I try to get my bearings. There are snow-covered peaks in the distance. Evergreen trees dot the expanse in front of me. Purple flowers break through the frozen ground, flourishing where they shouldn’t, just like me now.
I’ve no idea where my camp and crew are. Dimella must be frantic with worry, but I trust her to keep everyone safe until I can find my way back to them.
I start walking.
My stomach grumbles for the want of food, but there is nothing I can do about that. My thirst is remedied by scooping up snow and letting it melt in my mouth before swallowing. I can’t feel the cold of it, so it’s very satisfying, if slow.
My eyes sting from all the salt water they’ve been exposed to. Burns and scrapes cover my fingers and wrists from tugging and clawing at the ropes as well as misplaced slices from the dagger as I sawed my way free.
My hair and skin are covered in frost. My clothing is frozen to my body. I wish I could remove the outer layers, since I don’t need them, but I don’t know how to get free of them without tearing my skin off.
My gait is more of a waddle than a walk with the way my limbs are stuck to my clothing. It makes my pace slower than it should be.
But I am not dead.
That is the important thing.
Even if it’s impossible.
As the sun traces the sky, I make my way farther inland. Finally, when night falls, I can see pinpricks of light through the trees. It’s not my crew, that’s for sure. They know better. But neither is it the camp of men who guard the tomb entrance. For there must be dozens of fires spread throughout the woods to what I think is northeast.
I pick up my pace, finally having a heading.
I make noises as I move, no matter how much I try not to. The ice crunches and my clothing rustles with every step. Though my stomach kills me, I force myself to take it slow. Observe the area thoroughly as I approach. The natives on watch make themselves known to me slowly with their small movements. One scratches his nose. Another shakes himself awake. A third rubs his hands together for warmth.
For hours, I watch, until I’m certain I see all the lookouts. Only then can I plan my path into the camp.
I can smell the cooking meat on those fires, and it presses me on when my limbs feel ready to drop. My stomach encourages me when my head feels too heavy to lift.
I crawl through the trees, passing the watch one by one until I can see into the camp. Here, I pause, taking the measure of the space. Log cabins spread before me in an endless line. It is the first I’ve seen of any permanent residences from these people. Smoke billows out of the chimneys, and I spot covered areas housing chopped wood. Toward the center of the settlement, I see what appears to be the outside of a smithy and a tannery, though it’s hard to be sure with only firelight to see by.
Not far off, two men stand guard outside of a hastily erected tent, and I wonder instantly if that is where they are holding Kearan.
There is only one way to be certain, but I’d never make it over there without being seen, or more importantly, heard. Not in my current state.
There are a series of firepits, where spits roast meats, likely food for those on watch to help them stay awake. There is one person tending to the food, stopping at each fire to turn the meat. I watch her carefully, waiting to see if she will leave a fire untended long enough for me to approach it.
She does, for after she makes her rounds, she disappears inside one of the cabins, likely to prepare more food, and I take my chance, helping myself to the mostly cooked meat. Because the heat doesn’t hurt me, I don’t have to wait for it to cool before I let it slide down my throat and fill my aching belly. When done, I check for anyone coming this way.
Most of the people are sleeping, and those in the camp are unconcerned about intruders when those on watch haven’t raised an alarm.
They’ve clearly never had a run-in with someone like me before.
I hold my hands out toward the fire, and my frozen clothing crunches as I try to get myself closer. The ice melts from my sleeves at an agonizing pace, so I decide to hell with it all.
I thrust my hand into the flames, waiting for the pain of the burn to surface, but it doesn’t happen. My skin doesn’t catch fire, though the fabric does.
Throwing caution to the wind, I step fully into the firepit, stand atop the crackling logs, and hold back a sob.
I can’t feel it. Not the cold or the heat or anything in between.
What. Did. He. Do. To. Me?
I fall to my knees, grab on to a fiery white coal with my bare hand, squeeze it within my fist, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
But the fire doesn’t burn my skin. The smoke doesn’t clog my lungs. The heat doesn’t sting my eyes.
Instead the fire sizzles and sputters under the water melting off my skin and clothing. There is no pain. No consequence.
This isn’t right.
I catch movement out of the corner of my vision, and I duck down farther into the fire. A woman approaches the tent I noticed earlier with a young boy at her side.
Kearan. I still need to save Kearan. I can’t break down now.
She disappears inside the tent, and I remove myself from the fire, patting out my clothing in the few places that have caught.
Now I have a smell that follows me, surely, but at least I don’t make a sound when I move anymore. I creep closer to that tent, waiting until the guards aren’t looking before placing myself exactly at the back. I lower myself onto the dark ground, making myself as small as possible.
Here I pause and listen.
A woman says something in that native tongue. My mind translates the words for me, but the boy, who can’t be more than ten, translates them for Kearan.
“Let’s see if you are prepared to talk now that you’ve had a chance to calm your temper.” I can only imagine the look she must be giving him. “I am Dynkinar, a Speaker for our people. This is Zarian, my translator. What are you called?”
“I’m not feeling especially chatty after you sank our ship and killed my captain. Just run me through and be done with it.”
At first, I feel comforted to hear Kearan’s voice, but he thinks me dead, and that, inexplicably, makes me sad.
The boy translates Kearan’s words back to Dynkinar.
“There is still a chance you may live,” he says after Dynkinar speaks again. “There is a chance the rest of your crew might live, but first you will answer my questions. If I like what I hear, perhaps we can talk of peace. Now, let’s try this again. I am Dynkinar, a Speaker for our people. Who are you?”
I can sense Kearan’s hesitation. He does not trust these people, but he also wants to keep the rest of the crew safe.
Finally, he says, “I am Kearan, sailing master of the former vessel, Vengeance. What is a Speaker? That like a queen?”
“No, a Speaker is one whose words hold power. One who must be listened to. There are three of us among the Drifta, but you were captured while my men were on watch, so here we are. Now, that’s enough questions from you. You will answer mine now. Tell me why you have woken the King of the Undersea before I order my people to have you flayed alive.”
Chapter 14
KING OF THE UNDERSEA?
Is that what they call Threydan?
I wish I could be the one inside that tent to answer and ask questions, but I’m stuck listening to wherever Kearan takes the conversation.