[Chapter 1] — Wu Wei
The palace sat proudly in the caldera, and the city cascaded down the dormant volcano like magma. Farms and pastures hugged the great wall that encircled the metropolis, and the vibrant greens crawled into the city, blending with the jade and turquoise of the lower quarter. The buildings further up were more significant, changing to reds and golds as flags waved from the bamboo and tile rooftops. The streets crossed each other in rattan patterns, and the vast span of homes, shops, and temples was a giant collage of astounding architecture.
His blue eyes, sharp as stilettos and campfire-bright, floated back and forth, taking in as much as possible. The size, the architecture, and the clearly defined districts fell rigidly down the mountain. He had sailed across the world, but then Akkael knew; he’d never seen a city until he saw Wu Wei.
Akkael squatted, rolling a blade of dark green grass between his dirt-clad fingers as he gazed at the City of Disciplines, peering from a forest he didn’t know the name of. The horse he arrived on whinnied impatiently as it tugged against the tether connecting it to a tree. Akkael reached over to settle it, still not taking his eyes off the city. None of his kin had seen it, and he rushed ahead of his company to be the first. Akkael had sojourned in Edokand for many years, but only as far as Tsul. The central island of Trim seemed a distant dream. But now he was there, on invitation from the Emperor himself.
“Akkael!” someone bellowed behind him. He turned to see two men on horseback leading a divided contingent. Half were people dressed in furs, padded leather, or nothing to hide their scarred torsos, which recorded the battles they’d fought. The other half were men wearing the heavy red armour of the Edokand’i.
The two at the front, wearing their leather and furs, were Akkael’s brothers. The largest was Magar, who shared little more than eye colour and dirty blond hair with Akkael. A broad sword strapped across his back, contrasting the hand axe in his brothers’ belts. Doran, the other rider, was the spit of Akkael, right down to the clothes they wore and weapons they chose. The only differences were the crow’s feet drawing trenches through Doran’s pale skin and the crown on top of his head.
“Brothers!” he yelled back at them, gesturing to the city. “I present Wu Wei! The prize of the east.”
Doran fiddled with the necklace around his neck. It was a thin chain with a silver pendant. His fingers glided across the triangular spiral, leaving smudges across the symbol like streaks on a desert dune. It was strange seeing someone wear such a necklace. If Akkael didn’t know better, he’d think Doran was religious. Of course, that was nonsense.
Everyone knew the truth all over the world. Religion had died, and gods didn’t exist.
King Doran glared down at Akkael from atop his horse. “Not a prize, Akkael. We don’t want to take it. We want to settle here peacefully,” he said. “And you shouldn’t have ridden ahead like that.”
“Seeing it for myself was the prize,” grinned Akkael. “Seeing it first was a little extra just for me.”
Magar rolled his eyes. “You’re a shit, ‘Kael.”
Akkael held out his thumb, smiling wider. Magar responded with a different finger.
“It really is beautiful.” Doran rode closer to Akkael as he took in the view of Wu Wei. He slowly inhaled. The atmosphere seemed fresher on this island than on the others in Edokand. The size of Trim and the distance from the small vents off the coast that released toxic, volcanic ash made breathing refreshing. It was like a glass of cool water after a night of heavy drinking.
“Shame these goutuizi get to live there and not us.”
The armoured soldiers shuffled in the saddles at the use of the insult. Akkael turned around and smirked at their scowls. He knew many slurs for the Edokand’i army, but goutuizi seemed to strike hardest and used it often in their presence.
For the first time, Akkael saw how the Edokand’i horse riders saw him. The three brothers, the enemy, looked upon their capital with hunger in their eyes and jest on their lips. It was a nightmare many of them had. Akkael kept grinning like a wolf.
“Four years,” he said, walking up to the closest mounted soldier, who was trying hard to stay silent and disciplined, the tenants of the Edokand’i army. He tapped the mounted man on the armoured leg before continuing. “Four years of war and bloodshed. All water under the bridge, I’m sure.”
He turned back towards his brothers, still marvelling at the city below them. Akkael wondered if the temples or the wall had caught their gaze. Or was it the tip of the palace pagoda peaking over the caldera’s ridge? Were they trying to make out landmarks they’d only heard of in passing or in books?
“Well,” started Doran, “now we’re here; let’s finish this.” The king didn’t smile, but Akkael could still tell when his brother was happy. The slow blink, the deep exhale, the tightening of his hands around the reins. He was a man who had achieved his ambition, and it was nice to see.
“Let’s finish this,” Akkael repeated before freeing his horse and lining up with his brothers.
Hooves drummed at the earth as the horses galloped towards the city, all twenty-four riders kicking up clods of dirt and grass. As they declined the hill, it was as if the wall began to hug the city tighter, rising to conceal more as Wu Wei sunk below the crenellated battlements. On the straight road to the lone mountain, Akkael could barely see any of the city but the red building peaking over the ramparts.
They rode up to the giant wooden gates of Wu Wei and waited as a second party rode to greet them. Three riders also headed a company of goutuizi soldiers, their red armour stark against the grey of their city’s walls. Akkael recognised the centre rider by his gold-trimmed pauldrons and ornate katana strapped to his belt. Lord Hideo’s hair was ivory white and tied back in a wolf tail. The hanafuda earring that hung from his left ear was so long it brushed his shoulder. He was a thin man. But the brothers never let that deceive them. A stern expression suppressed the derelict laugh lines and kindness, like an old civilisation buried under the sands of deserts.
To his right was his herald. A black-haired, porky lordling with a pompous pout dressing his face. To his left was a female monk in purple robes.
The herald was the first to speak, his appearance excited by the sound of his own voice. “Lord Doran. Magar. Akkael. The famous brothers Torne, we welcome you to our esteemed capital. You are in the presence of Lord Hideo Kazar of Sekando, General of the Sentinel Guard.” – goutuizi – “The Iron Hand of Wu Wei and the Second Pillar of Edokand.”
“I know who he is.” Doran understood the lengths Hideo was prepared to go to mock his people. He would have sent the herald alone if he could still see the ridicule unfold. He turned to Hideo. “We were invited here by the Emperor himself. Surely that’s enough for you to talk to my brothers and me directly?”
After staring coldly at Hideo, waiting for him to reply, Akkael smirked and began to address the herald himself. “It was nice of you to accompany him, however. Did you want to see us yourself, or did Hideo need a hand?” He looked back at Hideo but not at his face. He was looking at the prosthetic iron hand across his lap.
“Lord Hideo has the authority to demand my presence on any outing he sees fit,” the herald retorted rapidly.
“So, he needed a hand.” Doran tried to stifle a grin at Akkael’s mocking.
“His lordship saw it as a polite formality to address you with the pomp befitting a fellow lord.” Doran was a king, but he stayed silent at this hidden insult. The herald flicked between Magar and Akkael. “Speaking of politeness, it is customary for those of lower rank to bow to their betters.”
Akkael just raised his brow and smiled. “It’s customary for a lord to fight alongside his men. I saw a lot of dead goutuizi at Takakawa. Where was your lordship then?”
Hideo twisted his reins and kept them taut. He stayed silent, but his horse’s confused half-step proved the defeat was still a fresh wound.
The herald sputtered. “The Sentinel Guard of Edokand allows for a distribution of power that you would not understand. I’ll have you know Lord Hideo’s cousin was at Takakawa on his behalf as he conducted the defence of the capital. He has mourned his loss since he heard the news.”
“And I’m sure the dead care.” Magar rarely spoke in parleys, so the comment seemed particularly cutting.
“To be fair, I’m sure his men were relieved he wasn’t present,” added Akkael. “After what happened at Skaldgard, I doubt they’d be comfortable following him into a bakery.”
“There is no such place as Skaldgard!” The herald raised his voice suddenly. “Lord Hideo acknowledges his defeat in Utajima and treats it as a lesson in dealing with savages like you.”
“I’m sorry, herald, what’s your name?” asked Doran, raising his voice.
“Ponzu. And I’m a steward.”
“Well, I don’t know the difference. But, anyway, Ponzu, we renamed Utajima to Skaldgard after we won it,” declared Doran. “The fact we are here proves you have not learned to deal with us.”
Hideo’s right fist clenched so tightly the tips of his fingers might have pierced through the back. “That’s enough, Doran.”
“So, he does speak.” Akkael became deflated, almost bored by Hideo’s surrender.
“Where’s the Emperor?”
“Waiting for you in the palace, King Doran,” said Hideo, spitting the name. “You think we’d allow our Emperor to meet you in an open field surrounded by Northmen?”
Akkael looked behind. “We hardly surround you. There are only a dozen of us, and we’re outnumbered three to one.”
Doran sighed. “But very well, I’ll go meet your Emperor.”
Akkael rose in his saddle and spoke in Solstic, the language of his people. “Brother, you can’t! You’re the king. Have me go instead.”
Doran hissed before Hideo spoke. “We agreed our meeting was to be conducted in Edokand’i!”
“We also agreed on a dozen men each,” Akkael responded.
“What did he say?” Hideo asked Doran, ignoring Akkael’s remark.
“My brother has voiced fair concerns.” Doran shrugged. “If I enter the city, how do I know I’ll be safe? We need reassurance.”
Hideo nodded. “And you’ll have it.” He indicated left. Monks in purple robes often escorted dignitaries, so Akkael had barely noticed the female sage riding beside Hideo. “This is Rigpa, the Grand Sage and Third Pillar of Edokand. She has volunteered to be part of a hostage exchange as you negotiate peace terms with the Emperor.”
She was an older woman with grey hair held in a bun by two sticks. However, she wasn’t ancient. Her brown eyes still had a youthfulness to them, and her wrinkles were the kind that would add character to a sculpture. The lines around her mouth made her look like she was smiling, even if she wasn’t.
“Grand Sage?” Akkael was grinning like an excited child. “I’ve always wanted to meet the queen of the wizards.”
The trivialisation of Rigpa’s station affronted Hideo. “The Grand Sage is the holiest example of human life!” yelled Hideo. “Their attachment to the spiritual links them to the cosmic energy in the universe. Rigpa is the incarnation of the Seraphim himself.”
“Oh, right, of course,” said Akkael sarcastically.
“She is our country’s third most important person!” yelled the herald.
“Well, that’s very specific,” said Akkael, widening his eyes as if he was impressed that they kept a record. “It just so happens my brother is the most important person in mine. We are not going to –”
“I accept the swap.”
Akkael hissed at Doran. He spoke in Solstic again. “You are not thinking straight.”
Hideo ignored the words he couldn’t understand from Akkael with a thin-lipped grin. “So, it’s done. Have your entourage bring the Grand Sage back in two days, and we will turn you over to them unharmed.”
Doran nodded with no emotion on his face. “Well, let’s not waste any more daylight.” He removed the crown from atop his head and thrust it into Akkael’s reluctant arms. Then, he rode slowly towards Hideo. After Lord Hideo’s signal, the sage rode towards Akkael, crossing the Northerner King in the centre of the gap between the two groups. The air stood still as they rode, only allowing the breeze to continue east once Rigpa and the king had settled.
The groups said their farewells. Akkael’s eyes locked on his brother before turning to ride back the way they came. Akkael looked behind, more at the stone walls than his brother’s back, and sighed.
He rode in tandem with the Grand Sage. Akkael was so close that he could feel Rigpa’s horse brush against his leg in the stirrup. Once they entered the forest, Akkael leant in and whispered in the older woman’s ear. “If anything happens to my brother, I’ll kill you myself. I don’t make empty promises.”
Rigpa just kept her eyes on the path ahead.
[Chapter 2] — Alani
Large sails of woven wool dyed orange were lowered onto the clinker-built oak hull resembling waves overlapping themselves. The sheen of the resin that kept the wood from rotting glistened with the sinking sun, bouncing off the sheep’s wool stuffed between the gaps in the planks to prevent leaks. A steering oar was the only thing differentiating the front from the back. Carved figureheads of dragons roared on the stern and the bough, with forked tongues pointing inland and out to sea.
Akkael threw Doran’s crown onto one of the oar benches before jumping into the ship. The crown was nothing ornate. Sharp, iron prongs jutted out of the large band. No jewels, enamel, or carvings decorated the crown, and it looked highly uncomfortable to wear.
As soon as it was out of Akkael’s hands, he paid it no mind, stroking the ship’s side like a pet.
Magar assessed the wind with his finger. “The breeze is blowing our way, so we’ll row to the island,” he said, looking at the grey silhouette to the north and trying desperately to remember the island’s name.
Akkael saw Magar’s eyes roll up as he thought. “Tsul.”
“Tsul!” Magar nodded, scrunching his face as if it were on the tip of his tongue.
Akkael beckoned Rigpa into the ship to sit with him as the other Northmen prepared the boat. Magar looked backwards.
“What about our people in the forest?” He spoke in his native language and tried to use an impersonal tone.
Akkael tried to reassure him. “They are probably at the camp already. Those goutuizi ride like a snail crawls.” The rest of the Northmen were securing the lowered sail and fixing their shields to the racks that stretched from gunwale to stern.
Akkael just sat, looking at Rigpa with his head tilted. “Oh, and Magar, try not to divulge anything, even in Solstic. This one understands everything we say. Am I right?”
The Grand Sage smiled. “That is true.”
Magar’s face defaulted to rage instead of knowing how to feel. No one in Edokand spoke Solstic, offended by the prospect of its barbarity. Also, a Solstic teacher would be hard to come by, considering the only Northmen in Edokand were at war. “How do you know it?” he asked.
Akkael answered before Rigpa could open her mouth. “It’s one of her gifts as a sage to comprehend every language.”
“I did not mean to deceive you,” she said, bowing her head. “I will not tell Lord Hideo of the archers you positioned in the forest.”
Magar leaned against the ship, his bright blue eyes darting between Rigpa’s. “Why would we trust you?”
If the sage was intimidated by the giant figure of Magar Torne looming over the conversation or the quiet intensity Akkael could turn on at a moment’s notice, she didn’t show it. She stayed the calm expected of a sage and looked at them kindly. “I could have told him during the parley, but I didn’t.”
Magar squinted and looked at Akkael, who just shrugged. “Another thing she can do is sense changes in the land around her. Dozens of feet pressing against the grass must have been like smelling manure; easy if you’re close enough.”
Rigpa tilted her head. “You seem to know a lot about my gifts.”
Akkael nodded, happy to take in the praise. “I have done my research. Some books. Word of mouth. My brother employed a sage on his council in Skaldgard, so I asked him a few things. It’s important to know the place you’re invading. Most of us learned your language and memorised the map, and I took it a bit further.”
Suddenly, he lunged towards the sage. Rigpa did her best not to jump out of her skin, but the sharp intake of breath was enough for Akkael to notice and grin. He pinched the sleeve of the sage’s robe and rubbed it between his fingers.
“What I don’t understand,” continued Akkael, “is how, despite having forgotten your religions like everywhere else in the world, Edokand still has a cult of monks lingering.”
Rigpa kept a smile on her face. “Religions died because people were disillusioned by the lack of evidence of their gods’ existence. But my abilities are proven; my history is a fact. You can’t stop believing in something right before your eyes.”
Akkael folded his bottom lip and nodded. “Well said. You’re lucky. All that stuff about gods would have set Doran off on one, and you’d be hearing about it all night.”
Rigpa tilted her head. “What does he say?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Akkael, throwing his head back. “He finds it strange that every culture stopped believing in gods simultaneously. Honestly, it’s best to let Doran talk until he tires himself out, right, Magar?”
Magar grunted his confirmation.
A Northman approached, wearing furs that covered half of the eagle tattoo across his chest. “Akkael, the ship is prepared.”
Akkael looked at the Northman and nodded. “Let’s head off then.”
He nodded and beckoned for the rest of the Solstic to push the boat into the water. Rigpa and Akkael still sat in the ship as Magar walked beside them, shaking his head. “Lazy arse.”
Akkael held up his thumb and smiled.
The strait took less than an hour to cross. As a sage, Rigpa prided herself on viewing people by their character rather than stereotypes and prejudices. However, even she was shocked by what she saw as the camp on the shore of Tsul burst into view. Children ran along the shoreline, screaming and yelling at those in the boat. The Northmen who rowed laughed and shouted back. A fire was roaring in the centre of a compact group of tents, with a pen for goats and storage for grain set up along the side. The Northmen may be invaders, but they looked at home and at peace. Their brutish, war-hungry image faded with the camp, and Rigpa saw the Northmen for what they were: people looking for a better life.
The ship hit the sand next to a collection of other beached boats, and they jumped out to drag it in line with the rest. Akkael and Magar helped Rigpa out and escorted her to the camp. A crowd gathered, and raucous applause filled the air. Northmen cheered and yelled their praises as they made their way through the throng.
One woman approached the two brothers with dirt caked on her face and a shield tied to her back. Her blonde, braided hair rested on her broad shoulders, and her leather tunic hugged her figure. She brushed her hand against Akkael’s bicep as she walked past.
“Good to have you back, Akkael,” she whispered. “I missed you.”
Akkael smiled at the woman, his face moving closer to hers until their noses nearly touched. “Thank you, Bodil,” said Akkael. He leaned in more, but she backed away, smiling from ear to ear. She stepped backwards before spinning around and going to the shore, letting Akkael watch her walk away.
Magar glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye, which took Akkael a while to notice.
“What?” said Akkael defensively when he noticed his brother’s look. “Not everyone can be as happy in marriage as you.”
As they reached the grass where they had pitched the tents, a man as big as Magar, in his heavy set of steel armour, approached with a smile. His chin was sharp, and his nose was crooked as if he had broken it a few times. Hair clung to his forehead from the sweat, and his strong jawline looked as if it had been forged along with his breastplate.
Magar approached the stranger and hugged him before they pulled away to kiss.
Akkael was staring at the Grand Sage, smiling as he shrugged. “Secret to being a pillow-biter,” Akkael joked, “be large enough to crush the skull of anyone who frowns on it.”
“Or anyone who pisses me off.” Stern expressions and a tense silence filled the air between the stranger and Akkael. But it didn’t last long, a smirk cracking onto the large man’s face.
“Good to see you, Skane,” said Akkael, bringing his arm to clasp his countryman’s. “How was the forest?”
“Got back almost an hour ago,” Skane answered. “Those goutuizi ride like children scared to fall off their horse.”
As the Grand Sage had heard him called in Wu Wei court, Skane Brick-Chest was less intimidating than she’d heard from fear-mongered rumours. His face was more suited to a smile than a scowl, his demeanour more kindness than scorn. His eyes were a dull blue, and his hair was brown and braided.
Skane’s brow furrowed as he looked at the Northmen leaving the ship. “Where is Doran?”
“In Wu Wei having tea with the Emperor.” Akkael gestured to Rigpa. “This is our hostage exchange.”
Skane left Magar’s side, standing only a few inches from the sage. He may be less suited to it, but his scowl still looked intimidating. “Well, just know, if anything happens to him, we’ll let you choose how you want to die.”
Before she could think of anything in response, a gleeful yell exploded from deeper in the campsite and took all her focus.
“Dada!” Akkael, beaming at the little voice, crouched, arms outstretched and letting the young girl enter his embrace.
“Ahh, my little shield maiden,” said Akkael, lifting the girl.
Skane smiled as Akkael spun his daughter in the air, making her scream between fits of laughter. “Alani has been learning about pottery,” he said.
Akkael squinted as he spoke. “Pottery?”
“Yes!” said Alani indignantly as her feet planted back on the ground. She marched back to the line of tents and retrieved a pot. It was undecorated, painted a deep red, the colour of Edokand. It was only when she returned that Akkael noticed the glistening veins that ran across its surface. Alani held it up to Akkael and grinned from ear to ear.
“What’s so important about the pot?” Akkael asked, confused.
Alani rolled her eyes at her father, making Magar and Skane snicker. “Well, it broke. See the cracks,” Alani began sharply. She took her father’s hand and ran his finger along one of the veins, the grooves of it catching along his calluses. “They fixed it with gold.”
Akkael beamed at the wide eyes of his daughter. “And why did they do that?” he asked, sitting on the ground before her so they were closer to eye level.
“It’s an art.” She looked down at the pot as if she were reading from it. “The Edokand’i believe that the cracks are a part of the pot’s history and everything, even the broken bits, can be turned into something beautiful.”
Alani gave her father the pot, and, with his spare hand, he lifted her into the air. “This is the third most beautiful thing in Edokand.”
“Am I the first?” she asked, smiling.
“No, you’re second. First is reserved for your mother, I’m afraid.”
She didn’t look disappointed; instead, she conceded and nodded. Then she sighed. “I miss Mama.”
“So do I, little shield maiden. So do I.” Akkael kissed Alani’s cheek, which did little to lift her spirits. “As soon as Uncle Doran is done with the Emperor, we’ll return to Skaldgard.”
“Okay,” said Alani with a sigh.
Akkael looked at the face of his deflated daughter and thought hard for something to cheer her up. “Now I’ve got something to show you.” He put her back down and handed her back the pot before walking over to Rigpa, placing his hands on the old woman’s shoulders. “This is the Grand Sage.”
Alani’s green eyes lit up as she looked down at the purple robes. “The queen of the wizards!”
“Apparently not.” Akkael shrugged. “But she has special powers.”
“I know!” she cheered. “I know a lot about sages. I heard you can tell what people will do before they do it, and you can read minds.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Rigpa said, smirking, “But it’s close enough.”
“Can you talk to animals?” Alani was jumping on the spot, eyes wider than plates. “I heard you can talk to animals.”
“You’re an inquisitive one, aren’t you?” Rigpa knelt to be at eye level with her.
“Maybe,” she nodded, clearly not knowing what inquisitive meant.
“Why don’t we let Rigpa settle in, Alani,” said Akkael, stepping in front of the Grand Sage and scooping his daughter up.
Rigpa watched Alani strop as her father trundled her away. She smiled. Having only heard the fear-mongered stories of the Northmen, more beast than human, it was nice to see them in a different light. A kinder light.
As she thought, Rigpa felt a large hand land on her shoulder. She looked up and saw Skane standing over her.
“Come with me, sage,” he said, gently nudging her forward. “Let’s find you a place to sleep.”
Having no choice, Rigpa complied, going in the direction the large man pushed her and delving deeper into the Northmen’s camp.
[Chapter 3] — The Islands of Edokand
Seagulls cawed overhead as the Northmen camp relaxed in the afternoon sun. Once they unloaded the ship, there was a lull, and those who had travelled to Wu Wei had settled. Akkael suspected that feeling would persist until Doran returned. It was as if time stood still, everyone waiting for the end of the negotiations, wondering how Doran was faring, contemplating the war’s conclusion while the sun hovered above them.
Skane was chugging what remained of a bowl of the previous night’s stew, which he had left to cool in his tent, while Magar sat beside him, washing the large blade of his sword. Akkael sat in the grass a little further away, waiting with the Grand Sage in awkward silence for Alani to return with whatever she’d excitedly run off to retrieve.
He didn’t know why he suddenly felt nervous as he sat beside Rigpa. The initial rush of adrenaline that came from watching his brother ride alone into the enemy city faded away. Having to create an acceptably safe environment for the Third Pillar of Edokand was an outcome he didn’t expect on the ride to Wu Wei.
Akkael and Rigpa shared a brief look before simultaneously turning away. The worst part about the awkward exchange was that Rigpa could use her sage gifts to know every feeling in Akkael’s head. That awoke a frustration which he knew the sage could also sense, which exasperated it. After a little more silence, Akkael decides to break it.
“So,” he started. Rigpa turned to face him with a broad smile and eyes that were hopefully optimistic for Akkael’s attempt at conversation. “How’s being a hostage? You must feel like you drew the short straw.”
“I volunteered.” Akkael squinted at the Grand Sage, allowing her to elaborate. “I know the Emperor very well, and he has spoken often about allowing your people to settle here as a way of ending the war and bloodshed. I wanted to see for myself if peace was possible. To do that, I needed to be amongst you.”
“And what do you think?” asked Akkael, gesturing to the camp around him.
Rigpa gave him a look from the side of her eye, the smile struggling to cling to her face. “That’s yet to be seen.”
Akkael folded his bottom lip and nodded. “Fair enough. So, this Emperor, is he honest about peace? This isn’t some trap?”
“The Emperor is sincere,” she answered. “You can trust him.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Can you?”
“That has yet to be seen.”
Suddenly, Alani appeared from deeper inside the camp. She had a piece of parchment clutched in her fist, her hair was slightly more unkempt, and she was out of breath. Akkael backed away somewhat as Alani knelt in the grass opposite the sage.
She unfurled the parchment and slammed it on the ground. It was a map with a string of five distinct islands sketched across it. “This is my map of Edokand,” she told the sage. “It doesn’t show all the islands, just the five big ones. The rest are too small to draw on here.”
Rigpa nodded as she considered the sketches. “It’s very well drawn.”
Alani beamed. “Thank you.” She pointed at the topmost island on the map with such force that she made a dent in the dirt underneath. “This island is Skaldgard, right at the top of the moon. I call it a moon because the whole country looks like a crescent. Or, if I turn it this way, it looks like a boat. See?”
Akkael leant in to prompt her. “What was the island originally called, Alani?”
The look she gave her father could have crushed the self-esteem of a wild boar. “Utajima. Everyone knows that.”
“All right,” said Akkael, slightly exasperated. “Name the other four, then.”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to Rigpa and the map. Akkael retreated to the log where Skane was sitting. If he had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs.
“Next is the island we are on,” continued Alani. “It’s called Tsul. I remember it because the shape reminds me of a big shoe. Shoes have soles and, if you say it fast, ‘sole’ sounds like ‘Tsul’.”
Rigpa scoffed. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“Do you want me to tell you how I remember the next one?” asked Alani excitedly.
“Of course,” replied the Grand Sage.
“Well, it’s called Trim,” Alani began, pointing at the third island on the map; the home of the capital city, Wu Wei; the heart of Edokand. A dream the Solstic had kept in their minds and now had at their backs. “The shape is kind of like messy hair, and if I had hair that looked like that, I’d say, ‘I need a Trim.’”
Alani seemed oblivious to the smirks of those in earshot as they tried to hide their amusement. Akkael covered his mouth so she wouldn’t notice his silent laugh. Rigpa was the only one who kept a straight face, which was impressive.
Alani continued. “I don’t have ways of remembering the other two, so I always forget them.”
“I forget about them too.” Magar was still washing his giant sword, and it surprised Akkael that he spoke. “They’re just for easy raids when we run out of money. Wars are expensive.”
Akkael noticed Rigpa’s brief solemness at his brother’s comments. Trivialising the deaths of her countrymen in that way would have caused any Edokand’i to abandon their composure. The old woman did a commendable job of retaining it.
“I know one of them is called Kiibi,” continued Alani, oblivious to the emotional tightrope the Grand Sage was balancing on. “But I can’t remember which one.”
“The fourth one,” said Akkael.
Rigpa shot a wide-eyed look at Akkael before turning back.
Alani folded the map and placed it under her knee so it wouldn’t blow away. “Anyway, enough of that. Do you want to hear what else I’ve learned about Edokand?”
Rigpa gave a warm smile. “I would love to.”
“Okay. So, Edokand’i birds are fascinating…” She began listing all the unique birds she knew about, as well as describing them by how beautiful their colours were.
Akkael grinned as she spoke. Some people liked the sounds of waves or the wind rustling leaves; they were the sort of calming sounds that made sense of the world and eased the soul. For Akkael, it was his daughter’s higher-pitched, formal voice when she talked about things she liked.
He leant to his right and whispered to Skane. “Alani seems to be getting on with the sage.”
“Yeah,” he said, briefly looking up from his bowl of cold soup. “I still don’t know why you brought her.”
Akkael folded his arms behind his head and shut his eyes. “She seems happy enough.”
“She’d be safer in Skaldgard,” said Skane, shovelling another spoon of stew into his mouth.
Skane and Akkael had known each other for over a decade. As young sell swords, they met on a job in Urkanza. They bonded instantaneously after copious near-death experiences and long, back-breaking marches. They had an inseparable partnership for years. Akkael believed their friendship came from a complimentary battle tact and a charm that even Skane couldn’t resist. But he knew the real reason.
Their first job together was a land dispute between Urkanzan chieftains. After the first couple of weeks, Akkael received the news that his wife had given birth to a baby girl. Akkael struggled to admit it, even a decade on, but he was too scared to raise his axe during the next incursion of the enemy chieftain. Panic led to cowardice, and if it weren’t for Skane, Akkael would probably have died in that fight. He didn’t know why, but after that, Skane never left his side, and a few months later, Akkael met Alani for the first time.
Over time, Akkael introduced his brother-in-arms to his brother-by-blood, and he and Skane became brothers-in-law.
Skane was one of the only people who could criticise Akkael’s parenting without physical consequences. Akkael inhaled and spoke calmly. “We’re perfectly safe. Wu Wei has never sent an army to Tsul, and we own this half of the island.”
He looked to his right just in time to catch the tail-end of Skane’s side-eye stare before he returned to his bowl.
“Come on,” Akkael groaned. “If I left her with Astrid, all she would be learning is combat. And that’s great; there is no better teacher than my wife. But, look at her…”
Alani was discussing all the volcanoes she’d read about, which ones were the biggest, and when they last erupted. Mostly the Grand Sage nodded along, but every so often, she’d look as if Alani had taught her something.
Akkael nodded to himself. “She may be a shield maiden, but she’s also a Torne. The mind needs just as much training as the sword arm.”
After a moment of listening to her list all the dormant volcanoes in Edokand, Skane sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded. “As the sage said, she’s a very inquisitive kid.”
“Rigpa, who’s older, you or da?” inquired Alani out of nowhere.
Skane nearly spilt his soup all over himself as he burst into intense laughter. Magar also donned a satisfied grin, taking his eyes off his sword for the first time.
“What!” Akkael gripped the log under him as he bellowed at his daughter. “Is that a serious question?”
Alani spoke as soon as Akkael finished, as if she had prepared her reply. “You said I should never be afraid to ask a question I don’t know the answer to.”
“Alani,” groaned Akkael, as if he was too busy nursing his wounds to speak at an average volume. “I’m twenty-eight.”
The silence that lingered complimented Alani’s vacant expression. Akkael raised his brow, an action Alani imitated. Skane wiped tears from his eyes as he bobbed with stifled enjoyment. Eventually, Rigpa spoke, breaking the tension.
“I’m older,” the Grand Sage clarified.
“Thanks, Rigpa,” said Alani, stressing the sage’s name. The exasperation in her voice suggested her father’s insecurity was an inconvenience.
Unlike Akkael, Alani seemed to completely forget the previous exchange, returning her focus to the sage. “Can you tell me more about your magic powers?” she asked.
Rigpa snickered. “It’s not magic, but sure,” she said before thinking of the perfect demonstration. “Say something.”
“Say what? WHOA!” Alani’s voice was the volume of a thunderstorm. Skane dropped his bowl, and Akkael looked up as if the source of his daughter’s voice were coming from the sky.
“That is amazing. Do it again!” the Grand Sage obliged again, amplifying Alani’s voice. “Hello.”
Startled murmurs erupted from the camp as Alani spoke with her enhanced voice; some mingled with curiosity, others with genuine fright.
Akkael looked around to see his brother’s reaction. However, Magar wasn’t sitting next to Skane anymore. Instead, he strapped his giant sword to his back and looked out over the ocean towards Trim. Akkael squinted to see what he was looking at but eventually turned back to Alani.
“That is awesome!” she yelled, no longer amplified by the sage’s gifts but loud enough. “What else can you do?”
The Grand Sage raised her index finger and looked up in concentration. “There are… ninety-six men, fifty-four women, nine goats and four sheep in the camp.”
Alani looked at her father for confirmation. He just shrugged. “I know about the goats.”
“Umm, Akkael.” Magar was still looking to the sea, but Akkael didn’t hear him.
Alani continued unimpeded. “What else?”
“Well,” Rigpa thought momentarily, “I can also sense the ants in the grass, the birds nesting in the trees, and a hedgehog sleeping in that bush.”
“Oh, I saw her last night!”
“Him,” Rigpa corrected.
“No, she was too brave to be a boy.”
The sage laughed.
“Akkael,” Magar repeated, his voice too meek.
“Show me something else!” Alani’s eyes somehow got more prominent as she clasped her hands together.
“Well, I, umm.” Rigpa froze like a deer noticing a hunter. “Something is changing.”
“Akkael!”
Magar finally got his brother’s attention. “What is it?”
“It’s Trim.”
Akkael stood up and walked to his brother’s side. In the following pause, he wanted nothing more than to realise he was hallucinating like everyone else facing the central island.
Magar squinted, trying to focus on the land opposite, hoping what he was about to say wasn’t true. “It looks like it’s getting closer.”
Akkael took a few more steps forward, staring at the sliver of land across the strait. He could see more colour, less dull greys and more greens and browns. The sea was shorter, and the island eclipsed more of the sky.
He wasn’t sure what it meant, but his confusion was concerning. “I think we need to go,” said Akkael. “I think we need to move more inland.”
Skane nodded in confirmation before ordering everyone to pack up and get ready to leave. Akkael picked up the closest rucksack before leading his daughter by the hand away from the beach. Rigpa followed him, looking behind now and again, gazing at the sea.
[Chapter 4] — The Groaning Earth
Akkael must have noticed the sweat beading on her forehead as Rigpa’s eyes darted back and forth, sifting through the chaos she sensed under her. Akkael turned to speak but quickly turned away, taking a deep sigh as his daughter whimpered at his side.
Then, the quaking started. The ground below snored and groaned as the islands pushed against each other. A lifetime in Edokand meant Rigpa was used to earthquakes, but she’d never felt one of this magnitude.
The sea was as thin as a river, and the tides frantically beat against the sand as if to cling to the shore they knew so well. The ground began to crack, and the sand fell into the new gaps like falling through an hourglass. The veins spread past those still loading their belongings and towards the fleeing Northmen.
Akkael felt his daughter shake as she clutched tighter to his leg. He looked around and beaconed to the shield maiden who had spoken with him on the beach as she followed the line out of the camp.
“Bodil, take Alani to safety. Alani, go with Bodil. I’ll follow behind.”
Alani’s eyes betrayed her desire to object, but she was too petrified to speak.
Bodil held out her hand. “Come, Alani.” She walked slightly out of line toward her. That was the last thing Bodil did before the ground swallowed her with a mouth that spread from the sea, pouring into the crevice. Alani’s eyes squeezed tight, turning away from where Bodil used to be.
Those in the line broke formation to keep from falling in the forming canyon, but those nearer the shore weren’t so lucky. Screams erupted from the camp as people fell through the fissures, and the rest abandoned their belongings. The ships splintered, smashing against the faults’ walls as they fell into the earth’s bowels.
Rigpa and Akkael stood in place as people rushed past, watching the land rip apart, unable to believe their eyes. Alani clutched even tighter to her father’s leg as the cracks grew in number and size, and the final drops of the strait had depleted.
There was a lull. A quiet where everyone stood still and listened to the uneasy calm. The rumbling was still there but was fainter, coming from deeper below. Akkael looked into his daughter’s eyes and smiled, trying to calm her nerves.
Rigpa knew it would happen before it did, her gaze darting to where the shore used to be just in time to see magma explode from the fractures. Panic turned to a frenzy as the Northmen ran for their lives from the liquid fire and black gas erupting from the old beach. In the shock, many were engulfed by the molten rivers. Akkael grabbed his daughter’s hand as he fled, with Rigpa following behind.
That was when the land started to rise behind them, jagged rock sprouting up like trees. Lava flowed from the schisms they left. Alani’s weeping could occasionally be heard over the eruptions, but it was rare. Akkael ran as the rest of his people slowly overtook him. He pulled Alani along, using his free hand to keep the smoke out of his eyes.
Rigpa looked behind for a brief second. The land, red as tempered steel, had risen to eye level and continued to expand towards them. Akkael was struggling to keep up while holding Alani. The smoke pouring into his lungs made it hard to breathe or see anything before him.
Rigpa had an advantage. The smoke blocking her vision didn’t take away her gifts. She could sense the soldering grass. The Northmen sprinting ahead were just faint silhouettes, but she could feel every step they took. She even saw the rock Akkael tripped over before it caught his foot. Rigpa tried to warn him but was too late, and Akkael tumbled into the mud, rolling down a decline and losing grip of his daughter’s hand.
Alani fell to her knees as Akkael stopped a few feet away. She cried for her father, but the smoke made it difficult for him to see her in the dense grey.
“Da!” She yelled.
“Alani!” he yelled, clambering to his feet and coughing hot soot.
She shouted for him again just before the solid black smoke turned orange in an explosion close enough to burn. It shook Akkael to his core.
“Alani!” There was no answer. “Alani!”
The Grand Sage knew Akkael would never leave that spot. He’d run into the lava if he got the chance. And Rigpa knew Alani was gone.
Soot fell, and cracks started to spread like deltas, moving too close for comfort. No words Rigpa could say would stop Akkael from yelling his daughter’s name into the plume that had engulfed her. The sage had to use a gift she kept inside herself, and she held out her hand towards Akkael and overwhelmed his mind. Using her gift, Rigpa made Akkael forget his mourning, fear, and rage. Rigpa took away every emotion Akkael had, and he sagged like a sail without wind.
The sage put her arm around Akkael’s shoulders. “Come with me.” And he did, having no reason not to anymore. Akkael dawdled vacantly in the direction Rigpa pointed him in, pockets of fumes bursting up from the ground. He started to remember his urgency a little and picked up the pace. He ran with Rigpa, and the sage’s influence over his emotions wore off with each step. A tear rolled down Akkael’s cheek.
It was a while before they made it to a clearing, where Magar stood at the head of the Northmen, searching for his brother. When Akkael saw Magar, Rigpa’s gifts faded, and he began to weep, staggering into his large brother’s arms before his knees gave way and hit the floor. All the surviving Northmen watched in harrowing silence at the fit of anguish at their feet.
Then, the shooting started. Dust rose from the ground in clouds. Leaves floated eight feet in the air, as did worms who only desired the solace of the damp soil. It was almost unnoticeable initially, but the smoke got denser until it was blacker than the volcanic ash they’d left behind.
Skane noticed it first. The smoke was in three places: to the left, the right and behind the surviving Northmen. “Look out!” he screeched, removing the shield from his back and holding it towards the closest whirl of smoke.
Archers dressed in crimson emerged from the three tornadoes, wielding crossbows already aimed into the crowd. A woman turned to her left and received a bolt through the eye, and another Northman was shot in the neck. The third bolt hit Skane’s shield, deep into the thick spruce. The archers vanished as quickly as they appeared, and all was quiet, in brutal suspense.
Magar looked at his husband as his brother still clutched him, weeping, oblivious to the shadow archers surrounding them. “We have to go, Akkael!” he shouted over another explosion from the south.
“Shield wall!” Skane yelled, and those whose shields weren’t left at the ruined camp formed a tight circle around those defenceless, trying to protect from all angles like a turtle’s shell.
Rigpa helped Magar lift Akkael to his feet, and they moved to the rest of the Northmen. They made a gap in the shield wall so the brothers and the sage could enter before rapidly closing it again.
It was a few more seconds before the archers reappeared, all three bolts hitting shields. Magar couldn’t get the leverage to remove his large sword from his back in the packed crowd. He went to take the hand axe from Akkael’s hip, and Akkael grabbed his brother’s wrist and removed his axe himself. Magar noticed how bloodshot Akkael’s eyes were and the brightness of his irises.
“Again!” Rigpa yelled, sensing the archers just before they appeared. The Edokand’i shadow archers burst into view, this time elevated to get a better angle at the crowd. Two Northmen were killed, and their bodies were dropped out of the shield wall in the interim between attacks.
Rigpa tried to sense the archers sooner but was distracted by the frantic heartbeats of everyone around her. The allegro of fast breath and pumping blood mingled with the metronomic beat of tears hitting the grass below. None added to this small orchestra more than Akkael, with his metred breathing and tensing muscles.
“We need to get out of here,” said Skane, whispering to Magar. “We’re in no fit state to take shadow archers on in a fight.”
“I agree,” said Magar.
Skane lowered his shield to get a better view of the surroundings. He scanned the landscape just before a whirlwind appeared in his line of sight. He raised his shield in time to catch the bolt aimed at him.
One more body collapsed from the cluster of Northmen, and Magar pilfered the shield, placing it in the gap the dead man left.
“There’s a forest to the east. The trees and the smoke from the eruptions might give us enough cover. We can crawl to it.”
“It’ll take too long. If we go in the shield wall, they’ll pick us off like fish in a barrel,” said Magar, and two more Northmen were shot as if to punctuate his point. “Our best chance is to run.”
Skane thought for a moment and nodded. “Okay!” Skane bellowed to the scared contingent, “get ready to drop your shields and retreat east. Right after the next attack.”
The seconds before the archers remerged were an exhausting wait, but once all three bolts landed in round shields, Skane gave his signal. “RUN!”
The Northmen and the Grand Sage sprinted for the forest, ignoring the advancing volcanic ash and the impeding archers. Magar and Rigpa were the only ones to look back, noticing Akkael was not with those running toward the tree cover.
“Akkael!” Magar’s cries were ignored as Akkael stood with his head pointed towards the ground, twirling his axe in his hand.
“Archers!” Rigpa alerted the Northmen as she sensed them return. Some Northmen turned, pointing their shields toward the billow. A bolt hit Magar’s shield, which was the only one aimed at the fleeing crowd. Magar lowered his defence to look back at his brother, standing still on the field.
Akkael timed the first strike perfectly. Just before the archer arrived, he swung his axe into the torrent, launching it into the shadow archer’s skull and killing him instantly. The archer collapsed to the ground and Akkael drove his axe back down repeatedly, reducing his face to pulp. Then, the second missing archer saw his opportunity, teleporting behind Akkael while he was striking the first archer’s corpse in a fit of rage.
Magar yelled to his brother, but Akkael couldn’t hear him over the sound of metal crushing bone and his furious roar. It would have been too late anyway. The archer was already aimed at the back of Akkael’s head, and the bolt was already loose.
[Chapter 5] — The Afterlife
When Akkael woke, he noticed the stench first. Rotten flesh perfumed his surroundings, mingling with the dehydrated urine and ordure. He focused on the smell because all he could see was darkness. Darkness was everything: damp, cold, hard, and dry.
“Hello!” A choir of screams and maddening shrieks answered Akkael through the black. Their songs could curdle the blood, percussed by the banging on the bars, like a violent idiophone.
Akkael tried to remember what had happened, seeing if he could work out how he ended up there. But remembering proved too painful. He saw the ash turn orange as the flames engulfed his daughter. The moment his world shattered. No other memories surfaced. Suddenly, his hand began to ache. It was his left hand, the same one Alani held. The dull pain made it seem like she was still there, clutching him out of fear.
Most of the noises in the dungeon could be ignored. The ramblings of the mad became atmospheric, like the whistling of the wind and the rain tapping. But, eventually, Akkael noticed the sound of something shuffling towards him, stopping right in front of him, still veiled by the pitch-black room.
“I’ve always found the idea of namesakes an odd tradition,” said the stranger with a whisper that ground at the back of their throat. “Being a famous warrior or poet with the same name as an even more famous warrior or poet can only harm your own renown. But I suppose the Northmen of Solstr understand it more than me. It is the basis of your culture.”
“Who are you?” Akkael asked, still kneeling on the unlit ground.
“You were named after your uncle, correct?” This time, Akkael didn’t respond, allowing the stranger to continue. “Akkael the Giant, the famous scourge of Urkanza. Quite a reputation to live up to.”
His uncle’s face flashed through Akkael’s mind like lightning at the top of the sky. He recounted every story about his uncle: his ventures, impacts, and conquests. He felt the texture of his name. It was the only thing he shared with his uncle, but even that felt like a connection he didn’t deserve. For Akkael, his name was just a word, but with his uncle, it was a story.
Akkael shook away the thought of his uncle. His head flooded with more important things. “I never cared much for fame,” said Akkael.
“Right, of course.” The stranger’s voice was how the wind would speak if it could. “You see yourself as a traveller and want to see more of the world than any other man. Well, death isn’t the best for those opportunities, and it gets lonely in the dark. You are not being able to walk the land and sail the seas. Do you wonder what’s happening out there? What has the world turned into?”
The sound of the eruptions replayed in Akkael’s ears, along with the smell of volcanic gas and the heat and the dull ache in his hand. “Who are you?” Akkael’s voice broke.
“Ahh, I understand,” the stranger said, ignoring Akkael’s question for the second time. “Your kind does attach a lot to the process of death. Sentimentality for those you lose, sorrow for their lack, vengeance towards those responsible.”
Akkael’s head tilted up toward where he thought the voice was coming from but remained silent.
“Fame doesn’t interest you. Discovery doesn’t persuade you.” Akkael could hear the smile. “But vengeance; that gets your attention.”
“Who are you?” Akkael repeated, more indignantly this time.
Signalled by the sound of snapping fingers, green light illuminated everything around Akkael. It wasn’t bright. However, sitting in the dark made Akkael’s eyes sensitive. What was once just darkness was now a prison. Cells holding gaunt captives were situated along the thin corridor where Akkael was kneeling. Each filthy cell contained a litany of chains and a wooden shelf for a bed.
But what disturbed Akkael most was the stranger. It wasn’t a man or any creature Akkael had seen or imagined. The green light came from an amorphous cloud of smoke the stranger was floating inside. Disembodied tentacles and black eyes of varied sizes appeared and disappeared inside the void, and a fanged, lipless mouth grinned just below.
Akkael couldn’t blink or take his eyes off the wretched fiend, no matter how much he wanted to. “What do you want?”
The creature’s grin widened, ending at a tentacle on either side where cheeks would’ve been. “To give you everything you want. Shadow archers don’t work of their own volition. Someone ordered them to attack. Which means someone knew what was going to happen. Don’t you want to find them? Don’t you want to wring their neck?” He snarled through the last word.
Akkael took a moment before he spoke. “How do you plan to give me that? I’m dead, aren’t I?” Akkael sounded unsure. He started to remember the moment he died, the crossbow bolt crunching through the back of his skull. But, despite the dead religion of his people and all the other religions he had read about worldwide, he never imagined anything resembling an afterlife. He always thought there’d be nothing. He looked at the monster and wondered what else he could be wrong about. No one believed in gods anymore, but could that be a mistake, too? Was this a god?
“Don’t do it!” A yell burst from the closest cell to Akkael, and a weeping Urkanzan sat whimpering in the dim green light, dried blood crusting on his dark skin. “Don’t take what it offers you! Save your-”
The prisoner was silenced as the creature raised a tentacle, lunging it through the bars of his cell and impaling him. A voiceless cry emanated from the Urkanzan as the creature lifted him from the grimy floor. After a few seconds of torture, the beast removed his tentacle from the Urkanzan’s chest, and he collapsed in a shivering heap. He didn’t have a hole in his chest like Akkael would have thought, but the man’s brown complexion paled, and his eyes were haunting.
“As I was saying,” said the creature, “all I want is to give you what you want, an ample chance at revenge. Trust me when I say I can give you that. So, what say you, Akkael?”
Akkael tried to look it in the eye, but he couldn’t focus long enough on one before it slid away or vanished. So, he stared at its mouth instead. Its snarl was the only constant in its being. Akkael didn’t know exactly what he was offering, but, looking at the Urkanzan, the price was easy to guess. Common sense told him to refuse his offer. But then he felt the throb in his hand from where Alani had held on to him. He saw Magar, Skane, and the rest of their camp running for their lives and knowing how slim their chances were. He saw Doran riding into Wu Wei, and his imagination did the rest. With each image, rage coursed as readily as blood through a vein.
His gaze returned to the restless collection of eyes, and his fists clenched. Akkael gave his answer.
If you enjoyed the opening of my debut novel, please consider purchasing it on amazon, or anywhere you buy books: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Grief-Godless-Games-Joe-Audsley/dp/1739443829/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704724963&sr=8-1
J. T. Audsley 