ear.

  "I ain’t seen them bandits Skip, but they seem to have eyes for us lot."

  He motioned towards the glowing ice with an unintentional shiver, his breath forming into a vaporous plume.

  "Well that is right fucked. What’s the bid Skip?"

  Similar fogs issued from the crew, but Tonje did not feel cold; it was more of a brisk chill on the summer day.

  Neville chittered in an icy tremble.

  “Ain’t you cold Skip? Is freezing.”

  “Nay, but me skin’s thicker. And me beard keeps out the cold.”

  One of the crew had pulled free a flint and steel, fighting desperately against the cold for a small pile of tinder to take. Tonje watched as spark after spark poured but no fire came.

  She picked at her beard with a practiced anxiety.

  "Spose we could stay put. Hunker down in the bargehold, try and get a fire to take or hope Humility ends this before we all die.”

  Tonje pointed out the attempts to Neville as she paused for a moment, the cold threat of winter’s breath bit deep into Neville’s reddening skin.

  “Or we follow Humility into the grasses and try your luck there. Afraid mine has run dry."

  Neville’s face soured in response.

  "Where though Skip? Did the Myst Hunter see the bandits?"

  “Nay, but maybe we can cause enough ruckus to give Humility an opening.”

  Neville grimly responded with a look of contained vitriol.

  “N’ how many of us die to make that happen?”

  She looked back directly into his eyes as he shivered violently.

  “Choose boy, the crew’ll listen to ya. Either maybe freeze here or probably die there.”

  He answered with a groan.

  "Okay, grass it is. What’s our heading?"

  Tonje thought for a moment; ice approached from the east, north was the medial between the parallel canals, most pirates had chosen to avoid holing up on the section. South made sense. But was the ice pinning them between or pushing them away? The killing magic made it seem the intent was not simply driving the crew off but fully removing them.

  “South and west, I bet they are trying to squish us dry. We head southwest and, Nine-be-willing, we find the vermin and give them our wrath.”

  Neville flashed an affirmational pinky-thumb and began pacing the deck, loudly bolting out to the crew.

  "ALRIGHT LADS, OUR BALLS ARE IN A LATHE! WE STAY PUT AND THAT FUCKING ICE..."

  Tonje watched Neville deftly step to the side. Where his head had been moments prior, the mysts exploded violently outwards. Was that really luck?

  Neville continued confidently, now behind a stack of crates.

  "AS I WAS SAYING. THAT FUCKING ICE ISN’T TURNING ME INTO NO ICICLE. THESE DAMNED COWARDS DON’T EVEN HAVE THE GUTS TO COME ABOARD. I SAY WE GO SHOW ‘EM OUR AXES."

  He pointed emphatically out into the southern mysty grasses, gesturing obscenely with his axe.

  "LET’S GO KILL THE FUCKERS! FOLLOW ME BOYYOS"

  Neville screamed out in a hoot and threw himself off The Whale, his war cry clearly heard by all.

  Tonje pressed her hand firmly against The Whale.

  "Thanks old girl. You did the best you could. I gotta go now. Be back soon."

  As she followed, she shouted out.

  “YOU HEARD HIM, ABANDON SHIP!”

  Neville was terrified.

  His immediate departure and landing into the grasses hid his shaking arms; screaming and hooting earlier had helped. His eyes scanned the grasses, hoping to see anything of their assailants; there was only myst and verdant blade.

  As he desperately searched, a tingle in the small of his back radiated and time slowed for a moment as he caught a glimpse of one of his futures. In it, he no longer remained in possession of his head. And Neville was very attached to his head. He dipped down, just far enough to prevent that future. There was a puff of myst just above his head. That made three near misses on Neville now; the first had been shortly after poor Martin’s demise.

  There was no movement that pulled his gaze, no sound that keyed his attentions to the attackers.

  Neville did not do magic, he was no chosen of the Numen; as far as he knew, he was just Lucky. He did not understand how it worked, simply that he had not yet died thanks to the portents of death and injury. He also knew that his Luck needed remain a secret, even from the Skipper. He knew not why, just that each time he contemplated revelation an awful feeling of dread overwhelmed him.

  His Luck had gotten him this far and maybe, just maybe, it would carry him through this trial.

  A hand gripped his shoulder from behind and he heard Skipper’s voice.

  “See anything lad?”

  “Nay, curse these mysts nine times over. And damn the grass too. And the mud.”

  Neville sloshed angrily in the muddied earth, the canal waters continued to spill over the canal walls. As the crew disembarked, Neville twice more felt a death and ducked away as his fellows sloshed into the grassy mess; he seemed to hold the attackers’ attentions, for now.

  Skipper intently watched each of his Lucky preventions, but offered no commentary beyond the withheld judgement that buoyed in her eyes.

  Neville offered a simple statement in exasperation.

  “Me thinks they can see through the mysts Skip.”

  She nodded in assent and addressed the disembarked crew in a forceful command.

  “Alright, follow me and Neville, we head south and west. Stay together, but move quickly. These fuckers have eyes for us.”

  Following Skip’s instruction, Neville pushed forward. The grasses–smallest oh which grew just above his eyes–resisted, their blades cut into the exposed skin of Neville’s hands. He glanced to his sides and saw the crew moving with him, forming a wedge with him and Skipper in the lead. The thick mud threatened to swallow him whole with each step, indeed stealing one his treasured boots in the process; but he persisted forward. On Neville’s left, a loud pop sounded and someone fell hard into the mud. He flinched knowingly as another sailor cried out in response.

  He paused to turn back but was met by Skipper’s firm voice .

  “Nay lad, don’t look back and do not stop. Only forward.”

  Neville did exactly as he was told; he did not turn back and he did not stop.

  Another pop.

  Another scream.

  And another.

  And another.

  And another.

  And another.

  The air chilled colder than previously on the barge, Neville felt it bite deep into his bones and lungs; it hurt to breathe. As Neville’s fingers pounded from the frigidness, the mysts paused, stopped fully in the air as if time had frozen with the cold; no longer spiraling or spinning or pooling in the air. As suddenly as they had ceased, the mysts then plunged into the mud at his feet, crashing out of the air like rain running from the sun.

  Neville felt a tingle in the small of his back. Harm was coming; he was about to be thrown by winds stronger than any gale he had ever known.

  Neville shouted out to the others in warning.

  “DOWN!

  GET DOWN!”

  Grass shook and rattled as Neville dove, praying he had been fast enough. Wind tore across the grassy field, bursting across Neville’s prone form. He felt it howl with a fury he had nary experienced; grasses flattened and collapsed onto Neville as his back burned from the velocity and temperature.

  But, importantly, he was not lifted away.

  The wind died as abruptly as it had arrived and Neville lifted himself free of the debris, shaking and shivering in the bitter cold. Wide eyed and holding himself for warmth–coughing and quivering against the chill air–Neville saw the field was cast asunder; broken grasses stretching easily fifty paces out before the blades stood whole again; he had forgotten just how far he could see when unencumbered by the mysts.

  Before him, maybe twenty paces away, Neville saw two figures circling, too far for any real detail. Behind him his fellows shook themselves loose, all were coated in a frosty rime.

  Skipper stood, dusting herself off, and gave him an encouraging nod before yelling out in defiance.

  “THERE, THAT WAS THE WORST OF IT LADS!

  FORWARD!”

  Free of obstacles, Neville bounded across the open field, axe raised high. The pair of circling figures soon resolved.

  One was Humility; clearly injured with a massive hole through his center, he was coated in silver-blue blood. The Myst Hunter had a predatory look in his eyes as he leveled his blade at his foe. There stood one of Kindred, a hungry look filled his face as the red feathers that crested his face flattened and flexed with each breath; he clutched a rod of black metal and frost–a magewright then. They walked a slow dance–hunter and rimewright–and the Myst Hunter lagged.

  Humility made eye contact with Neville and circled to put the Kindred between himself and the sailors. The ice mage saw the effort and laughed with a cruel viciousness, thrusting the rod towards Humility. There was a crack in the air and a wall of ice solidified, obscuring the Myst Hunter entirely.

  Then, the Kindred rimewright turned to face the sailors and sprinted forward in a burst far faster than any mortal should have been able. His free hand moved in strange gestures and Neville flinched at the bursts behind as he fought to avoid his own oncoming death; he was to be impaled through his chest by ice.

  Neville danced to the side, but not quite fast enough; death was now severe harm. The rimewright was on top of him and thrust the rod forth, attempting to stab up Neville from below. Ice sprung forth and a manifested spear of frost caught Neville and punched through him, tearing free as Neville’s sidestep turned into a fall. Pain wracked him as he watched his own blood and flesh spray into the air.

  Skip roared from behind him.

  “NO!”

  Neville felt another death; he was to be skewered by the ice. He didn’t feel Lucky anymore; he felt tired. He yet burned from the cold but a warm euphoria had spread through his limbs; it was politely courting him to a quiet and cozy slumber.

  But he couldn’t give in, not yet.

  Neville gathered the last of his strength and swung his axe with all his might at the Kindred’s leg.

  The small of Neville’s back continued to tingle; it was too late.

  Tonje had moved free before a cursed pressure took her, she had felt its grasp as the damnable Kindred had tore at them. She and Neville were all that remained, the crew were dead and frozen; maybe they would all still live had they simply stayed put on The Whale.

  She leapt toward the Kindred, his spear of ice plunged downward toward Neville.

  Neville’s axe hand twitched and flashed forward, his axe moving to cut into the rimewright’s leg. As the axe neared flesh, ice ushered forth; forming translucent armor in a bulky suit of frost as Neville’s axe exploded at the impact with a loud bang.

  Undaunted, the frost-coated spear continued to plunge downward toward Neville; Tonje was not fast enough, she wasn’t going to make it in time.

  She couldn’t save them, she couldn’t save any of them.

  Then her bones began to sing, her heart the drum as the song of the Honningvhis beat from her ankles to her ribs to her thumb and to the base of her skull. In a helix around her, the ancestral values manifested, formed of green and white light in the Rellanic script of her mother’s folk.

  Creativity, Fidelity, Honesty, and Compassion.

  She felt strength flood into her body as the chants of Honningvhis all-mother chorus shook and rattled her bones. Her mother and grandmother were there, singing as one in a tongue she did not know yet somehow understood.

  Listen Listen

  With all her strength, Tonje whipped her axe arm towards the Kindred, aiming for his wretched face.

  Our words be heard

  Tonje released the axe, a cry of effort ushering forth that shook the very foundations where she stood.

  Rise Rise

  The axe spun across the field, lines of green and white tracing with its every tumble.

  Our oath be known

  The ice armor crystallized once more.

  Smite Smite

  The axe impacted and there was a breaking.

  Our wrath be felt

  Tonje’s world was green.

  And it was white.

  And it was the sound of shattering.

  Tonje collapsed as the chanting stopped; she was spent and could no longer feel her ancestral bones. The greens and whites cleared as her ears remained ringing and she saw someone step toward her, she had not the strength even to look up. As she knelt, gasping for breath, the ice spear pressed into her beard, its point pressing against her throat as she rested her chin against the flat of the spike. Slowly, the weapon pressed upward, forcing her to gaze upon her attacker.

  The Kindred’s face was ragged, as though many jagged claws had cut across the side of his face, slicing one of his eyes and gouging into his ear and the feathers that crested his narrow face. His good eye stared at Tonje as she returned the gesture in kind, it looked to be a mechanical construction of many gears and layers of glass.

  In a quiet flurry, the Myst Hunter appeared behind the Kindred rimewright. Mysts poured out of the many holes in Humility–he looked gaunt and drawn–but there was still fight in him, his sword was raised.

  Humility brought down his wicked blade and wedged it deep into his foe’s back.

  The Hunter collapsed at the effort as the mage shrieked in pain.

  The Kindred fell forward, wincing in pain as the spike grazed along Tonje’s neck. She sagged forward as her own precious blood fell free, amber drops pooling on her knees, but her focus was with Humility.

  The Myst Hunter drew ragged breath on all fours, fighting desperately to hold onto life. Humility met Tonje’s eyes; she found fondness and remorse but was too exhausted to give a simple goodbye. Offering a single final exhalation, myst spewed forth from Humility’s mouth; billowing into the ground below. He vanished fully as flesh and bone turned to myst; his cloak held shape for a moment before collapsing softly into a pile on the ground.

  And Humility was gone; with his departure a faint uncanny murmur floated in the air.

  “Come unto me, wayward child, for your task is done and you return into my embrace.”

  Tonje’s head fell, the last of her energy spent as a helpless audience to his demise.

  Another unfamiliar voice uttered forth with pride.

  “Well done. Surviving a Myst Hunter is no small feat, let alone ending one. You took to the rod like a bird to air, I am very pleased. We can report this trial as a full success, the Iconoclast shall be so very pleased. It appears as though our precious cargo is undamaged, though, we should perhaps reevaluate your approach in halting future barges.”

  Tonje struggled to remain awake against the exhaustion and cold.

  The rimewright spoke, fighting against obvious pain.

  “Yes, Apostle.”

  There was a gasp that sounded of the Kindred as the Apostle continued.

  “Drink, you will heal. Learn from these scars, our task is a heavy one and you are one of the heralds of the war to come. There are many more fights ahead of you and I fear none shall be this simple.”

  “And what of these two, Apostle?”

  Tonje’s eyes flickered as she fought to hold on.

  The Apostle answered, velvet satisfaction carrying palatable excitement.

  “They come with us, both have potential.”

  Tonje finally gave in and darkness took her.