“In the shadows of the Tailfins, we find the measure of our true selves.”

  – Ethaf ak’Ladir, Proverbs & Poems

  Irthal exchanged a quick, tense glance with his friends before he turned to face the tall man that had approached them. “We need passage to the north, past the Tailfin mountains,” he responded while trying to keep his voice steady. The captain’s brow rose as he eyed them warily, skepticism etched across his weathered features.

  “Past the mountains,” the man grumbled, rubbing his scruffy beard thoughtfully. “Way up north, eh? Where the sky touches the sea!” He looked them over once more, sizing them up. “That’s not a journey for the faint of heart. And it certainly ain’t cheap.”

  Irthal held the captain’s gaze, feeling his crew’s stares at his back. But before he could respond to the man, Lurgon stepped into Irthal’s sight. He extended his hand toward the captain. Within it lay a rock that glinted brilliantly under the light of the setting sun. Not a rock. That was a jewel. It was breathtaking. Intricate facets reflected the warm light, casting a shimmering, reddish glow onto the captain’s weathered face.

  “We’ve got the means to pay,” Lurgon said with a steely voice.

  The captain’s eyes flicked to the jewel, and his skepticism seemed to lessen by a fraction. He shrugged. “Well, then you’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, finally, and extended a calloused hand toward Lurgon. “Cap’n Vorgast, at your service.”

  Lurgon nodded and placed the ruby into Vorgast’s waiting hand. They sealed their deal with a firm handshake. The captain went back to examining his new jewel appreciatively. Its brilliance cast dancing rays of light onto his rough palms. Irthal suddenly sensed the wary glances from the others behind him, their earlier doubts momentarily forgotten in the presence of such wealth. Even some of the dock workers had stopped whatever it was they were doing and openly stared at them.

  “Shiny thing you got there,” Vorgast said and a slow grin spread across his face, revealing stained yellow teeth. He pocketed the gem with a swift, practiced motion, then clapped his hands together. “Well then, best get settled in. We leave with the evening tide.” Around him, the men and women working the docks slowly resumed their work, avoiding Vorgast’s gaze.

  Irthal motioned to the others and they fell in behind the man from Dormil, navigating a winding path between towering piles of crates and barrels in the labyrinthine dockyards, past bustling groups of dockworkers and the occasional seagull picking at scraps. The smell of salt and seaweed filled the air, mingling with the more pungent scent of rotting fish and the lingering trace of tar.

  Occasionally, Irthal dared a glance into the sprawling city beyond the docks. Dormil lay in a ravine, hugging the first tendrils of the Tailfins. To either side of the huddled buildings, slate walls rose to the skies. Squinting, Irthal thought he could make out cave openings in the rock. Closer to them, an already wide street opened into a market square that was dominated by a huge wooden stage. Was that some kind of market place? He drank in as many details as he could. So many, in fact, that he almost stumbled over coiled rope that dotted the dockside. Twice.

  As they arrived at their destination, a sense of unease had begun to gnaw at Irthal. He could not quite place his finger on what exactly, but something did not feel right to him. What had to be Vorgast’s ship loomed ahead of them, tall mast and heavy sails cutting a menacing silhouette against the fading light. The crew members that lounged on deck all bore that same weathered, hardened look, as if they were cut from the rock wall embracing Dormil, faces unreadable.

  Irthal’s unease deepened as they cast off, but he pushed it down. They needed this to get to Sevastha. Not many choices around here. Especially good ones. Better to just get this over with. He forced himself to focus on the movement of the ship under his feet instead. The sound of waves crashing against the hull. The distant call of seagulls as the sun set. He breathed in deeply, letting himself be comforted by the familiarity of the sea. Around them, the world slipped into twilight.

  Some gruff signaling by the crew shepherded them around the ship and they soon settled into the quarters that had been assigned to them. A single cramped cabin with the singular characteristic of being entirely bare. No cots, no furniture. Just a door and a tiny window looking out to the ocean.

  “Do you think we can trust him?” Sam asked, once she plumped down on the floor.

  “For better or worse, I guess we’ll find out,” Irthal replied, not letting his gaze stray from the small window that overlooked the darkening sea. “To think we likely paid more for this cabin than for our own ship.” He shook his head, smiling bitterly.

  “I miss the Escape,” Sam sighed and let her hand wander over the worn wood.

  “Lurgon, where did you get that gem from?” Mythas inquired, something sharp in her eyes as she suddenly turned toward him.

  Lurgon, who had been absently staring at the wooden floorboards beneath them, looked up. His eyes flickered to the rest of the group, briefly considering his response, before he settled back on Mythas. “Took it,” he began, voice low, “From Embrez’ mansion. That room, when Irthal was all busy getting back his pendant.”

  “You did what?” Mythas rose, hands outstretched.

  “Lurgon,” Sam breathed out in disbelief, “you stole from the Bloody Duke?”

  “Thought that was the point of breaking into his house,” Lurgon shrugged nonchalantly. “We did steal the pendant back from him, didn’t we? Besides, kind of had to. We needed something to barter with, after all.”

  “He’s right. Embrez already wants us for the pendant,” Irthal said, keeping his voice steady despite his inner turmoil. He met Lurgon’s gaze. His friend’s eyes did not waver. “At this point, one more item on his list of grievances won’t matter. He can only kill us once after all.”

  Mythas huffed, shook her head, and retreated to one corner of their domain. Options for retreat were lamentably limited on this ship.

  And so, they sailed. Vorgast had told them something about shoals that were supposedly good for fishing, on the other side of the Tailfins. Had told them that his ship would be bringing them to wherever it was they wanted and then he and his crew would go to the shoals. Irthal was doubtful.

  The ship sliced through dark water, waves lapping rhythmically against the hull, the only constant amidst the symphony of seagull cries and distant murmurs of the crew. Irthal spent most of his time on deck, ignoring the dirty seamen and their crude jokes. Better here than in their cramped prison below deck.

  At first, he watched as they left the protective embrace of the ravine. As much as he could make out in the gathering dusk, anyway. The shoreline of Dormil gradually disappeared, replaced by the vast expanse of the sea, as they made a half-turn and followed the coast of the continent northward.

  In time, the outlines of the Tailfins came into view, their jagged peaks calling to mind the spines of a great beast. Seemingly rising straight from the heart of the ocean, tips brushing against the sky. Around Irthal, even the banter of the crew seemed to still at the play of light and shadow on the sharp ridges and deep crevices. The edge of the world, some said.

  As they skirted the ominous ridges—reaching far into the sea like hungry tentacles—the world around them seemed to hold its breath. The only sounds now came from the ship’s timbers, creaking against the might of the sea. Silence and a bit of time, that was all it needed. The Tailfins had always stood as sentinels of the unknown, dividing the known world from the mysteries of the north.

  And they had crossed them.

  One step closer.

  But still. Something was off. That nagging feeling that had settled within Irthal since Dormil just did not leave him. The crew, initially just distant—almost faceless—figures attending to their duties, began to draw his attention more and more. Their laughter echoed just a bit too loud, their stares lingered for too long, their whispers too hushed. The whole day, he could feel their eyes on him. Always watching, always waiting.

  “What do you make of them?” Irthal found himself asking Lurgon one night, as their voices were swallowed by the sea’s eternal hum and the ship’s wooden groans. They could see the backs of the Tailfins now, blotting out the starry night sky.

  For a while, the big man brooded. “They’re not right,” Lurgon finally said, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic edge. “It’s as if they’re… waiting. Waiting for something to happen.”

  When he was not up on the decks, Irthal found himself wandering the ship’s womb. Where the open expanse above deck awed, stretching all the way to the horizon in the north, the tight spaces in the dark depths of the ship offered a comforting contrast. Hard to believe that it had taken them only a few days to get here. If his understanding did not mislead him, a few days more of sailing due east and they would be in Sevastha. The thought rushed through him like a stiff breeze. Surely, it could not be that easy?

  It was late on one of his walks, when sleep proved elusive yet again. Lurgon’s words haunted him. Irthal’s footfalls echoed ominously in the ship’s belly. The only light came from the occasional lantern flickering eerily against the damp wood. Lost in thoughts about what they would be doing once they reached the Alabaster City, he stumbled over something. Irthal frowned. Had that sound been… metallic? He bent down and carefully lifted the tarp that was spread over the obstacle. A shudder ran through him as he realized what he had—quite literally—stumbled upon.

  There, in the dim light, he saw them: chains. Heaps and heaps of chains. Cold and gleaming, a whole array of manacles and fetters, rust spots blooming like bloody flowers.

  What in the name of… Irthal’s pulse quickened. He rose swiftly, eyes darting left and right to ensure his discovery remained unseen. From the nape of his neck to the seam of his trousers, a cold shower spread.

  Then he rushed back to their quarters, fear lending him the agile kind of speed necessary to navigate the cramped corridor. What felt like mere heartbeats later, he burst into the room.

  Sevastian and Lurgon, playing a game of dice. Sam, reading a book she had gotten from who knew where. Mythas, sleeping in a corner, or at least pretending to sleep. They all turned to the door, sudden tension blossoming in their faces. Except Mythas, for whom it took a few moments longer to assess the situation through blurry eyes. Maybe she really had been sleeping.

  Then Irthal broke the silence of the night. “I’ve just found chains in the hull. Lots of them,” he said, the words barely a whisper yet still echoing uncomfortably loud in their cabin. “We need to be on our guard. I think this voyage isn’t as it seems. These people aren’t who they seem to be. Any ideas?”

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

  Like a challenge, his words hung heavily in the room. Mythas was the first to break the silence. “Chains? Really. What’s next, ghosts? Irthal, you’re seeing things,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep. “I’m going back to sleep and I suggest you do the same.”

  “Yeah, we can talk about this in the morning,” Sam chimed in and began to yawn until her jaw seemed to almost dislocate.

  But sleep was the last thing on Irthal’s mind now. The sight of the gleaming, almost fluid, chains. The unnerving behavior of the crew. It all added up to a grim reality that they had not bargained for. He argued, pleaded with them. But even Sevastian’s eyes were heavy with sleep by now and Mythas’ gaze merely flickered with mild annoyance before she closed her eyes again. Helplessly, Irthal watched as his friends turned, or returned, to sleep’s embrace, their breaths syncing with the ship’s rhythmic sway. Against all his better judgment, he also lay down and tried to wrest a few hours of sleep from the fitful night, in-between staring up at the darkly patterned cabin ceiling. Thinking.

  As dawn broke, they were surrounded.

  Vorgast, proudly displaying his decaying teeth in a wide grin, ambled into their cramped quarters, letting his eyes rove over their group before they settled on Mythas. “I reckon we’ve had our fill of playing nice sailors,” he declared, the playful lilt in his voice failing to mask the underlying menace. “We’re far away from harbor now. Far enough. The crew here were wondering whether you’d had any more of those little gems. And there’s some coin in the slave trade as well. Or as bait for fishing, if you’re daft enough to resist. But before we get to that,” he continued and his gaze on Mythas hardened, “we thought we’d have a bit of... fun.” His lips curled into a twisted smile.

  The sailors at his back—a crude assortment of shades of brown and grey—chuckled. Their leery eyes rested on Mythas, wandering over her breasts, her hips, her legs. Thoughts were laid open for the whole world to see. Irthal could feel the icy tendrils of fear emerging.

  Consequences be damned, he forced himself to step forward, placing himself between Mythas and the seamen. “Over my dead body,” he seethed, voice steady.

  Vorgast stepped aside and his men moved in closer with widening grins on their faces. With an almost casual swipe, one of the burly sailors hurled Irthal to one side of the room. Despite the short distance from his position to the wall—Irthal was suddenly grateful for the tiny cabin—it still hurt. Badly. From the floor, his side burning with pain, he watched the men continue their advance toward Mythas. A twisted sense of anticipation filled the room as Lurgon, Sevastian, and Sam started to draw their weapons. Yet before the tension could fully take root, something in Mythas cracked.

  Only retrospectively could Irthal make sense of the events that followed. And even then, it had seemed like one extended blur. A blur of blood.

  Yet Irthal would never forget the look on Mythas’ face as she lashed out at her assailants. A sudden flurry of motion—as quick as lightning—and the room was filled with guttural screams. One of the sailors clutched at his throat, blood seeping through his searching fingers, eyes wide with shock and incomprehension. Before the others could so much as react, Mythas had already spun toward the next man, her slim daggers gleaming in the dim light, performing a deadly dance of motion.

  To Irthal, she was a whirlwind of death, her movements too quick to follow, each stroke precise. And lethal. As if a lifetime of training and survival had prepared her for this very moment. As if a lifetime of frustration and rage was erupting from her. A second man dropped and his lifeblood started to pool around him. The third barely had time to shout a warning before he too joined his comrades on the bloodied floor. Soon, no floor at all would be visible anymore. Irthal looked at his friends but they were just as dumbstruck as he was, eyes glued to the carnage. Finally, a stab of rationality pierced the stupor and he signaled his friends to join the fight. To help Mythas.

  Not that she seemed to need any help. Mythas darted between the men, daggers cutting through the air like swallows in flight, finding their mark each time. The sailors were unarmored, their weapons stowed away. They did not expect combat in what they thought was a simple bit of fun. They assumed they were just facing a bunch of kids. They were dying for it.

  A stab to the gut, a slash across the throat, a thrust into the heart—sailors meeting their end before they even registered what was happening to them. Gradually, as realization dawned that this might become their end, the men clumsily raised arms in defense as they staggered backward toward the corridor.

  One by one, they fell, laughter and leers replaced by cries of surprise and pain. By the stink of desperation tinging the stale air.

  Mythas moved like water, each step oozing deadly grace, each stroke felling another sailor. Pushing them back with sheer ferocity. She was drenched in crimson by now. Vorgast, momentarily forgotten at the entrance of their cabin, roared and charged at Mythas. In a fluid, almost surreal motion, she pivoted—locking eyes with Vorgast—and with an effortless grace, she drove her dagger straight into his heart.

  Vorgast looked surprised, and then Vorgast was no more. He dropped to the floor, lifeless.

  But even after the last body fell, Mythas did not stop. Her breath came in ragged gasps, eyes wide and wild. Irthal could see the white in her eyes, the only remaining fleck of light color on her body. She continued to hack and slash at the lifeless bodies, tearing flesh. Her movements seemed fueled by a rage—or fear—that had taken complete hold of her.

  “Lurgon,” Irthal gasped from his spot on the floor, where he had slumped down after the fight. “You’ve got to stop her... she’s... she’s lost it. She’ll hurt either herself or us, if we let this go on.”

  Sitting beside him, Lurgon nodded wearily and pushed himself off the floor to move toward Mythas. Irthal watched as he approached her carefully, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. “Mythas,” Lurgon called, trying to penetrate her frenzy. “Mythas, it’s over. Do you hear me? They’re all dead. It’s over.”

  Wresting her dagger from the torn chest of a sailor, she did not seem to hear—or even see—him. Lurgon inhaled and prepared himself for another attempt. Suddenly, Mythas whirled around, blade slashing toward Lurgon. Eyes wide with shock, the stocky man just barely managed to avoid the dagger.

  Irthal just knew the weapon would have taken Lurgon’s throat if he had not darted back in the last moment. This was getting out of hand. “Mythas!” he shouted, but the woman seemed beyond reasoning, mind lost in bloodlust. Instead, she followed Lurgon, daggers raised.

  Lurgon, in the meantime, barely managed to stay outside the reach of her daggers, fully occupied with navigating the cramped room. He frantically motioned for the others to do… something. Then Sam acted, with Sevastian at her side. They rushed her together, planning to disarm her. But Mythas seemed a force of nature in her current state. She fought them off, daggers whirling. Irthal saw the burgeoning panic on their faces. How long until someone got hurt?

  Slowly, Irthal drew himself up, wincing at the pain that radiated from a—quite likely broken—rib. He would not be a big help like that. But then Sevastian finally managed to land a heavy blow on Mythas’ temple with the pommel of his shortsword. As if someone had removed her bones, Mythas crumpled into a heap, daggers clattering to the wooden floor.

  Silence descended upon them then, broken only by heavy breathing and the distant call of seabirds.

  They looked at each other, at the unconscious Mythas on the floor, at the bodies of the sailors around them. Slowly, the reality of what had just happened began to sink in. And what would happen next. They were alone on a foreign ship, drifting in uncharted waters.

  “Sam!” Irthal finally called, shaking off the wave of shock. “You’ve got the most experience. You take the helm. We’ll help. We just need to get this under control.”

  “Irthal, we’re only four people,” Sevastian countered uncertainly. “This is a big ship.”

  “If you think our chances are better in the water, I recommend a hearty jump. Otherwise, you’d best get to the sails and ropes.”

  Not knowing what else to do, they had largely left Mythas undisturbed, body moved carefully to the side, away from the slaughtered sailors. Irthal had just made sure that her breathing was steady, then he also went up to the deck. Her face had looked calm, the wild look gone in blissful unconsciousness.

  For some time, their passage went surprisingly smooth. Considering they were only four people—three and a half, really, with Irthal’s broken rib. Surely it could not be long now until they reached Sevastha. He felt something like hope rear its vulnerable head.

  Yet their respite did not last long.

  As they finally passed fully behind the towering peaks of the mountains—losing track of the sea bordering the western shores of Lycar—they were almost immediately met with churning waters and cutting winds. A dense fog hovered on the water’s surface and started to creep up on them. Within moments, it had enveloped them, causing the ship below them to shudder.

  Irthal tried to make out the faces of his friends in the haze. But before he could think of something productive to shout, a deafening roar filled his ears. He stumbled to the railing and tried to look out to the sea. Behind the curtain of fog, a denser white sheen lay on the water. Somehow, they had found themselves being propelled into a fast-moving stream of rapids. Talk about bad luck.

  “What in the seas is this?” Irthal shouted. He could not believe what he was seeing.

  “Whatever it is, it can’t be good,” Sam yelled over the roar of the rushing water, knuckles white as she gripped the wheel.

  The ship reeled and lurched. It was a mere plaything in the grips of the sea’s fury now. Its timbers groaned in protest as it was jerked in all directions by the relentless waves. Suddenly, massive, jagged rocks loomed over the surface of the sea, threatening to pierce the hull of the ship. If they would hit even one of them—if they so much as grazed them—they would be done for. No question about that. Irthal gripped the railing with both hands, the pain from his rib entirely forgotten. The roar of the water filled his ears—spray stinging his eyes—and the wooden deck bucked and tilted beneath his feet. All around Irthal, the world was reduced to a blur of mist and fear.

  Despite Sam’s best efforts to steer them clear, the currents were just too powerful. Irthal knew it was only a matter of time. It did not take long. With a sickening crunch that echoed through his bones, the ship struck something solid. Something large. The impact sent them sprawling, thrown about like rag dolls in the spray as the ship listed and began to break apart.

  As if by a miracle, they had all still remained on board the shattered ship. Bent, bloodied—but not broken. Unlike their ship.

  The chaotic churn of the sea now became an irresistible pull as the ship began to sink, dragged down by the merciless force of the rapids. Dragging them with it. Irthal scrambled for anything that would float, eventually clutching onto a broken mast and torn sails as the ship below them disappeared beneath the waves. Slowly, he pulled himself out of the worst parts of the rapids along the line of the mast.

  Then he looked around. A weight dropped from his shoulders as he spotted Sam, Sevastian, and Lurgon. They had followed his example and grabbed on to some flotsam as well. “Where’s Mythas?!” Irthal yelled, trying to make himself heard over the chaos surrounding them.

  “Don’t know, she was below deck last I checked,” Lurgon replied tersely as he clung to a long wooden log.

  “Couldn’t we climb onto one of these rocks?” Sam asked somewhat hopeful. At some point during the crash, she must have injured himself. Her forehead was marred by a deep gash that liberally colored her face scarlet and made it hard for her to keep her eyes open for long.

  “Sure,” Lurgon called sardonically. “If you want to be cut into ribbons by the next wave smashing you against the rock, be my guest.”

  As if to emphasize his point, a sudden wave hit them, ending their conversation and tossing them apart like leaves in a storm.

  The water welcomed him, the frothing sea tugging and pulling as if everyone wanted a piece of him. Irthal was being swallowed. The world became muffled and distant. His lungs burned. He felt time pass, not knowing how long it had been, how long he could still last.

  Then, as suddenly as it had taken him, the sea spit him back out. He gasped for breath, eyes stinging with salt. Below him, he felt coarse sand. The coughing shadow beside him had to be Sevastian. Irthal sent a brief prayer of thanks to his Elevated.

  As he forced his burning eyes open, Irthal could just barely make out the shapes of Lurgon and Sam nearby, their floating bodies illuminated by the dim moonlight. The relentless undertow had ensnared them, was dragging them toward a perilous stretch of coast near Irthal, where jagged rocks jutted out like the teeth of some sea monster.

  Despite their best efforts, both of them were smashed into the rocks, the waves throwing them onto the rugged shoreline like a discarded plaything.

  “No!” he cried and started to stumble toward them.

  The rough landing had left the two bruised and battered. There was blood, sure. But they were alive. Slowly, painfully, they dragged themselves further up the coast. Irthal allowed himself to exhale.

  Lurgon cursed under his breath. “Well, that was a rough ride. Anyone missing an arm or two?”

  “Shh!” Irthal hissed and motioned toward the forest ahead where the rocky incline gave way to wispy trees. But he had neither meant the trees nor the rocks.

  Enormous gates rose from the dirt, their ancient-looking stone partly covered by moss and creepers. Instantly, an eerie silence fell over them as they took in the sight. The whispers of the wind echoed through the open archway, giving life to the silent stories etched in its stone. Lurgon whistled appreciatively.

  “Sevastha,” Sam breathed, her battered throat only managing a hoarse whisper. The city of gods. The Alabaster City. The legend. Her voice still echoed into the silent night as the reality of their situation began to dawn on them.

  They had survived. They had arrived.