Siege of Stone

CHAPTER 8

Waves crashed like war hammers against the black cliffs, as if the serpent god were angry or restless, but the Norukai were accustomed to storms and high seas. The harsh waters and treacherous channels between the islands heated the blood of the Norukai, strengthened them.

The air was damp and cold inside King Grieve’s enormous Bastion, which towered over the main Norukai island. Built from perfectly fitted black stones, its impregnable square walls were even more intimidating than the sharp reef spires that protruded from the foaming surf below.

A fire roared in the cavernous hearth of his throne room, fed with logs delivered by lumber ships that razed the coast. The Norukai were feared as raiders, destroyers, slavers, but on their rocky islands, wood was a commodity as valuable as gold and less unruly than defiant captives. The large fire in the throne room burned constantly against the persistent damp chill.

King Grieve wore a sleeveless scaled vest made from the skin of a wolf shark that he had wrestled into submission, hauling it up onto the rocks and gutting it while it was still alive. His arm muscles were enormous from hard work and from killing. The Norukai king needed to be stronger than all of his people, and Grieve often demonstrated the fact, although it was difficult to coerce anyone to fight him, because any challenger knew he or she would die.

He clenched his fists as he sat on his blocky throne, staring at the hot, bright fire. Grieve’s knuckles had been inset with curved iron plates. One blow from his fist would crush an opponent’s skull and drop him like a clubbed spearfish. Grieve liked to do that, although it ended the fun of a duel all too soon.

Outside the Bastion, the howling wind tried to force its way inside. Breezes clawed at reinforced glass, rattled the panes. Even with the windows closed and barred, he could hear the crashing surf. Stone buildings covered any flat space on the island, huddling against the persistent wind.

Even as rain streaked through the air, people continued their daily business. Women were still out planting herbs and succulents in cracks in the cliffs, using every small patch of fertile land. Goat herders grazed their animals among the mosses and lichens. Fishermen came in with their catch, braving the waves. Grieve would feast on fresh fish, as he did each night, while most of the catch was salted and preserved, or pressed into tanks with cabbage and vinegar that could ferment during the worst of the stormy season.

Out in the narrow harbor sheltered by high cliffs, wood-and-iron docks held the larger serpent ships that came in to deliver the plunder from Norukai raids. His people were not so weak as to worry about the weather, and this was just a small storm.

As he listened to the wind and thought about war, Grieve heard the clang of iron bells from the harbor cliffs. Sentries hammered the long hollow cylinders to announce the approach of a ship. It was not an alarm, because no one would dare attack the Norukai archipelago, a hundred islands on the charts and others too small to be worth recording. Each one was a fortress. The iron bells rang to spread word that some raiding party or explorer had returned to the harbor.

Grieve scratched his cheek, felt the long gash scar that ran from the corner of his lips to the back of his jaw—an intentional cut that had widened his mouth, the skin sewn up to leave his face looking serpentlike. Tattooed scales on his skin did even more to honor the serpent god. The king had other enhancements to his body, bone spines implanted in his shoulders, a sharpened hook through his left nostril. Rather than a belt, he wrapped an iron chain around his waist, and over the course of his life, Grieve had added one link for each man he had killed in personal combat. Now the chain belt circled his waist more than three times.

Grieve frowned at the white sticklike figure that pranced in front of the fireplace. The great hearth looked like the mouth of a dragon ready to breathe fire at the shaman who hovered there absorbing the warmth. He leaned so close to the flames that his albino skin reddened.

Hearing the bells, the pale figure cocked his head and jittered his arms. “It’s Captain Kor! Captain Kor has returned.”

“How do you know that, Chalk? It could be anyone.”

“I know. The bells ring in my head. The voices tell me what I can’t see with my own eyes, and my eyes see what I can’t imagine.” Squirming with energy, the shaman left the roaring fire and danced across the cold stone floor. “It’s Captain Kor, I know it.”

Those who saw Chalk for the first time often cringed, but Grieve saw only his friend. Chalk was naked except for a loincloth of stitched-together fish hides. His own skin was ghostly pale, as it had been since birth. His family had called him an abomination, shunned him.

His body was covered with countless small scars, where his skin had been ravaged with innumerable fish bites. When Grieve was a teen, his father King Stern ordered young Chalk to be thrown into a pool infested with man-eating razorfish. Their fangs tore his tender skin, drawing blood, tasting his flesh. But for some unknown reason, except that it was a blessing from the serpent god, the razorfish did not devour him. Young Grieve had dragged Chalk out of the pool and suffered savage bites while saving him.

The fish had eaten any soft and tender flesh: Chalk’s ears, part of his lips, his eyelids, his privates. The young albino recovered, thanks to Grieve’s tending—but he was never the same.

As a young man, Grieve had sensed Chalk’s power. King Stern was disgusted with the outcast, but Grieve befriended the scarred and half-mad youth, listened to his babblings. The horrific ordeal had awakened some strange manifestation of the gift in him, some kind of premonition.

Chalk had foreseen many things and even told Grieve when to challenge and kill his father. Since then, the albino had been at his side as his shaman and advisor. Even though Grieve often questioned his bizarre pronouncements and tried to clarify what Chalk saw in order to make the predictions useful, he never actually doubted the veracity of what the shaman knew.

“Are you certain it’s Captain Kor?” he repeated, knowing Chalk would not change his answer.

“It is Kor. Three ships. He’s back. I know it, my Grieve! King Grieve! They’ll all grieve!” He chattered the refrain like a mantra. He hopped from one foot to the other. “You’ll see. Listen to the bells. The ships will dock soon. Kor will come up, and he’ll tell you about your new war.”

“What war? I haven’t decided on a war.”

“You will, and you will know.”

Grieve crossed his arms over his sharkskin vest and leaned back in the throne. The storm continued to whistle and howl, and cold rain slashed against the glass windows. “If you’re correct, I’ll give you a treat.”

“More fish? Can I have more fish for my tank? I like the pretty fish.”

“We’ll see,” Grieve said. “But if you’re wrong, I’ll find a suitable punishment.”

Chalk skittered away, holding up his hands, touching his rough skin. “Don’t feed me to the fishes. Not the fishes. Not again. I am your Chalk. You are my Grieve. King Grieve. They’ll all grieve!”

The look of abject terror on the shaman’s face gave the king pause, and he spoke in a softer voice. “You know better. I would never feed you to the fishes.”

“Not to the serpent god either. Don’t chain me to the cliffs.”

“Not that either. You’re too valuable, and you’re my friend.”

“Grieve’s friend,” Chalk said in a quiet whimper. “They’ll all grieve.”

Trusting Chalk’s prediction, he knew that Captain Kor would come bearing a report of what he had seen at the city of Ildakar. Grieve looked forward to the news. Maybe Chalk would be right about the war, too.

In a bellowing voice, Grieve called for five slaves, who rushed into his throne room. With jerky movements they shuffled reverently toward the throne, two women and three men. During their training, many of the slaves serving in the Bastion had bones broken and then set improperly as a reminder. Grieve kept the slaves he needed here, while some were pressed into service throughout the Norukai islands, and the more valuable ones were sold. Anyone here in the Bastion was replaceable and worthless.

Grieve growled at them. “Prepare a meal to welcome our brave Captain Kor back so he can report on his expedition. Do we have enough fresh fish in the kitchens, or must I slaughter one of you so we feast on human flesh again?”

“A celebration!” Chalk cried, excited by the possibility.

Moaning, the slaves skittered backward. “We have fish, King Grieve,” said the oldest male slave, a man who had survived for nearly ten years in service. “Smoked fish and fresh fish. You need never resort to human flesh again.”

“What if I enjoy it?” Grieve asked, partly meaning it, but mostly to intimidate them. “One gets tired of fish. I like other kinds of meat.”

“I’ll have the kitchen prepare fish,” said the older slave. Emmett, yes, that was his name. The man always seemed to be here, though Grieve paid little attention to him. He wondered how adept the slave must be. Emmett was a survivor. Grieve didn’t normally like survivors, since that type often caused trouble. Maybe he would execute the man and roast him after all, though seeing Emmett’s gnarled hands and wrinkled face, the king suspected his flesh would be stringy and bitter. No, it was not worth the effort. He’d let the old man continue in service.

Chalk scuttled back to the hearth to warm himself. He jabbered about different kinds of fish, the small ones he kept in his tank as well as some of the large ones, poisonous creatures with spines, even one that could release a jolt like lightning. The tank was an indulgence Grieve allowed his shaman and friend.

By the time food was prepared and brought in on stone trays, three burly Norukai men marched through the smoke-stained wooden doors and into the throne room. Grieve recognized Captain Kor by the pointed shark’s tooth implanted in his shaved scalp. Each of the Norukai had their mouths slashed, their lips and faces altered to honor the serpent god.

Grieve leaned forward on his blocky throne, his chest broad, his arms bunched, the bone spines poking several inches above his shoulders. King Grieve never required simpering bows of obeisance from his bravest warriors or raiding captains. He preferred to earn their honor, loyalty, and respect through actions, not empty gestures. The remaining Norukai were Yorik and Lars, captains of the other two ships on the slave-trading mission.

“I told you it was Kor,” Chalk said. “He came back from his expedition. Kor, Kor, there will be war!”

The three new arrivals kept their attention on the intimidating king on his high throne. The scarred shaman made them nervous.

“Tell me what you found, Captain Kor,” Grieve said. “Your report may make us launch our newest conquest. It’s about time.”

Kor looked determined. “With three serpent ships we sailed far south to where the river spills into the sea, then we made our way up the estuary as before, like trading ships, carrying a load of nearly two hundred slaves. We picked up more along the way.”

“Good,” Grieve said. “I thought the coastal towns down south were picked clean, just like their forests. Our raids will concentrate on the northern coast from now on.”

Kor bowed. “Or maybe we have a better target for conquest. We’ve traded with Ildakar over the years, although the city appears and disappears. The wizards hide behind some magical shroud, but they are growing lax and I know there is unrest in their streets. Somehow, one of our own went missing the last night, and we never found his body.”

“Dar,” Lars and Yorik both grumbled.

Grieve stiffened. “Those perfumed fops killed one of our Norukai?”

Yorik spoke up. “We can’t be sure, my king. Dar frequented the whorehouses in Ildakar, and then one day he was gone. He could have been drunk and gotten himself robbed and killed in an alley.”

“We could use it as an excuse for Norukai retaliation on the city, if that is what you wish,” Kor said. “We could avenge Dar.”

“I don’t want excuses. I loathe excuses.” Grieve clacked his iron-studded knuckles together. “If we mean to declare war, then we’ll simply attack.”

“Ildakar is our destiny,” Chalk said. “My Grieve. King Grieve. They’ll all grieve!”

The king shushed the shaman. Chalk continued his antics, but placed a hand over his own mouth as if to hold the words in.

“Captain Kor, what do you think about conquering Ildakar?”

“It is a wise idea,” the Norukai captain said. “Our ship is filled with kegs of their bloodwine and crates of preserved meat from a creature called a yaxen. The Ildakarans produce fine silks and lavish furs extracted from laboratories and businesses right inside the city. The city welcomed us. They are open to more trade.” Kor smiled with his gashed mouth. “We just need to get inside when their shroud is down, and we can surprise them. From what I have seen, they require days of preparation and the shedding of much blood before they can make themselves disappear again. We would have plenty of opportunity to attack and plunder. The city is a treasure chest of jewels and potential slaves.”

“And wine,” Lars interjected.

Kor continued, “The people are weak, although many of their wizards are greatly gifted.”

“Wizards?” Chalk cried. “Magic can be defeated. The serpent god knows how. Chalk knows how.”

Grieve turned to him. “How can magic be defeated?”

“I don’t know yet. But I will.” Chalk retreated to the warmth of the fire where he hunched, rubbing his hands in front of the flames, staring into the embers as if looking for the answer. “I will know when it’s time to know.”

When the platters of food arrived, Kor, Yorik, and Lars took seats at the long table and King Grieve sat before the largest platter at the head of the table. He tore into the roasted fish with his bare fingers, peeling the flaky meat from the curved bones.

“First, send that yaxen meat to the Bastion. I’m weary of fish, and I don’t like goat. Meanwhile, I will plan for war. I have a hundred new serpent ships being built across our islands, and I won’t depart until at least fifty of them are finished. Ildakar has been there for thousands of years. It’ll wait another few months. They will fall to us, regardless.”

Kor sucked on fish bones, tossed a roasted head aside. “I don’t want to wait for months, my king. That trade mission taxed my patience, and I ache for the feel of fresh spilled blood. Give me something else to do.”

Since Kor had just finished a calm journey, perhaps a good battle would satisfy him. “I’ve been considering a raid anyway. I’ll dispatch you north. Take your ships and attack the town called Renda Bay. They somehow defeated our ships the last time we raided, and they must learn their lesson.”

“A lesson!” Chalk said. “Gut them, burn them.”

Grieve said, “Leave the town empty, with nothing but ghosts.”

“Ghosts!” the shaman said, touching his pockmarked skin. “Like me.” Alone among Norukai adults, Chalk did not have a slashed mouth. His lips extended only to the normal reaches of his cheeks, except for where the fish had torn shreds away.

Kor nodded so deeply it was almost a bow. “I accept this raid with gratitude, King Grieve.”

The king had punished the previous captain who was defeated by the small fishing town. That man had been chained to the cliffs and fed to the serpent god, so his blood could strengthen the sea serpent, and the serpent in turn would protect and strengthen the Norukai race.

“Don’t fail,” Grieve warned.

“Don’t doubt me,” Kor replied.

The king found the answer satisfying, and he finished his platter of fish, already imagining the taste of the promised yaxen meat.