Vertical Media proudly presents Stellar Shock, an immersive
audiobook podcast experience from the visionary storytellers
at Vertical Media Book 1, Embers of Rebellion.
Chapter 2 Prospectus The boys walked into Tuatomo with shirts
stuck to their backs and mud caked up to their knees.
Sunlight slanted through scattered palms, cutting wide,
hot stripes across the foot worn path.
The gate, flanked by two upright beams set deep in the ground,
marked the border between more and less safety.
Above stretched a wood sign, split and battered at the
corners, with Teuatoma gouged across it in thick, chopped out
letters that ran from one edge to the other.
Sarah kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling the weight
of each stone and bit of string he'd collected on the walk,
counting out old routines In Sync with each step. 2
gatekeepers leaned against one of the posts.
One chewed on a Reed, lips pursed tight, squinted eyes
tracking the five boys. The other spat into the dust,
wiped his mouth, then tipped his head back as if he expected
something dangerous coming in after them.
The men wore wraps at the waist and old knives strapped across
their chests. Their arms were knotted with
muscle, shoulders roped, faces marked by sun scars and lines
that were probably older than SER could guess.
Balu snorted as they passed. Yeah, you watch your village,
old man. He muttered, not quite under his
breath. Viti grinned at his friend.
Maybe he's only watching your ugly face, not the rest of us.
Lavu let out a small laugh and kept his eyes forward, brushing
sweat from his temple. Nobody else said anything until
the guards. Voices faded, replaced by the
smoulder and crackle of the village.
Rows of thatched huts lined the road, a collection of bundles,
each shaped like a sideways bowl, topped with green and
brown and Moss at the bones. Near each, a patchwork fence
looped rough rectangles of ground, Some garden, some
storage, all crisscrossed by footprints and the scratch marks
of lean village dogs. Faint voices drifted from within
the doorways, but almost no one stood outside.
The heat had driven most folks in for dusk.
Twetuma at this hour felt held in the palm of someone's hand,
too quiet, as though the village listened for a threat behind
each bird call. Past the entrance, three houses
stood a little apart from the others.
Their doors faced the path square, wider and better built
than most. Not because their owners
deserved more, but because customs said the families near
the gate ought to afford space for visiting or warning.
Barloo's house sat first largest, its walls clotted with
mud and palm stem patched in places by fresh river clay.
Still dark from the morning. A split rail bench ran along the
wall under the single faded window.
Vitti's house followed 3 steps away.
Its roof bulged at the centre but sagged on the left.
His mother called it a sleepy roof, though anyone who stood in
the kitchen during a rainstorm left with a wet shoulder.
The garden beside the house grew thick with herbs and onions,
their tops poking through a mat of weeds heavy with bugs. 1/2
finished fishing net hung over a line between two fence posts.
A day's work only half done. Lavu lived in the 3rd house, a
long rectangle with a wide porch.
Two small pairs of sandals sat by the door, abandoned by
younger siblings. Lavu's father, Canulo, often
stood on this porch at night, arms folded, keeping a close
watch on the paths leading out toward the forest.
The five paused as they passed Balu's gate.
He swung it open with one heel and greeted a small black dog
that darted out to nose at his legs.
This one smarter than all you put together, he bragged.
Learned to piss outside in just one day.
Vt rolled his eyes and flicked a clump of dirt at Balu, hitting
the boy's calf. Hope he pisses in your bed next,
Captain. Sir, let the insults roll along.
He watched Roland, who looked small beside Balu, smaller even
with the dust streaked on his nose, face hidden mostly behind
a mop of tangled hair. Roland slipped his hands to the
long side pocket of his shorts and pressed his back against
Sir, a silent signal to keep moving.
When Balu and Lavu reached their front steps, they turned, each
calling a quick, fast goodbye, almost in unison.
See you in the morning. Don't let the dog bite you.
Lavu's voice trailed off into his house.
Balu whistled at the black dog again and then vanished after
it, leaving only the slap of the gate and a scraping sound.
Vitty waited a moment, then lifted his chin.
Guess I'll see you idiots at sunrise.
Unless your mom lets you sleep in.
Roland should wake me with the broom.
Roland said, uncertain. See you, Vt.
Vt gave SER 1/2 nod, eyes squinting again, and slipped off
toward his porch, wet sandals in one hand.
Whistling low, Roland and SER headed deeper into Teutoma,
boots bumping small stones. The main footpath thickened
wider here, more rutted with grooves worn deep by rain and
the drift of footsteps. Houses on either side sprouted
close together, the thatching ragged along the edges.
A few cats watched from low platforms, eyes narrowed, tails
twitching. Slow they passed the public
well, its rope trailing wet circles over the beam, the
wooden bucket perched by the edge, beads of water cooling the
dirt beneath. A pale child crouched nearby,
gathering up kindling. She saw the boys lifted her chin
and darted inside the nearest house, her footfalls quick and
quiet. Between the well and the Elders
hall, wide bowls cradled smoldering coals from midday's
cook fires. The air here thickened with a
mix of wood smoke, boiled greens and the sharp Tang of river
fish. Smells clung to the low beams.
The communal hall stood dead ahead, bigger than any house in
Tuatoma, but only by width, not height, its sides bruised by
age, reinforced by knotty bamboo driven into hard packed mud.
The sloping roof ran long, almost hitting the ground at the
sides. At the entry, thick doors of oak
ran from ground to over a man's head.
A carving above the door showed 4 coiled animals, each one
reposing on a stone bird, snake, frog and boar, each with mouths
wide and empty eyes. Outside the hall a deep set of
muddy boot prints Criss crossed the steps.
The left door here always stuck. Some villager had hung a
battered bell just above, but it only rang for market days or
funerals. Roland stopped.
He rocked on his heels. They started early tonight.
He whispered. The sound coming from inside the
hall reached them low voices stabbing at each other, a deep
rumble, like a storm working itself up but not yet blowing.
Every few moments of voice rose, battered up against the closed
doors, then bled back into the undertone.
Sir motioned to Roland, placed a finger to his lips, and drew the
other boy along the walls shadow toward the back.
The side of the communal hall smelled of old dirt, bamboo, and
old soup grass clutched at cracks in the packed earth. 2
old chunks of brick rested by the foundation, remnants from
elsewhere, hauled here ages ago for reasons even Ward probably
wouldn't remember. Around this side, sunlight lost
its way, turned slow and muddy, clinging to corners.
Roland crouched near a pile of broken roofing, keeping flat.
Sere moved slow, picking his spots, watching for anything
that might draw unwanted attention.
A shadow shifting, A rat diving beneath the eaves.
The scrape of footsteps from the alley behind them.
The bamboo lattice on the wall warped in two places, and there
Sere saw it. A slit not wider than his thumb,
running horizontal, streaked by pale light.
He bent his ear to the crack. At first, muffled voices, an
anxious hum, and the measured thunk of wood on wood.
Maybe a staff tapping for attention.
Then he leaned forward to press his right eye against the edge,
squinting through at the inside. The whole inside opened wide,
bigger than even the harvest markets.
The air shimmered from the glow of half a dozen wall torches
bracketed up high. Straw mats ran along both sides
of the table that stretched down the center.
A collection of elders packed the benches.
The tallest lifted a mug, hand trembling slow, his voice lost
in the tilt of his head. At the head, half turned from
the others, sat Ward Seraphin. His beard had gone nearly white,
streaked through with yellow smoke stains.
He wore a patched robe, threadbare at both elbows.
Sir watched him scratch at his jaw with a finger thickened by
old brakes and scars. Ward's eyes looked elsewhere,
not bored, not tired, just gone. Like he listened to a voice only
he could hear. The mug sat untouched in front
of him. The men around him held theirs
higher, cups pulsing with every wave of their hands.
The Jodea Pluvia hammered his first against the table.
That poor excuse of a God has doomed his entire Kingdom.
His words flung across the table, lips shredded by nerves.
He sat broad shouldered and balding, with the same streak of
angry blue eyes Sir saw in Viti Palju.
Kochakipi shifted, crammed in one of the benches, folding his
arms across a Barrow chest. His voice hung heavy and deep.
But what if it's more? Why would he do?
The words muffled at the last, trampled by the next elder's
shout. Bok's Zook smashed his hand flat
on the planks. He's going to come here, I just
know it. His voice rose clear and sharp,
cutting through the mess. Pok's nose hooked right,
shattered once as a boy in a village fight.
His skin shone with sweat. Lavu Canula jabbed his foot
under the table, catching Ward in the shin.
Ward blinked and braced himself as if expecting a larger blow,
then whipped his hand up. Knuckles split from work, never
quite healed right. Ward's voice rumbled across the
walls. The elders went still.
Even the flame on the torch nearest SER stilled for a
heartbeat, shrinking back from the command in Sarathin's tone.
Friends. Ward said the word like a slap.
Listen. The men froze and watched him.
Sir caught Roland at his side, breathing quietly.
Ward pressed on, his words clipped low and sure.
We don't know if today's the day or if tomorrow's the day.
We'll know when the flame and fire are before us and not a day
before. Together we've built this place.
We fought for years, years. Most here want to forget.
The jungles tried to eat us, and so did the tribes that came
before. We fought the river for fish and
then for gold, then for peace. But we never fought against
destiny. We never fought against IO.
She guides us, we hold fast to her.
UK. Zuck slammed a fist again.
We can't just stand by that asshole in Mount Voor.
He's, he's bringing the war right at our door.
The ward waved him down. There have been other wars,
Zuck. None have come for us.
Not one broke through these gates.
Diyalic Batwa, you should start by kidnapping a God's daughter.
UK shouted around him. A murmur built again.
Penulo, Lava's father, tightened his fingers on the lip of the
table. I spoke with the minstrels when
they arrived. They carried the news.
Tandros's injustice in Cornelia, the Keepers sending his bass,
Old thugs everywhere. Hudea cut in half, out of
breath. They're recruiting everyone,
every able man. The minstrel said.
Those who refuse. His voice faltered.
He didn't finish. Ward lifted his voice enough.
If a Crimson army emerges, it will die with the tide.
We'll see what story Navara wants to tell, and we'll play
our part. Sia leaned back from the slit.
Every muscle in his face tensed. Lamps inside the hall burned
steady, but outside the blue and gold light faded.
An extra shadow stretched across Roarin's feet, thrown from the
torches inside, trembling against the broken bamboo.
Roland breathed slow, eyes wide, looking to Sir for a cue.
Sir tried to keep his voice light.
The elders know what they're doing.
He muttered. Rollin hunched his shoulders.
You sure? Never sure, Sir said.
But they know what needs to be done.
Come on. They slid away from the back of
the communal hall, dust and grass sticking to knees, the
hush outside cracked only by the chorus of frogs and crickets
working up over the night. Roland followed Sir, quick
footed, glancing behind with every 4th step.
They crossed back through the blue dock side street.
Sir scanned left and right, past drowsy cats, a lone basket
hanging from a nail, the slow buzz of a mosquito over his arm.
In front of Roland's house, the window shone with thin gold
light. Inside, a female shape drifted
by the hearth, hands at work. Over a chopping board.
The smell of Stew and wood smoke drifted out.
SER nodded to Rolon. Get some rest, I'll see you in
the morning. Roland hesitated.
You think they'll keep us here even if there's war?
The rusa shrugged. Nobody leaves unless Ward say
so. Roland bit the inside of his
cheek, pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The door closed with a wine to walked off the path, dipping
under fresh moonlight. His own house lay past the last
line of almonds and river gum. Low fence of half sunk logs,
porch propped by stones. No light burned in the window.
He stepped inside to near darkness, the sound of dogs
barking from 2 houses over, the echo of the elders, voices
chased out by stillness. He set his hand on the table,
feeling his way, the surface rough in spots, pitted where
food had burned or been carved away by accident.
He found the candle by touch, a stub with three burned Wicks and
the box of matches resting in a shallow bowl.
The first strike fizzled. He tried again, gripping the
match until it flared, then fed it to the candle.
Light spilled wide and sudden, filling the Hut with long,
stuttering shadows. 2 rooms, main wards his.
The main room doubled for everything, a stacked shelf with
yesterday's bread, a small rack with blades hung across the
mantle, and two buckets left to catch roof leaks by the corner
near the door. Sia glanced up.
The black sword hung above the mantle, not touched, not moved,
for he lost count. He laid the candle down on the
center table. From the pantry he drew out a
half empty jar of beans, a sack of salt and limp greens wrapped
in old cloth. He put the soup pot over the
flames, fed it, split kindling and tipped water from the
bucket. The pot hissed, flaring with a
sour heat. He cut up greens, their smell
rising sharp above the salt. He ate soon after, spooning
broth into his mouth. It burned at his lip.
The soup filled only a scrape of hunger.
He wiped the bowl, set another portion aside for Ward, and
cleaned the pot. The routine quieted his mind,
letting the details sink into the space the day's noise left
behind. Ward kicked open the door an
hour after dark. The hinges squealed.
His shoulders filled the frame. He paused there, scuffing his
feet on the raised step, as if scraping mud from old habits he
couldn't break. He let out a single cough,
thick, rooty from deep in his chest.
SER stood near the hearth, back to the fire.
He didn't look up at first. The soup sat waiting on the
table. Ward hung his staff by the door,
pulled off his belt and let it drop to the floor.
The man's eyes looked dry, ringed by sleepless nights and
the weight of many years. He grabbed for the bowl and
spoon. The soup had gone cold, but Ward
ate quick, swallowing in rough slurps, not tasting, jaw working
automatic. Sarah steadied his hands on the
rim of the table. Ward finished half the bowl
before speaking, fixing his eyes on the rim instead of his
nephew. How was the elders meeting?
Sarah asked. His own words sounded weak to
him, smaller than he'd planned. Ward barely raised an eyebrow.
He rolled a piece of bean between his teeth, chewed,
swallowed. And how would you know about
that? It wasn't hard to hear the
commotion from the road, SER said voice even.
Ward snorted, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Don't worry about it, not your time, not yet.
The silence pressed in. Fire popped and settled.
Ward drained the rest of his soup, scraping the bowl.
Grease shined on his bottom lip, caught the light.
Besides, don't you have your meditation?
Ward's tone cut the subject off. There, Knew better than to push.
He nodded, walked to the center of the room, and dropped onto
the hard packed earth. He sat cross legged, hands
resting on knobby knees, eyes half closed.
Ward's chair creaked as he leaned back.
Seb drew a slow breath and let it go.
Outside, a wind moved through the trees, making the roof
creak, pressing loose thatch into old leaks.
The candle flickered, painting wavering stripes across the
wood. SER fell inward fast.
Practice, not accident. He found the silent Rd. in his
head by following edge to edge, corner to corner.
No shortcut. Just like Ward had shown him
years ago. IO is everything Ward had said
then, his hand rough on Sir's scalp, dragging him into seated
posture. The old man's voice growled in
Sir's ear. Smoke and old river mud in every
word. IO is what ravels the draw.
It gives us canter. It's with IO that we stay alive
there, sitting matched in that old memory, Wards, legs folded
in a squat. SER's smaller frame, twitchy at
first, then rigid as a tree limb.
Ward spoke in a low rhythm. SER gripped every word, afraid a
wrong question would bring out the blows instead.
But what is EO? Seer had asked, wide eyed,
fingers digging tracks into the mat.
The world's a pyramid, Ward said, slow drawl.
He laid a thick fingertip on the floor.
IO is the tip, right? Holds all the canter together.
That's your magic, boy. Underneath is earth, water,
fire, wind. You're born with one under your
tongue, and IO keeps the rest from falling apart, says
squinted. And with IO, we use magic,
right? The keepers, the real ones, they
keep the balance. Without them, no IO, no magic.
None of us. Ward's voice dropped.
That's how it is. Don't get it twisted.
Thea didn't let up. Who controls IO?
No one here, Ward replied in his face.
The lesson closed up again. SEA felt it in the air, saw
Ward's lip curl. But your magic SER pushed What's
yours? It's supposed to run in
families. Ward's mouth pulled flat.
None of your business, he said. His hand twitched on his knee.
Nails bit scarred skin. The memory clung, that sense of
danger, but surpressed. I probably have the same, don't
I? Ward's eyes narrowed.
I had a canta, a gift. She took it, left me nothing but
this. His voice glinted with hate.
Figure out your element, then you might mean something.
His gaze turned brutal, burned. Right now you're nothing.
SER's 10 year old mouth spat, the only defence he had.
I still have time. Maybe I'll be worth something to
this place. More than you'll ever be.
The crack of Ward's hand across SER's face came quick, no
warning. The hit bent SER backward, cheek
ringing, sharp taste in his mouth, eyes watering.
He stumbled, hit the wall, dropped to 1 knee.
Blood started a sticky line down his temple.
You don't speak like that in my home.
Ward's rage echoed through the room.
Sir looked up, defiant and shaking.
Ward grabbed 2 practice swords from the rack.
He tossed 1, making it land hard at Sir's feet.
Pick it up now. Sir grabbed the sword with both
hands, it's heft stung his split palm.
Ward took the other without a word.
He swung a wide arc. Sir dodged on instinct, dropping
low, feeling the wind from the blade above his head.
Ward brought the sword down again, aiming for the right.
SER scrambled, then managed an awkward block, arms trembling
from the impact. They sparred in violent bursts,
Ward's style, brute and practiced each blow meant to
batter, to teach, to bruise. SER backed away, absorbed,
blocked, swung weak counter strikes that Ward battered down
with one hand. Ward fainted, left, then drove
the blade in a slash to Seer's waist.
Seer jumped back, stumbling, fell the edge, barely graze his
shirt. His shoulder, knocked the rack
above the mantle. The black sword, gleaming dark
and wrong, hung above them both. Seer's breath stuck.
Ward kept himself in front of the sword, never letting Sir
near it. His face twisted, sweat over his
temples, hair wild. Suddenly, a white flash tore
across the room. Sir couldn't say if it was pain
or terror, and Ward dropped. He hit the dirt, sucking ragged
air, face pressed to the floor. Sir dropped his sword at the
scream, the noise clawing at his insides.
He ran toward, but the old man waved him off, crawling
backwards, pressing himself against the nearest pillow,
caution in every eye. Flick toward both Sir and the
sword. My.
Ward wheezed, voice shaking. I had.
That world of magic and elements stayed behind Sir's eyes long
after he sat on the dirt, heart thrumming, watching his uncle
nurse wounds both new and old. Now in the present, Sir opened
his eyes. The fire's light fixed the black
sword, long, narrow, black as river mud after flood season.
The leather grip looked too well made for the village.
Foreign letters shone below the wrappings, weaving in patterns
that shifted as the light touched them.
SER felt those marks crawl through his mind, meaning
brushing up against understanding, then sliding
away. The sword's blade bore the
outline of a woman, silver etched, straight backed, young
hair tied, severe features neat and unreadable.
Her tunic flowed the length of the blade and seemed alive in
the candlelight. The detail locked SER's gaze to
the sword's middle, then to the leather hilt letters shifting
under his stair. SER studied the sword often.
He couldn't describe what it made him feel.
No story in the village, no folk tale among tribe or traveller
told of anything quite like it. The blade pulled at him, not
curiosity but something harsher, as if the thing didn't want an
owner and would rather see itself locked away forever.
Ward pushed the candle across the table and lit his pipe.
The first puff filled the air with sour, sharp smoke.
Ward watched it flow out, tracking it past the open
window. Sir sucked in the smell.
It belonged in the Hut, part of the routine of night.
Ward returned the candle to its usual spot.
The flames glow moved along the sword as if running up the
etched woman's dress, trailing up her legs and over her
midsection, glinting at her eyes.
Sir held his breath as the light seemed to pause.
Her gaze flicked up, just for a second, from the hilt to his own
eyes. He jumped.
The stool scraped on the earthen floor.
Sir blinked fast, forcing himself to look again.
The etching had gone still. The woman's eyes settled,
pointing away, motionless in steel and silver.
The Hut lay quiet, the only sound ward tapping the pipe
against the rim of the table, emptying old tobacco onto a
chipped plate. The man's eyes lost, fixed
somewhere above SER's head, his mouth pulled into a flat, bitter
line. SER reached for the soup pot,
intending to scrape it out, make tomorrow's meal easier.
His hands shook as he filled the bowl with water, and he tried
not to look back at the sword. Outside, wind battered the
thatch. A child's voice yelped nearby,
shattered by an argument and silenced just as quickly.
From past Canulo's house, a dog started to bark, short and
sharp, urgent. Ward didn't move.
He stared at the empty pipe bowl, lost in headaches that
never left Zez. Knees ached from sitting, but he
didn't rise. He waited, counting, breath
held, hands splayed across his knees as he forced his gaze away
from the sword, away from ward, into the half light where no one
asked anything of anyone. Sir scraped the rest of the pot,
saved what little he could for the morning, and wiped his hands
against his pants. The heat from the dying fire
clung to his elbows. The Hut felt too small, the
ceiling low and spider webbed above his head.
Ward didn't speak. He sat back, watching the table,
jaw set, every part of his body claiming more space than it
needed. Sere blew out the candle,
letting darkness eat the corners.
He moved stiff to his room. His own space was barely wide
enough for a rolled mat and a crate pressed against the wall
from the crack below the door. The orange flicker of embers
marked the line between his world and Wards.
In the dark, every sound snapped clear, something scrabbling
across the roof. Wards cough a distant voice from
deep in the village. He stretched on the mat and
watched the shadows move. His fingers closed around the
lip of the crate, feeling the rough wood, old splinters.
He counted every pulse in his wrist until the number grew
unsteady. Sleep didn't come, not at first,
Just a slow drift in and out, the night crawling on.
He saw corners of old dreams, river mud, rich and black.
Balu laughing with his mouth full.
Roller kneeling beside a burst water pipe.
Ward's arm as it lifted, striking the face on the sword's
blade, turning to look at him. In the half dream he reached for
the sword but never grabbed it. The metal bit cold and sharp,
shocking him awake. He didn't know when he finally
slept, only that morning arrived too early and too loud.
Every sound outside rang closer than it should.
A woman's voice shouted for her child.
A stick snapped near the goats, lean to wet Laundry slapped a
stone three houses away. Ward moved through the main room
with slow, wrecking steps, boots dragging, ignoring Sir addressed
in yesterday's shirt and the freshest shorts left on his
crate. He tied the cord twice, working
the knot until it held under his fingers.
When he stepped into the common room, Ward had already unlatched
the door. Bright sun knifed in, slashing
across the table. Ward stopped, hand on the latch.
Do what needs doing. Come back for supper.
Voice flat, final, he didn't even turn.
Then he was out the door, the screen slamming shut, his boots
striking dirt. Sarah listened to the rhythms of
the house after he left. He couldn't say if that was
Ward's way of showing trust, or if the man was just tired of
having a boy under his roof. He found himself alone in the
hut's pale silence. The training swords hung above
the cold ashes of last night's fire.
The black sword looked the same. No trace of yesterday's
nightmare in its curve, no hint of movement in the metal woman's
eyes. Zoella walked out.
The sun pressed down on his shoulders the moment he stepped
from Shadow onto the dirt path. The village sprawled out as it
always did, families already working.
Lavu's mother hauled a basket of greens past Balu's house.
Canulo's two youngest ran screaming after the black dog,
throwing sticks, calling each other liars.
The air stank of wet leaves and last night's latrines.
He walked toward the well. Roland already knelt beside it,
tying a thin strip of cloth to a chunk of wood.
His face looked pinched, hands moving quick, feet braced wide.
Sir approached without calling out.
He crouched next to his friend, watched him fit the chunk into a
cradle made from vine. Roland didn't look up, couldn't
sleep. He worked the knot, lips pressed
white. Sere shifted on his haunches.
Me neither. Ward and the others, they're
getting ready for something. I heard them when I went for
water. Roland said Lavu's father was
there. He said they might send the
young ones to the terraces if trouble comes.
SER bit the inside of his cheek. Too many people in the jungle
already. Not safe anywhere else.
Roland dropped the wood, let it thump on the dirt.
Maybe we should hide, you know, if they come for us.
SER glanced sideways, made sure nobody stood close.
We go, Ward follows, or worse, he lets them take us.
Either way, we lose. A child ran past Barefoot Hare
Wild, holding a stick as if it were a sword.
She slashed at an invisible enemy with wild yells before
vanishing down the lane. Zur let out a breath.
He watched the sun catch on the peak of the communal whole roof,
turning the bamboo slats pale and gold.
The noise inside was gone now. Only three of the elders stood
near the front, heads bent close.
Hodeya's big hands sliced the air as he talked.
Canulo nodded hard after every other sentence.
Oak Zook perched on the steps, wind tugging at his sleeves,
face set against the day. Roland finished his rapping, sat
back, eyes following. Says, do you think we'll have to
fight? His voice, barely louder than
the hum of bees circling the old fig tree, Sir, twisted a piece
of grass between his fingers until it snapped.
He hesitated, then threw the stem aside.
If Ward put a sword in my hand, I'll use it, but I'm not
fighting for that old bastard, or for his stories.
Roland's mouth curled down, but he only nodded.
His hands shook once, then settled.
The door to Lavu's house banged open.
Lavu stepped out, face red, clothes Askew, his mother's
voice trailing after him, half warning, half prayer.
He stomped down the path, head low, spotted the other two, and
gave a brief nod. Lao's looking for you, Lao Vu
muttered. Said you owe him a fishing net.
SER shrugged. I owe him nothing.
La Vu scratched his chin, scuffed the dirt with his heel.
You see the strangers last night?
Minstrel's gone before dawn. Left with canulos, old boots,
and half a sack of grain. Beverly, leave Anything else?
Rolland asked. Lavou's eye shifted back toward
the communal hall. Only bad news, said a tribe.
Three valleys S went missing. Houses burned.
No signs left but ash. SER felt the old cold collect in
his backbone. He didn't speak.
A light wind poked at the leaves above their heads, scattering
dry blades under foot. Belou appeared from up the lane,
carrying a coil of rope over one shoulder, a broken oar in the
other. He looked flushed, hair dark
with sweat. He gave the rope a quick snap,
making dust jump. You hear?
Balu called, voice rasping loud enough to draw a hard glance
from Oxuk up at the hall. There's a boat on the river
again. Outsiders, villagers said the
mark on the sail looked red, not blue, Not ours.
Roland bristled. Sir pushed to his feet, fists
clenching. Balu grinned, all teeth and no
joy. Ward sent scouts, said if anyone
looked like they could swing a blade, bring them to him.
Guess what, Sir? He told Canulo.
Your name first. Set pattern to the dust.
Voice flat. Ward can wait.
If that boat comes close, I'll see for myself.
Nobody laughed. The sun crept higher.
La Vue pulled at the sleeve of his shirt, eyes darting toward
the trees. Roland stood, brushing his
knees, mouth set. A horn sounded from east of the
far field, it's throat deep. Note rolled through the village,
sending birds up in flocks from the rooftops around them.
Old men called to wives, mothers clapped children to their sides,
goats pulled at their tethers and braid.
Seer looked at Roland, saw his hands shaking again, and stepped
forward first, boots gritting on the packed earth.
The road sloped toward the river, only thin brush and a
scatter of low trees between the village and the water's edge.
He didn't slow as he walked, the others falling in at his side,
not speaking, shoulders set for whatever he found at the bottom
of the path. The river cut a thick line just
beyond Tuitoma Brown. Slow, alive with the spit and
whisper of tiny waves, the far side was nothing but reeds and
low banks. The sun flashed hard off the
surface, blinding whenever the wind shifted downstream.
A keel shaped boat drifted sideways out of a patch of
shade. Three men visible, 2 rowing, 1
standing in back holding a staff topped with red cloth.
Serre stopped at the tree line, ducking behind a trunk.
The others followed, dropping to their haunches in the
undergrowth. Flies hovered near their ears.
Nobody spoke. They watched the boat work its
way closer now, aiming for the shallow spit 30 yards east of
the dock. Balu crouched low, picked up a
stone, rolled it in his palm, knuckles white.
They're flying. A blood rag, he said.
Not a fisherman's colour. Rowland's breath caught.
Should we run back? No point now, La Vue muttered.
If they want trouble, they're already here.
The standing man barked out words.
None of the boys could catch the language, only the sound, flat,
guttural, a string of orders. The two rowers shoved the oars
deep, spinning the hull slow until the bow kissed mud.
The man with the staff stepped off, planted his foot ankle
deep, and didn't flinch. He stood very still, waiting
behind the group. A scrape and heavy wheeze
announced Org Zuck walking faster than his age implied.
He carried a long stick, runes scratched along one end.
Stay down, he muttered. Watch everything.
OC let his body fill the space between the kids and the
strangers. His stance slouched from a
lifetime, scraping wind and sand from his eyes and teeth, but his
hands never shook. He waved the boys further back,
then shouted toward the water. Na na village of Tuitoma.
What trade, what word, what need?
The man on the bank lifted his staff.
He spoke again, his tongue still clipped and rough.
One of the older river roots, maybe.
His face was narrow, beard cut short from a tribe Sayer didn't
recognize. UK Zuk leaned on his stick,
eyebrows lowered beneath the shadow of a palm leaf.
Most of these floaters come for food, maybe shelter.
He said, low to the boys, but not with red.
Red means call to arms always, or worse, they're spat to one
side. Ward will want them watched.
Hook nodded once. Let him come, let them feel old
eyes on their backs. Aloo tensed beside SER, ready
for flight or fight. Roland moved back, careful,
quiet, step after step until he stood half in shadow.
The man on the riverbank stuck the staff deep into mud, then
lifted a sack from the prow and slung it over his chest.
He waited, as if daring someone to challenge him.
The pair on the oars pulled the hole closer, their bodies ropey
with scars and sunburn. From the village lane, more
elders appeared. Hodea, Pluvia and Canulo, each
with a walking stick, moved fast for men their age.
They never took eyes off the boat.
Tanulo called, no weapons in hand, past the waterline.
You want talk, You show both hands clear.
The visitor shrugged, lifted both hands open palms.
A crooked ring glinted on one finger.
Without further talk, he marched up the little path, leaving
thick prints in the muck. He waited for the elders to
close the distance. Sir shifted, sliding a stick
from the ground and holding it across his knees, fingering the
bark. Roland's knuckles matched his
face. Bloodless.
Ward appeared then, not hurrying but not dragging either.
He didn't have a staff. Dust clung to his ankles and the
hair on his arms grey and black together.
He scanned every movement before lowering his chin a notch and
facing the strangers. No one spoke for account.
The air packed itself tight, leaves trembled under the
morning heat. Finally, Ward stepped into view
and said. You have a name, Traveller, or
are you here to send a message? The stranger spoke his words,
deliberate voice carrying over the river's hiss.
Basalt, I speak for those at Mount Voor.
I carry the Keeper's command. His hands stayed up slow to
move. Ward not at once.
Say it. The salt tilted his chin.
The tribes of the valley are called to rise.
Every blade, every strong back, every oath.
There is theft against the gods. There will be justice for it.
We gather men, willing or not. Hudea spit on the ground at the
man's feet. You want Tuitoma, you'll bleed
to take it. Bessel didn't blink.
Our quarrel isn't with small villages, not unless the keeper
decides it is. Ward kept his stair flat.
We have farms, river Nets. Nothing for an army.
The man let his eyes slide across Wards, then the men
behind him, then over the huts stacked near the riverbank.
There are sons here. We need sons and men who
remember steel, Canulo said. Most who remember steel keep old
wounds. You'll see faster with trade.
The visitor shook his head. No trade we take or you give.
The hush spread. Ogzuk's knuckles went white on
his stick, but he didn't step forward.
Basalt reached into his sack. He pulled out a length of red
cloth, tossed it to the ground, and stepped back.
Paint your door. If you join, leave it clean.
If you refuse, we come back tomorrow.
If your answer is wrong, you'll know the fire.
He backed up, not looking away from Ward or Canelo, then walked
to the river. The two oarsmen shoved hard,
pulling the boat off. Mudbank drifted out into deeper
water. Oak watched, his face tight.
No one spoke. The boys never moved, crouched
in a thicket. Every noise seemed too loud,
every snap of a twig, each swallow of breath.
Roland finally let go of his knee, let his hand fall quiet as
he could. Ward turned, never looking their
way. His step didn't falter, even as
Oak Zook muttered curses under his breath.
Sir felt his own hands slick with sweat.
Dust stuck to his shoulder blades.
Above, birds started singing again, as if the river threat
meant nothing. La Vue whispered.
They'll come back, they always do.
No one's joining, Sir. Said Ward would rather burn the
place himself. Balu sank lower on his haunches.
People have left for less. My cousin did last winter.
Just went into the hills. Never said a word.
Roland bit his tongue, the tremble leaving his face but
landing in his voice. If anyone runs, they'll chase us
down the basalt. Don't forget, better to face
them here. Lavu answered.
If we all stick together. Sarah wiped his palm on his
shirt and said nothing. From the top of the Ridge, the
elders regrouped, heads bent close, the red cloth now dust
stained and lying untouched. The sun kept rising, heath
thickening. No words left for comfort.
Sir found himself watching the river, the spot where the boat
had vanished. He traced the shape of the
water, each ripple, each flash of reflected sky, a thread that
might tighten into a noose by nightfall.
SER stood. His knees clicked as he
straightened, limbs stiff from crouching too long in the
undergrowth. His shirt hung damp against his
spine, a stripe of mud running from wrist to elbow.
He watched the patch of water where the boat had been, eyes
unfocused. He heard the others move.
Balu grunted as he pushed to his feet.
Larvu rolled his shoulder with a dull pop.
Roland picked just one careful route through the thorns, face
pale. None of the adults glanced their
way as the boys crept back up the shallow slope.
The elders formed a knot beside the path.
Hideya bent to pick up the red cloth, holding it between two
fingers like a lizard he'd rather throw.
But Canulo barked something, and Hideya dropped it again.
Ward didn't break from the circle.
He waited, arms folded, head bobbing, as each elder spoke his
piece. The village behind them
bristled. Mothers called tide for children
who'd drifted past the fields. The men who'd been tending the
cook fires or lashing wood to garden fences set down their
tools, squinting downstream with faces hard as bark.
The news was already spreading. Doors opened, slammed.
Voices carried the warning in quiet, sharp bursts.
Roland wiped his forehead with the heel of his palm.
He stared at SER, forgetting to keep his voice low.
What do we do now? Do you think Ward will call
everyone to the hall? She'll call everyone soon
enough. Sir said he never waited long
with bad news. He kept his eyes on Ward's back,
the set of those battered shoulders.
Balu picked up a stick, stripped it clean with his teeth.
If he calls, I'll bet he wants the oldest and strongest at the
front, same as always. Lavu spat in the grass.
He'll want every sword drawn, even from the kids.
That's what he means about not giving away The village.
SER didn't reply. He brushed his sandals free of
grit, then kept moving. He led the others away from the
crowd, forming near the path around the chicken coops, over a
line ragged with drying fish, behind the oldest huts.
They cut through the beds of old river stones, every step forcing
the sharp thrush of nerves down a little further.
At the edge of Balu's house, they lingered beside the fence.
The black dog barked twice, then settled by SER's foot and nosed
his ankle. None of the boys wanted to talk
first. SER dug his socked toe into the
packed dirt. If we run now, we look guilty.
If we hide, we get dragged out. Nobody's running, Roland said,
sharp but shaking. My mother would lock me in the
storage Hut before she let me run.
Balu looked like he might spit, but he didn't.
Doesn't matter if we stay or go, only how hard we put up a fight.
Lavu traced the scar on his forearm with his thumb, eyes
narrowed. Fight who?
The basalt ward, if he comes at us with swords or each other.
None of them answered right away.
Overhead, the leaves hung wonky and still, the air held tight to
the heat, unmoving, waiting. Inside Balu's house, an argument
flared up, voices pinched, a dish clattering.
Then silence. The black dog shivered, then
pressed against SER's leg for a moment before trotting to the
doorway and laying its head on its paws.
SER looked from face to face. He saw Lavu's jaw tensed, Balu
clenching and unclenching his first rolen, breathing fast but
steady. All kids from the same patch,
all raised to dig in their heels, all just waiting for
somebody to make the call. SER's stomach grumbled.
He'd skipped breakfast, nerves eating the hunger right out of
him. Balu's mother passed by the
front window, caught his eye, didn't wave.
Sir folded his arms. We should see what Ward wants,
Sir said. If we don't show, he'll send for
us anyway. The others nodded.
They broke apart, moving as a loose line, heading for the
centre of Tiwatama. On the walk they threaded
between shell paths, weaving around pots left to soak,
whistling to pretend at ease. Villagers watched in silence,
old men from Stoops, girls bent over buckets, Another boy,
younger, peering at them through a broken panel in his door.
Each face returned their stare. The group didn't speak again
until they reached the shadows near the communal hall.
Its doors stood cracked open, a warning, an invitation, nothing
like before. Wordless, the boys filed inside
with heads a little lower. The hall was cooler than the
yard, thick with the smell of split wood, old sweat and 100
forgotten meetings. The benches were already filling
up, men and women, backs bowed by work pressed close along the
walls. The elders formed a block in
front, Ward at the centre. Ward raised his voice as Sir and
the other boys entered. It rang through the space, not
shouting, but loud enough to shake off the hush.
Tutumar gathers and no one is missed.
You hear me now? Not one is missed.
He waited for quiet, then for each face to turn in his
direction. He gave no comfort with his
stare, only the sharp measure of a man who never stopped waiting
for trouble to finish its job. We've had visitors, Ward said.
The word fell hard, Direct as any command.
They want to draft every able body.
They want what isn't theirs. They want our boys.
They want to turn our homes inside out.
He let that sink, eyes moving from mothers to brothers to the
elders behind him. No shouting now, only stillness.
Tomorrow this village chooses. Ward went on.
Those who mean to stay, prepare. Those who mean to run, do so by
sundown. You all know my mind.
Here's the line, that's all. A murmur started and spread.
Angry, scared, and tired all at once.
Ward didn't bother to silence it.
He stood for account, then stepped away, signal enough that
anything left unsaid would be finished outside.
Say's mouth felt dry. He stared at the slats in the
floor, old mud packed between boards.
None of the benches felt steady. The boys filtered out with
everyone else in the sudden glare outside.
For a moment, everything in the village felt smaller, cramped,
caught with nowhere left to go. They fixed his eyes on his own
feet and walked toward home. The afternoon dragged on, thick
with heat and the buzzing of gnats.
Most of the village shuffled through chores without talking.
A few collected yams from Stony fields, heads down dirt worked
into their sleeves. At the riverbank, older boys
pulled tangled gnats from shallow water, eyes always
drifting to where the red sailed boat had vanished.
The wordless weight grew heavier, nothing in the air but
the scratch of brooms, the drag of empty buckets, the hard snap
of wood splitting beneath a hatchet.
Sir found himself walking the path past VT's house.
The sleepy roof sagged lower than usual, patched now with
fresh leaves and a torn shirt nailed flat.
Vt sat at the threshold, plucking at a fishbone, eyes
fixed on the road, legs drawn up to his chest.
He barely looked up as Sir passed, so slowed, stepped
closer. You're not running, are you?
Viti shrugged, flicked the bone into the dust.
Where would I go? Out there?
Might as well tell the basalt myself.
There stood over him, blocking half the sun.
Ward'll want everyone for a line, but if too many leave De
Meli courts you. Viti said, not moving.
Some, like Canulo, act tough, but none of us have been through
a real fight. There pressed his lips together,
nodded once. He kept walking.
Shadows from Eve's cut the path into uneven stripes.
Children's voices rose and fell in choked bursts.
None sounded playful. Each step drove the point home
in his gut. There was no choice.
Not for anyone village born, not for those who wanted even the
little they had. Murmurs tracked Sir through the
middle yards he passed. Lavu's younger siblings crouched
around a roped piglet. They didn't laugh or call out.
Lavu's mother eyed him as he passed, hands dirty to the
wrist, worry clear and open on her face.
So circled wide, finally drifting toward the main road
that cut to the seraphin's Hut. Brambles dragged at his calves.
He ducked to avoid the sun, breathing shallow, moving slow,
checking every corner. The sense of something waiting
just out of sight followed, heavy as a hand pressed to the
back of his neck. Ward was not at home.
The door stood ajar, letting the smell of old soup and burnt
tobacco coil out. Inside, the light angled sharp
across the cold ashes in the fire pit.
The black sword hung fixed and silent.
The etched woman turned slightly into shadow.
Says own faint reflection stared back at him.
Older, tired, out of place. Sir drifted from room to room,
checking without thinking. The dirt floor for recent
prints, the linen chest for supplies, the rack for missing
blades. Ward's pipe rested on its side,
half filled as if dropped mid thought.
A cup in the sink held a skin of water, untouched.
The little room where Sir slept felt stuffy, the mat still
unrolled, blanket still knotted beneath a corner.
He left the Hut with that itch of doubt growing.
Ward wasn't the type to vanish, not now, not without making
noise enough for the entire village to notice.
Yet no one shouted, No warning sounded.
Just the hush and the day's slow crawl.
They walked back outside, blinking hard against the
sunlight. 2 chickens scratched near the fence down the road.
Roulin leaned against a water barrel, trading worried words
with Balu, who looked twice his usual size with arms crossed and
chin raised. Lavou appeared last, a spear
tucked under his arm. A training spear, too short for
real war, but good enough to kill a chicken or scare a goat.
He slapped it on his palm and grinned, none of the cheer in
his eyes. Rollin spoke first when Sere
joined them. Ward, missing there, jerked his
head. Gone.
It didn't say where. Balu's lips tightened.
He'll show when it counts. Lavu waved his stick at the sky.
He's probably up at the fields, checking the hiding spots.
I checked twice. Balu said, voice flat.
Nobody up there but me and two old men counting beans.
Ward's not the type to hide. SER glanced back at his porch.
He's doing something. Could be talking with Orc or
gone to check the forest trail. Roland's eyes jumped past SER,
catching something in the distance.
Look. 2 Elders walked up the centre path, hands clasped
before them. Hodea and UK Zuk.
Hook's mouth was already moving as he talked, his eyebrows up,
making crisp chopping motions with one hand.
Hodea walked slower, carrying a length of red fabric, the
warning mark. They stopped in the round square
between 2 old wells and waited. People filtered from houses,
drawn by the sight of Elders out of order.
Orc cleared his throat as a few families gathered wards off the
path. He called out.
He seemed to the fields. We hold here, and we prepare.
Nobody forces a choice ward, least of all.
If you want to stand, you stand. If you want to flee, watch the
trails for sign. But you stay sharp, and you stay
quiet. Odea dangled the cloth from his
thumb, letting it catch the light.
If you mean to stay, say so. If you run, tell someone Ward
will return before sundown. For a moment, the square buzzed.
Some muttered, others only watched.
One woman called for her son to come close.
An old man looked at the ground, refusing the stare of every
elder. The red marker twisted in the
faint wind so felt the choice bite at him.
He knew Ward would expect him to stand, sword or no sword, and
maybe that was all that could be done.
But as the crowd spread out, drifting in silent groups, he
realized most people would stand.
Not because of belief or loyalty, but because no one
wanted to be the first to run. He looked at his friends and
found blank faces, the same hollow hope, the same worry
stamped across every line. Balu pulled his heel across the
road. Lavu smacked his spear.
Roland tried to suck in a breath he couldn't quite finish.
Zer stepped toward the elders, voice clear enough for Oxuk to
hear. We stay, he said.
He felt it settled in the pit of his stomach, heavy and hard. 1
by 1. The others nodded and stood
beside him. The red cloth rippled, marking a
choice as clear as any line ever drawn in blood or dirt.
The light began to fade out of the day, colour bleeding away to
a heavy grey behind the huts. Smoke rose in thin strings from
evening cook fires, pulled sideways by thin, uneasy wind.
Voices climbed and broke soft in the open yards.
The entire village felt huddled up and listening for footsteps,
every sound sharp, carried by houses packed close as ribs,
Serre and the others drifted off to their homes, No jokes or
small talk. Lavu walked the path alone,
spear bouncing at his side, head down, boots dragging like a much
older man. Roland didn't go home right
away. He wandered between his own yard
and Sears, stopping now and then with a look over his shoulder,
checking the fields out of old habit.
Sir stepped inside the Hut door creaking on its hinge.
The black sword caught the little bit of dusk left, silver
lines in the blade going flat and dark.
He stood at the threshold, letting his eyes run lines over
every shape in the main room. Ward still hadn't come back.
Sir lit the stub of a candle, watching as the flame bit down
small at the Wick, then held. He fetched a cup of water and
sat on the same rough stool he'd been using since he could walk.
He sipped slow, staring at the table, listening to the night
press at the windows. Each mouthful seemed to take
more effort than the last. Time passed blurred and uneven.
He set down the cup, rubbed his forehead.
His eyes drifted to the sword above the mantle, still sharp,
locked in its wood. The face of the woman on the
blade was just lines now, no tricks or flickers.
Just a dead thing in a dead night.
And that felt right. He heard Ward's step before
seeing him, boot heel dragging. Then a long pause, then the
shuffled foot. The door swung open with a jolt.
Ward entered, shoulders hunched, shirt damp along the collar, mud
stuck to knees. He shook the dirt outside before
stepping in, slamming the door behind him, the force enough to
rattle the rack above the fire. Sere didn't say anything at
first. He waited, reading the set of
Ward's face, a map of deep creases, lips thin from being
pressed together all day, eyes sharp in the candles limited
glow. Ward dropped a battered sack on
the floor and sank into the nearest chair.
He worked a splinter from the palm of his hand, not looking at
Sir or at anything but The Dirty cup by his knee.
Barely come. He asked, voice little more than
a scrape. Yah, SER answered.
They'll be back at dawn. Ward nodded once, slow and
deliberate. He reached for the old pipe,
packed it with shaking hands, and struck a match.
Smoke flooded the room. A steady line, no hurry, so
wanted to talk, but nothing worthwhile came out.
He let the silence drag, listening to the small pop of
the cooling fire and the slow suck of breath through Ward's
pipe. Finally, Ward spoke.
Nobody ran. A few might try, Sarah said.
Most said they'd stay. Elders told us not to force it.
Ward grunted. Pipe snapped against his teeth.
Same fool's, different year. He stared at the sword above the
mantle but didn't move toward it.
The conversation wore itself thin.
Sir sat in the blue dusk, watching Ward in profile, chin
tucked tight, a look on his face like every decision was poison
and he was forced to swallow it all.
Outside the noise of day faded, replaced by owls and friction.
The slow grind of a village tensed for its end, so stood
stretched cracked joints. I'll eat later.
He said, not waiting for Ward's answer.
He left the candle burning for Ward and slipped Outside.
The sky had gone full steel. 2 houses down, Balu's father sat
sharpening 2 short knives, the scrape loud across the yard.
Thur wandered to the edge of the road, stopping where the village
thinned into brush and mud. He squatted, elbows on knees,
letting his weight sink until the world steadied.
He listened for the river, the night birds, the far off almost
wishful sound of a boat, but heard nothing but frogs and the
faint pulse of his own blood. The cold crept in with the dark.
Some part of him boxed up the fear, stowed it in the same old
place. He kept every ugly memory and
unspoken word. The rest of him just waited for
mourning, for the enemy, for Ward's orders that would come at
first light. He stayed that way still as a
stump, until dew gathered on his arms and the world went black.
SER didn't know how long he stayed out by the road.
At some point he stood, joints aching, and walked a crooked
line back to the house. The fire inside was out.
Ward had left, the candle burning, its stub halfway gone.
The old man's boots were by the door, his shape loose under a
ragged blanket on his cot. Light from the stub flickered
over the black sword, tracing the curve of the etched woman
and the hidden letters, making the blade look stranger than
ever. There took a final drink of
water, washed his face at the tin basin and crawled to his mat
on the dirt. Sweat chilled on his skin and
everything hurt. He pulled the blanket over his
chest and listened first to Ward's stuttering snores, then
the faint howl of something in the far off jungle.
Sleep scraped him raw, dragged him through bad dreams, the
blood rag washing up at his knee, Roland screaming from
somewhere black Ward pressing the black sword into his hands,
saying nothing, mouth bleeding red.
When he startled awake, the stub had burned to nothing.
The only light crept in through the cracks between bamboo slats.
He sat, wiped snot from his lip, and listened for any noise that
shouldn't be there. Village sounds pressed, faint
murmurs, a baby's guttering cry, the scrape of wood, the hush of
wind through loose roof thatch. No horns, no drums, no boats.
He dressed without thinking. His limbs worked in practiced
patterns. Tie the cords, slap off the
worst dust, dig out a clean cloth and wipe his face again.
He edged into the main room to see Ward, already awake, sitting
at the table, chewing half a hunk of yam, eyes locked on the
doorway. Sir poured himself a cup of
yesterday's water, drank, then swallowed twice more to clear
his throat. He moved to the rack by the fire
and felt the weight of every sword, wood and metal.
He cupped the hilt of the black sword before pulling his hands
away, skin humming as if he'd touched a live snake.
Ward grunted upon seeing the gesture.
Not that one, he said. Not ever.
Serre took down a practice blade instead.
He felt its balance, swung it through the air.
The feeling was off, awkward, not enough heft or length.
Ward watched, not saying a word. The silence fell thick between
them, not out of malice, just habit and old wounds.
Finally, Ward stood, grabbed his boots and strap them on.
He turned towards Serre. You come with me if there's
fighting, you stay behind if there's talking, you keep your
mouth shut unless I nod. Sir nodded.
He licked his lips, tasting the grit of sleep and fear, and
followed Ward out the door. The chill of morning hit him
square. The grass by the well froze
white in streaks, and birds kept to the thick branches.
Already, noise traced through the village, low, nervous
parents warning their kids, men sharpening blades against split
wood, one woman stitching a red scrap to her child's sleeve,
hands moving too fast. By the communal hall, the rest
of the elders had gathered. Hodair looked right through SER,
but Canulo offered a quick nod. Oksak stood by the steps,
running his thumb over a smooth stone.
Roland, Lavu, Balu and Viti stood together, all carrying
real blades this time, not toys. Ward pulled Sir to the side.
No mistakes. The old man said, voice rough.
Any sign this turns bad, you move, don't play, hero.
Sir nodded again and tried not to clench his hands.
The air tasted thick, sour, sharp with wood smoke and sweat.
Balu flashed a hard smile, as if to say nothing scares me, but he
held his blade too high. Lavu shifted from foot to foot,
eyes never fixed. Roland spotted Sere and cracked
the faintest smile. Down by the river, movement
built, the brush parted, and Basil's boat came.
Three new faces this time, another staff in the stern.
The morning sun made their armor look redder, their faces harder.
Nothing like wandering traders. The villagers bunched up behind
the elders, mothers boxed children with their arms.
The oldest men leaned together, quiet.
Someone coughed, and nobody jumped at the sound.
The village pressed together, bodies close, waiting for Ward
or someone else to start a story that never had a happy end.
The boat slid to shore. Basalt and his men stepped out,
boots sucking at the mud of Chuttima.
The stranger didn't bark this time.
He planted the staff and waited, measuring the crowd.
Ward stepped forward, alone. Only old pride kept his
shoulders square. His stare met Basalt's for a
moment. The hush was so thick it pressed
the river flat, made the distant jungle fall away.
Basalt lifted the staff, voice steady and dead.
Your answer? Ward didn't look back.
We will not join you. Basalt didn't flinch.
He lifted the staff higher. Behind him, his men drew knives,
blades covered with the black tar of river pitch.
The red cloth snapped once in the breeze, then hung dead.
The crowd tensed. Blades came up, feet spread, and
voices caught. Roland's arms shook around the
grip of his sword. Lavou let out a tiny gasp before
clamping his teeth. Ward watched every twitch.
Sarah said his feet has taught. He waited for the first move,
something, anything. The air hissed in his chest and
he tasted blood. Bassett gave a single nod.
So be it. The first man stepped forward,
blades swinging, feet buried up to the ankle in cold, black mud.
The first clash sounded dull, nothing like the stories, the
wet thunk of steel against wood, the grunts of men slipping on
mud. Ward met the attacker halfway,
blade up, no wasted movement, turning aside a slashing cut and
jamming his elbow into the man's chin.
Blood sprayed and the man staggered without a sound.
Oksuk swung his stick with both hands, cracking bone.
Hodea moved slower, heavier, dragging one basalt man by the
shoulder and beating him twice with the head of a hoe.
Canelo crouched, sticking his old knife into a seam where knee
met thigh. The basled tribesmen dropped to
1 knee gasping. Canelo finished the job, quick,
brutal, No words. SER watched the fight unfold,
feet planted. Ward moved through the line.
No shouting, no glory, just short ugly work.
Roland, behind SER gripped his blade, breath coming fast.
Lavu pressed up behind Hodeya, swinging low at an ankle and
catching bone with a hard crack. Balu got tangled by a fourth
tribesman's arms. The man reached for Balu's knife
arm. Balu shrieked and jerked away,
then slammed the butt of his blade up into the man's teeth.
The tribesman's head snapped back, mouth blooming red.
Balu dropped his knife in the scramble but scrabbled for it,
kneeing the man's leg hard. Another attacker came for Sir
Alder, face painted with red play streaks, knife notched
along the edge. Sir dodged, let the first slice
sail past. The man jabbed right fast.
Sir felt the blade touch his side, tearing shirt and skin.
He swung the practice blade, felt it thud against ribs.
The man growled, stumbling forward, knife up, and Sir
kicked him straight across the shin.
The man folded, grabbing at Sir's legs, getting a boot to
the face for his trouble. Ward took another hit, this one
across the scalp, drawing sudden blood.
He roared, drove his attacker back with wide, lunging swings.
The villagers pressed the outsiders hard, bodies bumping
and swinging, the only sound the smack of fist to jaw, blade to
bone, boots in mud. Basil stood back, watching, eyes
flat, waiting for the choice moment.
Roland's blade shook in both hands, Viti and La Vu tangled,
arms moving as one, knocking A tribesman to his knees with a
shared shove, Oksuk finally lost his stick.
He bit a man's ear hard enough to make him scream, using fists
when there was nothing better. Sir felt the raw acid of fear
shoot through him as his attacker rose again.
The man lunged. Sir twisted, went low, brought
the blunt blade up under the man's jaw.
The man's head snapped back. He spat blood and charged, but
Sir sidestepped, swinging as hard as he could across the
man's temple. This time the man fell and
stayed down the fight pressed up against the water's edge.
Mothers shielded children with their bodies.
Basalt, realizing the line had held, barked a command.
His own men staggered back, 2 limping, 1 leaving a red trail
behind him. Ward and Canulo stood front,
blood on their faces and arms, eyes never leaving Basalt.
We said no. Ward growled, voice flat and
cold. The Basalt spat back into his
boat. This isn't finished.
The fire will come. He cannot stand forever.
He dragged his wounded onto the boat and shoved off, all biting
into the shallows. The villagers watched without
speaking until the red sail rounded the bend, vanishing from
view. The damage showed.
Soon blood stained the riverbank.
Two men lay groaning with open gashes.
A woman rocked a child with a split scalp.
Ward pressed his palm to the slice above his brow until the
bleeding slowed. Oak Zuck wiped sweat from his
jaw and stooped to reclaim his stick, bent hands on his knees,
gulping hot air. His arms shook from the effort
of it, and from the knowledge that this was only the first
wave. Roland found Sir, knuckles white
on his sword, face streaked with mud and something close to
tears. We're still here.
Rolland said, his voice hollow. Sir glanced at the rising sun,
warm gold, uncaring. We made them leave for now.
He wiped at the blood seeping from the cut along his ribs,
already stiffening. Around them, the villagers
pulled wounded men to their feet, checked each body for
signs of life or loss. Ward's eyes scanned the faces,
always measuring, always counting.
No one cheered. No one called it a victory.
The work of survival waited on every side, and somewhere
downriver, the promise of fire had only just begun.
SER steadied his breath, ready for what would come next.
The Riverside cleared slow, the last of Basalt's men vanishing
around the far bend, the boat's hull dragging in the reeds.
A single black feather, maybe from a crow spooked by the
fighting, settled on the mud where the red sail had been.
No one trusted enough to move first, not even the oldest men.
Ward wiped blood from his hairline, leaving a fresh streak
running past his nose. His eyes burned holes in the
fading spot on the water. No one goes in after them, he
said. If they come again, it won't be
a warning. Nearby, Hordea hunched to help
Lavu tie off the cut on his calf, fingers slick with both
mud and blood. Mothers hurried, children back
behind doors, voices tight, promising food, safety, whatever
they could think of. Roland pressed A bundled cloth
to a long scrape on Balu's arm. The village stank, sharp now,
all copper, wood smoke, old sweat and fear.
To his side throbbed. The cut wasn't deep, but it's
smarted. When he twisted, he pressed his
hand to it, charmed it clear, and stood.
His legs wobbled. Lavu limped past, dragging a
broken spear. A dozen villagers circled up
around Ward and Oak Suck. Some argued for chasing the
basalts. Some talked of hiding in the
fields or up the old Ridge. Ward's voice beat all talk down
flat. We hold the line, no running.
Gather every able hand. Reinforce the walls.
If you've got a blade, carry it. If you haven't, use whatever you
can lift. Canulo took a shovel and started
digging a fresh pit by the path, prepping for a barricade.
Balu's older brother grabbed armfuls of reeds for
torchmaking. Viti dragged a pile of extra
pots, setting them in stacks behind the fish smoker.
If they needed to block a side door or throw something, they'd
have plenty. SER's hands shook as he started
helping Berlop pressed to his hip.
He joined Roland and Lavu behind the hall, stacking rocks and
sharpening stakes with a hatchet nicked from Canelo's shed.
The work forced breath into him, made the fear smaller by inches.
Balu's voice came raw from beside him.
They'll light us up if we don't dig in.
They'll try. Levoux said, jaw clenched.
But Ward won't let us burn easy. Did you see him, old man?
Move like a boar. Roland kept quiet, lips white.
His hands worked slower than the rest, but he didn't stop.
By midday, the barricades spread out from the main path.
Wagons flipped, fences upended, barrels half filled with water
dragged near every front door. Women crammed the youngest kids
inside kept their own weapons close.
Sickles, hammers and 1 by 1 the sturdiest kitchen knives.
Sir checked his own house, making sure nothing had been
left that could burn fast. Ward swept to the front,
carrying the black sword now, the blade half wrapped in
oilcloth but plain enough for anyone to see.
Sir nearly asked to carry it, to fight with something that heavy,
but the look Ward gave him snapped that thought dead.
As the day burned on, the sounds of building and shouting carried
out over the terraced fields. Even the birds kept to the far
trees, leaving the centre of Teatoma as quiet as a toothless
mouth. Balu flopped under the narrow
porch outside Seer's Hut after hauling wood.
No end to it, he said. Might as well dig our own
graves. Lavu arrived next, fresh bandage
around his leg. They'll be back tonight with
more. Sir sat chewing a strip of dried
fish, torn between hunger and nerves.
Wart's not sleeping. He'll watch until dawn if he has
to. Roland shuffled into the shade
last, hands stained red from hauling clay.
If this is the end, at least we're not running.
Lavu's voice came like a stone thrown at a still pond.
Would it be so bad to run? I keep thinking about it.
What's left if we stay and they burn it flat?
Belou picked at his toes. Run where?
If not into the basalt, into something worse.
Ward's right, this is ours. If we die, we die here.
Say nodded, the words quiet but weighty.
We hold, same as the old stories say.
Even if no one remembers, we'll say we stood.
Their silence fit the late day. The golden light faded to a
long, cold blue. Ward's shadow stretched past the
window, carrying the weight of both sword and command.
He caught Sir's eye and nodded him in.
Inside, candles flickered, pressed down by a wall of old
shadows. Ward poured water into two
chipped cups, pushed one at Sir. You're not a child now.
Fight if you must, but you listen to me until the end,
understand? Sir drew a rough breath, met his
uncle's gaze. I will.
Ward closed his eyes for a moment, then drew the oilcloth
tight around the black sword, set it on the Mantel, and sat
heavily beside SER Outside, a wind picked up, brushing the
village with the chill of coming night.
They waited, and the village of Tutioma, battered, bloody and
silent, waited with them. Night took hold fast.
Smoke drifted low across the huts.
Fires kept small and deep inside houses, not a single light
showing through a window. The barricades threw misshapen
shadows across the lanes. Men stood watch in twos and
threes, faces blank, gripping tools or old swords.
Any voice above a whisper drew hard looks from every dark
doorway. Sir sat on the wooden floor near
the fire, knees drawn up, back pressed to the cool wall.
Ward cleaned the black sword with a length of oiled cloth,
his movements methodical routine, the way a farmer
sharpens a spade before planting.
Ward said nothing, and Sir didn't ask.
There was nothing worth asking. Rain began to fall.
It started as a few big drops on the thatch, then poured down
steady. A hard, slanting rain that could
cover the sounds of boots or even a scream.
At the edge of the field, Ward picked up a pail and set it
beneath the leaky beam above the door.
The sound of water hitting tin was sharp and steady.
Balu arrived without warning, slipping through the door,
soaked and shaking mud from his feet onto the mat.
Roland's ma sent me, he whispered.
Says she saw shapes on the Ridge.
Ward needs to know. Ward took this in.
No flinch, just a nod. Tell Roland's family to stay in.
If he's awake, keep him downstairs.
Ballou nodded. I'll run.
Ward stopped him with a glance. No running tonight.
Walk straight and slow. I want everyone seen and
counted. Nobody alone.
Ballu's face knotted with fatigue.
He nodded again. Shut the door against the rain.
Ward rose and turned to Sir. You come.
If something brews at the Ridge, I want your eyes with mine.
He pointed at the rack. Take a real blade.
The steel from the rack felt heavier than Sayre remembered.
He strapped it tight and pulled on his cloak, the fabric thin
but better than nothing under the rain.
Ward opened the door, squinting through the downpour, setting
one slow foot after another. Outside, water streamed across
the path, lifting the scent of clay and rot.
The houses glowed faint with yellow light.
Through thick curtains, Seer could see figures drifting
behind rain streaked glass, every one of them holding
shadows longer and thinner than their bodies.
Ward led him past the well, where Lavu and Viti crouched
under an awning, both clutching unlit torches and biting their
lips. Stay sharp.
Ward grunted. Don't light anything.
Laboux nodded, shaking water from his fringe.
Viti looked past Ward, staring at the darkness like he could
see through it. They reached the edge of the
Ridge where the field sloped down to the next village.
Ward stared into the gloom, shoulders hunched, breath coming
slow from his nose. Sir strained to see through the
rain. For a moment he saw nothing,
just the broken ground slick with water and the black teeth
of burned old fence posts. Then there it was.
Movement 3 shapes hunkered low by a fallen log.
Heads tilted toward the village. SER slid his hand to the hilt of
his blade. Ward lifted an arm to signal.
Wait. The shapes stayed put, maybe
talking. One stood slowly, speaking to
the others. The voice carried weird in the
wet air. Certainly not to Marcy.
Ward motioned SER back. They crept through the
undergrowth, dirt clinging to knees, thorns raking their
cloaks. Neither spoke.
Each step pulled water into their boots, made the shiver in
Sir's bones set in deeper. After 10 long minutes circling,
they came close enough to hear scraps of words.
The language was basalt, broken and harsh, but neither Ward nor
Sir needed words to read the plan.
The shapes fanned out, checking the edge of Teatoma, staying
close to the brush, scanning for places in the barricade.
Ward's face went hard. He waved.
SER, home, wake Balu, Lavu and Hodea tell Oak to ring the bell
if he sees flames. I'm staying to count numbers.
They're left quick. Feet slapping mud, lungs burning
hot under the bite of rain. At every fence line he peeled
off to another door, rapping quick.
Lavu and Balu met him at the main lane, tortures in hand but
still unlit. Spread the news quietly, sharp
basalts on the Ridge. Ward said, wait for attack, but
stay ready. Today's shadow filled the
doorway. Ward out there alone, counting
their numbers. Saya said.
Let him what they are, said tight.
If they light the field, we ring the bell and everyone fights.
They pressed together under an awning, rain washing the blood
from earlier from the ground, leaving only the torn earth and
flattened grass. For long minutes, nothing moved
but the yellow smears of wet light behind closed curtains.
A dog barked near Vitty's house, sharp and then cut off.
Someone screamed, a short, abrupt sound, and then nothing.
The sound of the rain grew louder, rolling down in sheets.
Ward's outline appeared at the edge of the lane, body hunched
forward, blade out. He moved quick for his size,
never running but never slow, ducking into shadows, checking
every way in. Behind him, more shapes crept,
bassled scouts pressed low against the ground.
He called out, sharp as a whip now.
Ukzuk swung the bell, the sound cutting through the downpour.
Metal on metal, cold and jagged, echoing down every lane.
Doors flew open. Villagers poured out, holding
whatever they could swing. Flames flared as Balu, Lavu and
two others lit torches and tossed them to the dirt, in case
the basalt tried to cross the mud and take Tuitoma's heart.
Everything went quick and dirty in the dark.
Basalt men surged from the brush, dropping silent and hard
against the barricades. Sir swung his blade at the first
shadow that jumped the fence, feeling the jolt as metal hit
bone. Screams and curses twisted up.
Ward stood in their centre, black sword in hand, moving like
a wall between Tuituma and fire. Sir felt mud slide under his
feet, rain and blood mixing. The sound of bodies hitting
dirt, the sharp Tang of Ward's orders giving nobody a chance to
do anything but survive the fight.
Pressed into the village, the bell wild above their heads,
everyone standing or falling in the same filthy patch of rain
soaked ground. Please say.
A lost sense of time in the chaos, every second blurred
flash of torch scream, the slick push and drag of bodies in the
mud. Ward broke a path through the
attackers, swinging the black sword, each blow buying feet of
ground, the edge leaving dark wounds that hissed under the
rain. Orkzook fought at Seyer's side,
club in both fists, knocking down a man who rolled and clawed
straight back up. Viti let out a sharp yell,
vanished in the crush, then reappeared with blood spraying
from his nose, swinging a hoe. Roland clung to Seyer's shoulder
for a breath, face white and eyes too big, a kitchen knife
shaking. In his first, a basalt tribesman
lunged for them. SER drove the point of his sword
into the man's thigh, felt the snap of tendon, saw him crumple.
Roland gagged and turned away, wiping rein and snot from his
chin. SER had no words, only forced
him back. Behind an overturned cart, Lavu
stumbled by, limping, his spear broken, lashing out with the
jagged end. He shoved the basalt man away
just as Balu dragged another off a fence by both ankles, knees
pressing mud until the man stopped moving.
The basalt notched a torch and flung it into a pile of brush by
a wall, fire licking fast up the dry grass.
Hudai Apluvia dashed over, kicked the flames with both feet
and threw buckets, shoving a boy after another, faces smudged and
bleeding, lines tight with panic.
Seyer glanced down the lane. Ward still fought, shoulders
hunched, the black sword flashing in short, merciless
arcs for an instant. A basalt tribesman met Ward head
on and tried to grab the blade with both hands.
Ward didn't slow. He drove the hilt into the man's
jaw, snapped his head back, and cut him down.
The barricade behind them sagged. 3 basalt men pressed
through knives, wide grins showing teeth.
Roland Coward then jabbed blindly, caught one in the hip.
Lavu and Balu charged, clubbing and kicking until 2 backed off,
1 limping, 1 crawling. The third left crumpled.
Rain came harder, steam billowing where fire caught wet
grass. Sir fought back.
A man twice his age and size got knocked to one knee, losing his
grip on the blade. The man swung down but slipped.
Sir darted up, grabbed a rock, smashed it against temple and
jaw. The man slumped, half in the
mud, groaning. Smoke cut through the rain,
thick and sour, but the fires faded as the torrents drowned
them. The basalt numbers thinned,
bodies down, others fleeing, 1 slipping away between houses.
Ward shouted. Hold them, don't leave the
lines. The villagers, teeth bared and
arms slick with mud and blood, pressed forward.
Oak rang the bell with both arms, calling the remaining
defenders together. Lavu slumped against the well,
pressing A rag to his side, teeth clenched, legs shaking but
refusing to go down. The fighting didn't last much
longer. A last rush by three bassled men
turned to panic as war charged the black sword cutting an arc
of rain and light. The strangers broke, sprinted
back through the broken gaps into Itoma's defences, leaving
behind weapons, shoes, and two of their own.
Seer stood, breathing hard, chest burning, his blade lost,
mouth slick with blood That wasn't all his.
Rain stung his eyes, only now letting him feel the scrapes
along his ribs and the bite in his thigh.
From every direction came the scrape of boots and the shuffle
of bodies, some crying, some groaning.
Ward paced to the center, chest heaving.
Blood streaked across chin and brow.
Eyes raked the village. No smile, no relief.
People came out slow, torches guttering, silence gripping them
heavier than fear. Canulo cursed as he checked the
wounded, tearing strips from his own shirt for bandages.
Hodea's wife cradled her daughter under the awning,
rocking her by the sound of fading battle and rain.
Balu wiped mud from his eyes, counted his friends, then spat.
Red limped to Sir and Roland. Ward finally spoke, voice loud
enough for all. Get the hurt inside.
Leave the dead for now. Any basalt that moves tie up in
the storehouse. Count us, all of us.
The crowd did as told, without complaint or question.
The storm eased fire down to smolder in the ash piles,
torches guttering on thresholds, smoke trailing low.
The village had held, but it didn't feel like a victory.
It felt like the last breath of something stubborn, half killed,
still too hard to die. SER leaned against the well,
breath slowing, body hurting everywhere.
Roland pressed a hand to Sail's back.
Quiet. Lavu grinned, lips split, blood
on teeth. Still here?
Lavu croaked. Still here.
Sarah agreed and pushed himself up, waiting for Ward to say what
came next. Dawn arrived, muffled, the rain
spent, the sky a dreary wash. Tuitoma's paths ran thick with
mud, pools glinting between prints, blood spreading thin
where rain hadn't swept it clean.
Smoke drifted from a few cold fire rings, rising crooked into
the mist. Survivors moved slow, silent.
They carried bodies, basalt dead first, then any villager who
hadn't made it through the night, laying them in rows by
the well. Serre helped with the worst
work. He gripped ankles slick with
mud, teeth clenched back and arms aching with effort.
Roland hauled stones to weigh down a canvas over the dead.
Lavu limped, head bandaged, eyes ringed red from smoke and lack
of sleep, but his hands kept steady as he tied wounds and
righted what was left to right. Inside the communal hall, Ogzuk
doled out rations and measured water, 1 cup at a time.
Hodea argued with Canulo by the door, voices low, fighting over
when and where to bury the bodies.
Balu's mother brought herbs and rags, tending to a woman with a
broken hand, setting bones with the cool patience of someone who
had done this many times with livestock.
Ward sat by the window, soared across his knees, unmoving, eyes
sinking into the fog. He watched the yard, the
barricade sagging, the lines drawn in mud and ash.
Now and then he blinked, jaw tightening.
Every time the villagers hurt rose up a notch, someone crying
for a brother, a girl refusing to leave the side of a lost
friend. So dropped the last canvas to
the side of the trail, straightening up, sweat and rain
running together down his face. For a minute he just stood,
breath coming ragged, eyes glazed by fatigue.
When he finally moved, it was through a world so much quieter
than the night before, every footfall loud, every whisper
easy to track. He met the others by the well.
Roland tried and failed to smile, face drawn hollow by the
hours. Balu rolled a Pebble beneath his
boot, saying nothing. Lavu bent forward, spat a clot
of blood, and grimaced. They'll have to try harder next
time. Balu said after a while, words
barely above the croak of a frog.
Lavu picked at a scab on his wrist.
If there is a next time, maybe they'll find easier pickings.
Never seen Ward move like that. Never seen him take a cut and
not even notice. Sarah appeared at the crowd
clustering by the communal hall, at Ward, hunched alone with his
sword, a man drained near empty. He'll stand as long as there's
anyone to stand for, even if it's just himself.
Roland's voice came thin. We're not leaving, not after
this. Baloo spat.
No, they can burn every Hut to the ground and we'll still be
here. Around them, men and women
dragged logs to fortify the main path, patched holes in walls
with Reed and mud, not a new rope for Nets and wounds both.
No one boasted, no one cheered or named the Knight of Victory.
They just worked, because nothing else made sense.
By afternoon the rain gave up, letting a weak line of sunlight
crawl down the centre of Twitoma.
Some hope flickered, soft, thin as kids laughter, but everyone
knew better than to relax. The youngest children crept out,
poking fingers into puddles, poking the basled bodies the way
they might a dead fish on the bank.
Ward finally stood, pulling himself up slow.
The black sword slid into its wrappings, hidden again out of
reach. He limped to the square, passing
the well. Each villager paused in their
work, watching him with the same guarded caution as they gave a
wild dog. Ward said nothing at first.
Then, as he met each set of eyes, he nodded.
It's done, he said. Today we dig.
Tonight we watch, tomorrow we'll see.
He pressed the sword tighter to his chest.
With that, he turned away, dragging his shadow behind him.
Sir met Ward's stare for one heartbeat as the old man left.
He didn't look away. Behind Sir, La Vou's laugh
rasped out, half broken, but not all.
Gone. Still here, all of us.
Sia let the words settle. The work called again, and he
answered, folding himself into the weary, stubborn rhythm of a
village that might just outlast the next rain.
The rest of the day blurred into work and silence.
The air hung thick, smells of earth and burnt reeds and blood
never leaving. The youngest children circled
the well, dared each other to inch closer to the rows of
covered bodies, then sprinted away, giggling until 1 mother
hissed at them to stay clear. Old men with shovels measured
grave plots and traded few words.
Women broke apart the barricade, carrying back anything not
soaked through or ruined, rebuilding what little could be
saved. Daul axes chopped for hours.
Nobody let their hands go idle. Sir spent the afternoon shoving
mud against one wall of the seraphin's house, plugging gaps
left by knives and fire. Balu helped, pressing in river
sod, grumbling how his own place might as well be kindling that
evening when the sun sagged low and turned the sky to brass.
Roland brought a battered basket from his mother, 1 yam, 2
wrinkled apples, a fat chunk of old cheese.
Sir broke it into thirds and they ate, sitting in the dirt,
chewing slow. Lavu slumped beside them, eating
with bloody fingers, legs stretched and shaking.
Ward didn't come home for supper.
From the doorway, Sir watched his uncle move from house to
house, checking on every hurt, trading nods or a brief word,
touching shoulders or heads in that silent way that passed for
kindness when you'd run out of everything else to give.
When Ward returned, it was for the pipe and to splash cold
water on his face. He said nothing to Sir, and Sir
returned the favour. The night came cold and wet.
Again the men stood watch, this time with torches burning all
night, fires hidden low so no one could see them from the
Ridge. No one slept well.
Sarah rolled on his mat, listening to the groans and
shifting blankets in neighboring huts, the coughs that cut the
night. Somewhere near midnight a baby
cried, long and inconsolably. Then silence fell thick.
Before dawn, Sir woke. His head throbbed, his cut rib
smarted. He dressed slow, picked through
the kitchen for the last crumbs of bread, and slipped outside.
Wad was already at the well, hands wrapped around a steaming
cup, jaw set, eyes on the horizon where fog drifted up
from the river. For a while, Sir stood beside
him, neither talking, breathing in the taste of smoke and dew.
The world barely colored in today.
How much time passed, Sir didn't know, only that when the sun
forced itself above the jungle line, the night's dread seemed
smaller. The village made its noises, a
cough and axe on a stump, the shush of feet on wet grass.
Lives rebooted. Rolon and Levoux emerged,
bruises already going green, voices scratchy but not broken.
Baloo trailed behind, dragging a clean shirt and an attitude, but
he grinned when he saw Sir, hard and fast, a flash of old
mischief that didn't last two steps.
Over the next hours they filled the old burial pit, sewed up the
worst wounds, burned the last of the ruined fence.
The basil dead were left outside the walls, stripped of anything
useful, then dragged across the path and left for whatever would
take them. Ward watched it all, unmoving,
arms folded, the black sword never far.
After everything was tidied, all the work bled out, the village
collected at the square for a final wordless count.
No speeches, no stories, just the elders standing together,
tired faces drawn, every eye on Ward.
Ward looked at the row of survivors, his mouth dry and
hands clamped tight. He raised the sword, not in
command, but because it was his and always would be.
Two tomahawds. He said no shout, no drama, and
that was all. SER stood at the back with his
friends, mud still smeared on his skin, arms aching, head
hollowed out. Balu cursed under his breath.
Roland squeezed Sarah's wrist just once, then let go.
Lavu stood with both fists jammed in his pockets, eyes on
the dirt. When it was done, everyone
drifted away, back to broken homes, back to beds that would
not bring rest. Ward leaned on his sword,
shoulders sagging. Sir wanted to say something,
anything that might ease that look, but nothing felt true.
So he walked back slow, feeling every cut and bruise sing in his
body, and let the weight of what they'd survived press down until
survive was all that mattered. Night came again, and even
though every shadow looked like an enemy, even though the fences
would never be enough, Sir crawled beneath his blanket,
shut his eyes, and waited for dreams darker than any jungle
night. Thank you for listening to
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Must be the storm.