Crashing over my legs.
The ocean is touching me. I realize it with sudden, disgusted clarity, and my whole body jerks violently awake. Throwing myself forward, I scramble away from the water. My hands shake and I gag before collapsing again. Gods, but I hate the sea. Just thinking about it is like a hand wrapped around my neck, squeezing so hard it might collapse. I reach for the protective necklace the War-Father gave me, but all my fingers touch is the smooth metal of my breastplate. Scrabbling at the neck of my armor, I dig two fingers beneath the edge, hunting for the leather cord.
But the necklace is gone, probably burned away by the dragon's fire, and I’m not safe here, so close to the sea. I pant in short,sharp breaths.
Have I washed up on one of the Wild Sea’s many rock isles? The islands near Rampage’s course were small and desolate. This one’s bigger, and there’s a row of buildings on the crest of the barren rock hill in front of me. They’re small and square, stone constructions with clay-tile roofs.
There’s a spot on Amkrieg, the War-Father’s island, that looks just like this. The huts house the fishermen who feed the keep. But Amkrieg is five hundred miles north of where the witch attacked us, so I must be somewhere else.
As I squint up at the houses, a man appears between two of them on the hill above me, dressed in beige. He holds up a hand to shield his eyes as he stares at me.
If these are the Wild Seas, it could be a witch. He’ll tell their king I’m still alive, and…
A mosquito buzzes around my ear, hunting for exposed flesh. I box it, then struggle up to my feet. By habit my hand goes to my sword.
My gauntlet fingers close around the hilt, and then I freeze. Didn’t I drop my sword when I fell off the dragon? I remember the look on the Witch King's face when my dagger cut him. Falling, and fire, the ocean closing around me. There was a voice below the water, and I was….
Pain shears through my head like a cleaver snapping bone. For a moment I remember a figure beneath the water, coiling tentacles and an eye so vast it filled my field of vision. My head pounds so ferociously that I let out a sob.
What happened? WhereamI? The headache eases the moment I turn my focus to this island that looks just like home. Easier not to think about whatever happened in the sea, then.
I can’t see the man on the hill anymore. Just the stone houses, so familiar it's like they were plucked from my memory.
With the sea behind me, the only place I can go is up the hill, praying this isle doesn’t belong to our enemies. My muscles protestthe first step. Sea-water sluices out of the armor. Is that smoke I smell? And the distant sound of a bell?
One foot after the other I struggle up the rocky incline. What should be a ten minute climb takes me half an hour. If there are witches here, I’m in no condition for a fight.
When I reach the crest of the hill the island sprawls out before me, and I blink.
There’s the village, four dozen houses and scattered shops, all brute stone constructions with none of the inner empire’s elegance.
There’s the watchtower and gated stone wall surrounding the War-Father’s gardens, the one green place on the isle and the only source of food besides what the sea provides. From the top of the hill I can see over the garden wall to the crowns of the fruit trees, a green sight that makes my heart ache.
And there’s the keep, the squat black stone tower where I spent my winters as a child, between long summer campaigns at sea where the War-Father taught me how to kill.
Amkrieg. But it isn’t possible.
A group of three robed men rush toward me across the rocky path from the keep. The one I saw in beige trails behind them. I’m exhausted, my muscles trembling, and I just want to sit down on the stones.
For a moment my mind turns back to the dragon and the battle on its back. The way the Witch-King’s eyes bore into mine as the wind caressed me.
I failed to kill him. I should be dead. Nobody walks away from a battle with a witch that strong.
“Thatisher,” one of the men says, jerking me back to the present. His blocky face is familiar. The new captain of the guard.
“Lady knight Caiteven. What happened to your face?” the castle's steward whispers in disbelief.
But what does he mean, about my face? When I open mymouth to ask, only a croak comes out. I take a stumbling step forward, swaying. The men yelp and grab me around the waist and arms.
“Get her inside,” the steward says, and they hustle me toward the nearest fishing hut. I clunk after them, moving my feet obediently to keep from falling as they half-drag, half-push me toward the door. Beneath the armor, my clothes are soaked and my skin feels raw. Wouldn’t it have been simpler if I hadn’t washed up at all?
I should have stayed in the foul ocean, where I probably belong.
It’s dark inside the hut, and cold, the stone walls too thick for the sun to heat. It smells like fish guts, and smoke even though the fire in the hearth is banked.
This has to be a dream. I can’t be on Amkrieg. I stand, arms out the side, as the men divest me of my armor. Buckles clack and metal scrapes as the weight comes off my chest; as the gauntlet slides off my left hand. I take a deep breath and the pounding in my head gets a little lighter.
I still have no idea what’s wrong with my face. My eyes hunt for a mirror but find nothing, just dark stone and a few pieces of bone furniture illuminated by the narrow windows.
