Chapter 42

Irun along the muddy bank, the river growing frailer with every sweeping turn it weaves between the trees. Peering through my hair hanging over my eyes, I spot the first sign I’m getting close: A tall, glass tree weeping toward the ground—a taste of the blast that punched down from the sky and all but eliminated the entire toxic race of Unseelie, freezing the Central Territory of Arrin in a vitreous eternity. Veins from the blast even crackled and stretched their jagged fingers into the outskirts of Bahari, Rouse, and Ocruth.

Everything it touched, it destroyed.

Arrin is now a time capsule that bears all its bruises for those brave enough to venture into the glassy graveyard, though not many dare. There is no vegetation. Nothing but clear dunes and a harsh wind that slowly sands the desolation into a fine, white powder that gets in your ears and eyes and mouth, making it hard to breathe.

But on the outskirts, miners carve out a living from the solid corpse of dunes, and transparent forests and jungles provide unshadowed refuge for people too afraid to rely on lantern light to keep them safe from the Irilak. Lorn is one such village caught on the fault line between dead and alive, glass and soil. It sits on the prominent point of the thinnest elbow of the River Norse, cradled by its tight curl that’s tricky for larger ships to maneuver through.

I keep running until the lush, fertile jungle turns crystalline and cold despite the bold blades of sun striking the see-through canopy and the clusters of buildings, shrubs, and stones. Jagged glass veins stretch across the soil and up into the trees. Covering small cottages. Tempering horses—some with their heads bent, grazing on blades of grass caught in a lucent eternity they’ll never grow out of.

I know I’m too late by the harsh reek upon the air. By the vaporous huddle of Irilak flitting excitedly, collecting in heavy pockets of shade that pour off thick patches of untarnished jungle.

I don’t pay them any heed as I slow my pace and crouch behind a bush. Fist tight around my stolen spear, I watch a large Vruk grub the soil with its stubby nose just shy of the glassy fault line, cast in a large, timely shard of sun that fends off the Irilak nesting in the wing.

Talons punch free from its paw and it slashes, slashes—like a cat toying with its food. Wood rattles, muffled screams howling from beneath the ground …

A bunker.

Before a glass barn that’s splashed in blood, another Vruk is hunched over a messy lump of flesh, head to the side as it crunches through its meal.

Bones pop. Snap.

Splinter.

Someone screams in the distance, the sound swiftly stifled by a fetid roar that makes the hairs on my arms lift.

I crack my neck from side to side.

Three. At least.

Movement draws my eye to yellow liquid trickling down the side of a trunk not far from me, pinching the air with the distinct waft of urine. My gaze climbs up into the fragile canopy to a little boy with straw-colored hair and tear-stained cheeks, blue eyes locked on me, knobby knees barely keeping him wrapped around the branch he’s clinging to.

A wobbled sound spills from his trembling lips, and I lift my finger to my mouth.

He nods, burying his face into his arm.

I inch onto the glass terrain and crouch in a blade of sun, set my spear down, then slide my dagger from its sheath—its wooden hilt cold in my clenched fist as I stake the weapon into the ground.

Drag it sideways.

A shrill scratching sound ratchets through the air, making my teeth grind.

The beast digging at the bunker whips its head in my direction, bits of the splintered trapdoor caught in its wide maw, those black eyes stabbing at me. Blowing puffs of steam from its flared nostrils, it tosses the wood aside and roars, charging, rattling the ground with its thundering approach that lures the attention of the other Vruk feasting by the barn.

I draw my sword and focus on the one closest, holding my ground until the moment I feel its pungent breath blow against my face—raising my arms and slamming the long weapon deep into the glass beneath my feet.

The sharp tip screeches through the layers.

I leap back, watching recognition flash across the animal’s feral face.

It falters, paws slipping out from under it as it skates across the smooth surface, bared chest colliding with the lethal blade.

Curdled yelps squeal out of the beast as its body swallows the weapon, fur and flesh and bone giving way to its honed edge. Blood gushes from the fatal blow, every breath a labored howl until the creature falls limp, tongue lolling from its gaping maw.

There’s a sharp popping sound, then another, and another.

I step back from my blade, watching a fracture weave through the glass—up the trunk of the tree the boy is hiding in.

The branch he’s clinging to cracks, and he screams, his meager grip jostled.

He plummets, and I leap, snatching him with a swoop of my arm before he can strike the ground. I tuck him close to my chest and jump over the slain beast, slam my dagger into its sheath, and put my back to the two Vruk still thundering toward us, lifting the boy high and shoving him into another tree. “Climb!”

Sobbing, he clambers up, weaving his frail body between the brittle foliage once vibrant with life.

I stalk toward my spear—

Something plucks at that tender string in my chest—the slightest twinge that makes my step falter, eyes whipping south. A wildness scratches at my skin.

I search the trees as though I’m searching for her face. Her eyes.

The ground continues to thunder beneath my feet, but I barely notice as that feeling flatlines like a snapped stem, leaving a hollow, senseless void I fill with murderous rage.

Roaring, I sweep my spear off the ground, spin, and crank my arm, looking at the howling creature galloping toward me. I swing my body forward and hurl the honed weapon into the air, impaling the Vruk straight through its wide-open maw.

Its legs crumble beneath its might, and it tips, colliding with the brittle trunk of a glass tree that shatters from the force, spilling across the ground with a violence that’s deafening.

Gripping the hilt of my sword, I rip it free from the corpse wrapped around its length, pulling my dagger from its sheath with my other hand and flinging it through the air. It whumps deep into the eyeball of the third beast as I charge forward, boots crunching on the scattered shards. I wrap both hands around the hilt of my sword and cut it straight through the Vruk’s meaty neck with such feral force, I cleave it from the body.

It thuds to the ground in a shower of pulsing blood.

Silence.

I stop, heaving breath into my parched lungs, shoulders loosening, tipping my head and looking up through crystal clear leaves to the blue sky above.

Breathe.

I thread my hand over my chest, right atop that warm pouch of her, and beg for something other than silence.

The silence is the worst.

Forcing my muscles back into action, I scan the bloody scene, gore dripping off my face, hands, and sword.

The Irilak nesting in the shade are practically vibrating, making sharp clicking sounds, growing bold and edging closer to the light, perhaps waiting for a cloud to blot out the sun so they can feast.

I look up at the little boy, his cheeks sapped of color.

“You okay? Anything hurt?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at me like I’m worse than the monsters I just slaughtered.

“Row! Faster! Faster!”

The belted command has my head whipping around, looking through glass trees splattered with blood.

A small, north-bound barge strung with lanterns pushes out of the gloomy jungle, drifting into the sunlight spilling through the crystalline canopy as it edges toward the tight elbow that weaves around the village. The numerous oars poking through the ship’s hull pull in erratic chaos.

A blur of movement catches my eye—a large, dark Vruk bursting toward the ship in long, powerful strides. “Shit,” I mutter, watching it leap from the river’s edge, ebony talons bared, trying to bridge the nine-foot gap. Two red-cloaked merchants scream as it thuds against the portside, making the barge tip to a symphony of muffled cries.

The beast scrambles, but the vessel begins to roll from the sheer weight of it clinging to the side, until it loses traction and falls—dunking beneath the water.

The barge bucks with a violent swing that sends the merchants sliding across the deck.

Seeing the Vruk pop up downstream in the midst of the gloomy, Irilak-infested jungle, I sprint toward the riverside.

“Throw out your anchor!” I bellow, using the back of my arm to wipe the gore from my face as I weave between glass cottages with pitched roofs. “These people need refuge!”

One of the merchants looks right at me from beneath the scoop of his hood. “Row!” he howls, knuckles blanching as he grips onto the rail and pulls himself up.

The barge begins to power forward, and I shake my head, stalking it along the riverbank. The second merchant pulls himself up by the tiller, steering the vessel, looking straight down the nose of it.

“Cowardly fucks.” I sheathe my sword and concede a few steps before sprinting forward, bounding off the bank, and leaping through the air. I land on the deck with such force the boat bucks, bloody gore splashing off my boots and muddying the floorboards as a handful of shrill screams vibrate through them.

Frowning, I stare at the floor, attention sliding to the man with a tight grip on the tiller. I barely catch a glance of his wide eyes beneath the fall of his blood-red hood before he stumbles a step and leaps off the back, landing with a heavy splash.

I grunt, whirling, and stalk toward the man at the nose—now facing me.

Chanting.

“Oh bright ones, please deliver me through the gates of Kvath—”

A blow of wind flips his hood, revealing his smooth face and bald head. My eyes widen at the sight of the upside down v carved into his forehead.

Shulák.

“I can smell your fear,” I growl as I draw close.

He continues to squeak words past his trembling lips.

“Gods have mercy, for my heart is not at peace. Please take me in your warm embrace and ease me into the Mala, for I am but your loyal servant.”

“Hate to break it to you,” I mutter on a low laugh, “but nobody’s listening. They don’t give a fuck about you.”

Or anyone else, for that matter.

He reaches into the fold of his cloak, pulling out a short blade that catches the light. I quicken my pace, hands bunching into fists, stopping when he whips it up and drags the sharp length across his throat, spilling ribbons of blood down his chest. Mouth gaping, his eyes roll back as a bloody breath gurgles from both the slit in his throat and his lips, before he crumbles in a heap on the deck.

His blood leeches down the floorboards, stretching toward me like crimson fingers.

I clear my throat, give him my back, and grab the anchor—a heavy, metal claw I toss off the side of the boat. It clatters against the sparkling riverbank, snagging between huge, crystal clear boulders.

Pulling with all my weight on the chain, I hiss out harsh breaths, shoulders bulging, the tendons in my arms pushing to the surface as I force the ship’s nose toward the shore. We clunk against it, and I secure the chain.

Swiping hair slick with sweat off my face, I look over my shoulder to the trapdoor near the back of the boat.

My footsteps thud across the deck, stomping the Shulák’s bright red blood with every step. I reach down, grab the metal handle, and pull. The stench of shit and piss and fear fills my nostrils—a putrid blend that makes me want to dry heave.

Checking my surroundings, I buffer the lower half of my face with the fall of my cloak and ease down the tight stairs that lead beneath the deck, stepping into the lantern-lit hull.

Eyes widening.

Sitting upon benches that line the space—benches that usually house grown, sturdy men—are kids.

Eight rows of two. Each of them bald and wide-eyed.

Wearing gray robes.

Each of them with an upside down v branded on their foreheads.

Electric fury crackles through my veins, nipping at the undersides of my skin as I take in the ropes bound around their hands, forcing their grip on the oars. As I note the fact they’re sitting in their own shit, some of them with lumpy vomit poured down their fronts.

“Where are your parents?”

My voice booms through the dim, met with a silence that’s deafening.

I take another step down, stopping just shy of the muck sloshing across the floor as a small voice croaks out words that skate across my skin.

My heart stops. Slams back into action again when a second voice joins the dry, monotone chant. Then a third, and a fourth, until the entire hull is reciting the damning, poisonous words …

I take in the deep-rooted fear ingrained in their eyes, and realize it has nothing to do with the rope or the shit or the spew, but the tail end of a familiar prophecy they’re belting at me.

“The world will fall to shadow’s hand. The world will fall to shadow’s hand. The world will fall to shadow’s hand—”

“Fuck.”