A small, north-bound barge strung with lanterns pushes out of the gloomy jungle, drifting into the sunlight spilling through the crystalline canopy as it edges toward the tight elbow that weaves around the village. The numerous oars poking through the ship’s hull pull in erratic chaos.
A blur of movement catches my eye—a large, dark Vruk bursting toward the ship in long, powerful strides. “Shit,” I mutter, watching it leap from the river’s edge, ebony talons bared, trying to bridge the nine-foot gap. Two red-cloaked merchants scream as it thuds against the portside, making the barge tip to a symphony of muffled cries.
The beast scrambles, but the vessel begins to roll from the sheer weight of it clinging to the side, until it loses traction and falls—dunking beneath the water.
The barge bucks with a violent swing that sends the merchants sliding across the deck.
Seeing the Vruk pop up downstream in the midst of the gloomy, Irilak-infested jungle, I sprint toward the riverside.
“Throw out your anchor!” I bellow, using the back of my arm to wipe the gore from my face as I weave between glass cottages with pitched roofs. “These people need refuge!”
One of the merchants looks right at me from beneath the scoop of his hood. “Row!” he howls, knuckles blanching as he grips onto the rail and pulls himself up.
The barge begins to power forward, and I shake my head, stalking it along the riverbank. The second merchant pulls himself up by the tiller, steering the vessel, looking straight down the nose of it.
“Cowardly fucks.” I sheathe my sword and concede a few steps before sprinting forward, bounding off the bank, and leaping through the air. I land on the deck with such force the boat bucks, bloody gore splashing off my boots and muddying the floorboards as a handful of shrill screams vibrate through them.
Frowning, I stare at the floor, attention sliding to the man with a tight grip on the tiller. I barely catch a glance of his wide eyes beneath the fall of his blood-red hood before he stumbles a step and leaps off the back, landing with a heavy splash.
I grunt, whirling, and stalk toward the man at the nose—now facing me.
Chanting.
“Oh bright ones, please deliver me through the gates of Kvath—”
A blow of wind flips his hood, revealing his smooth face and bald head. My eyes widen at the sight of the upside down v carved into his forehead.
Shulák.
“I can smell your fear,” I growl as I draw close.
He continues to squeak words past his trembling lips.
“Gods have mercy, for my heart is not at peace. Please take me in your warm embrace and ease me into the Mala, for I am but your loyal servant.”
“Hate to break it to you,” I mutter on a low laugh, “but nobody’s listening. They don’t give a fuck about you.”
Or anyone else, for that matter.
He reaches into the fold of his cloak, pulling out a short blade that catches the light. I quicken my pace, hands bunching into fists, stopping when he whips it up and drags the sharp length across his throat, spilling ribbons of blood down his chest. Mouth gaping, his eyes roll back as a bloody breath gurgles from both the slit in his throat and his lips, before he crumbles in a heap on the deck.
His blood leeches down the floorboards, stretching toward me like crimson fingers.
I clear my throat, give him my back, and grab the anchor—a heavy, metal claw I toss off the side of the boat. It clatters against the sparkling riverbank, snagging between huge, crystal clear boulders.
Pulling with all my weight on the chain, I hiss out harsh breaths, shoulders bulging, the tendons in my arms pushing to the surface as I force the ship’s nose toward the shore. We clunk against it, and I secure the chain.
Swiping hair slick with sweat off my face, I look over my shoulder to the trapdoor near the back of the boat.
My footsteps thud across the deck, stomping the Shulák’s bright red blood with every step. I reach down, grab the metal handle, and pull. The stench of shit and piss and fear fills my nostrils—a putrid blend that makes me want to dry heave.
Checking my surroundings, I buffer the lower half of my face with the fall of my cloak and ease down the tight stairs that lead beneath the deck, stepping into the lantern-lit hull.
Eyes widening.
Sitting upon benches that line the space—benches that usually house grown, sturdy men—arekids.
Eight rows of two. Each of them bald and wide-eyed.
