Calen bit down into the crusty bread, feeling that satisfying crunch when his teeth finally broke through. Drippings from the pork rolled over his lips, staining the front of his trousers. But he didn't care. For the first two days, he hadn't been able to stomach much food. His stomach had felt as though it had scrunched into a tiny ball. But he had eaten more in the past three days than in the previous month, and he did not intend to stop any time soon. Being deprived of food had given him a new appreciation for it. That morning alone, he had eaten two apples, two bananas, and a sea basset, head to tail. Though he would have to cut back on the fresh fruit. They only had about a week's supply on board, but the cook had said that if it began to rot, then it was first come first served. He had never before hoped for food to rot until now.
Getting up from the bench, Calen hobbled over to the rail of the ship, sunlight bouncing off the surface of the water, icy wind rolling over his skin. He was beginning to feel stronger, but he was still a far cry away from what he had been. His arms and legs were as frail as twigs, and his stomach still pained him, though less than before.
At the very least, Vaeril had regrown the nails on Calen's hands and toes the morning before. Calen had refused at first, but he couldn't argue with Vaeril's logic – travelling the distance they were planning to travel would be infinitely more difficult with his hands and feet in such bad shape.
Calen reached out his mind to Valerys's. The dragon was a few miles east, soaring along the surface of the water, diving in and out, snatching up fish. He hadn't drifted any further than that since the ship set sail. Valerys never wanted to be more than a few minutes away from Calen, and Calen didn't see that changing for a while, not after what had happened. He could still feel the fear and fury festering in the back of the dragon's mind. That empty loneliness, the absence of half a soul. Calen felt it too, of course, keenly, but it stung him more to feel that hurt in Valerys.
"How are you feeling?" Tarmon asked, stepping up beside Calen at the rail of the ship. "Your appetite has returned, at least."
Calen laughed. "I could do nothing but eat for days."
"Good. You might need to, to regain your strength. You're going to need it."
Calen shoved the last bit of the crusty bread and pork into his mouth, attempting to breathe through the mouthful of food. Once he swallowed it all, he let out a sigh, tilting his head back. "I know," he said, placing his hand over his stomach. "And Tarmon, thank you. Not just for coming with me, but for getting me out of that cell. If you hadn't come, the Dragonguard would have me by now, and more than that. They would have Valerys. We owe you our lives."
Tarmon smiled, patting the palm of his hand on the rough wooden rail. "It was Alleron and Baird who organised the escape. Without them, we would all still be rotting in those cells. Either way, I think we have both saved each other's lives enough at this stage to call it even."
"Alleron and Baird may have organised the escape, but it was you who put me over your shoulders and carried me the entire way out of that city. Don't think I forget that. Most would have left me behind. I might have left me behind…"
Tarmon gave a weak smile, staring out at the water. "You think too little of yourself, Calen."
"Hey, you two."
Calen turned at the sound of Erik's voice.
"Captain Kiron asked me to come get you. He wants to talk. Vaeril is already inside."
The captain's cabin was about three times the size of the cabin that Calen, Erik, Vaeril, and Tarmon had been given to share. On the right side, a double bed was set into the wall with ornate bedsheets of vibrant yellow with a red trim.
On the other side of the room, four medium-sized wooden casks were banded against the wall of the ship with strips of iron, small taps jutting out from near the bottom of the casks. A shelf full of wooden mugs ran along the top of the casks. Slats of wood were fastened to the front of the shelf, preventing the mugs from slipping free. And a latch was fitted at the end of the shelf to allow access to the mugs.
Two couches made from a dark oak sat in the middle of the room. Large metal bolts fastened the couches to the floor, which Calen supposed made sense given that ships were prone to tipping side to side. A long, red velvet cushion ran along the seat of each couch, secured with straps of leather.
Past the couches, towards the back of the room, a heavyset oak desk was bolted to the floor in much the same way as the couches. The desk was completely empty, save for four sets of pegs that jutted out along its front and a large map pinned down at each corner with short, flat-headed nails.
Captain Kiron stood behind the table, his right hand resting on the edge, his left hand picking something from between his teeth. He looked up as the three of them entered the room. "Ah, good. Would any of you like a drink?"
"I'm all right," Calen said, holding back a laugh as he looked at Vaeril. The elf's seasickness had only gotten worse with each passing day. He had spent most of his time in the cabin, lying in his cot with a small wooden bucket. The few times he had come above deck, he had stared at the water as though it were an ocean of fire, then promptly returned to his cot. At that moment, he held one hand against the wooden wall and the other cupped over his mouth, tears welling in the corner of his eyes as he no doubt held back vomit.
Captain Kiron shrugged, striding effortlessly across the ever-shifting floor. He undid the latch at the end of the shelf of mugs, snatching one out before fixing the latch in place once more. Sticking the mug under a tap that belonged to one of the kegs, the captain flipped up the knob, letting a clear brown liquid flow freely into the mug. "One hundred percent top quality Karvosi spiced rum. You won't ever taste anything like it in Epheria."
Beside Calen, Tarmon let out a long sigh. "You know what," he said with a shrug, "I will have a drink."
"Me too," Erik jumped in, suddenly eager. "It would be rude not to."
"Quite right," Captain Kiron said with a wide grin. He placed the wooden mug on his desk, nestling it securely into one of the sets of pegs. Calen hadn't noticed it before, but the mugs each had slight grooves moulded into their edges that seemed purpose-made to allow them to be held by the pegs. Dann would have loved them. He was always one for coming up with useful contraptions.
"Draleid, are you sure you wouldn't like one?" The captain grabbed two more mugs from the shelf as he spoke, filling them with rum.
"Thank you, Captain. But I'm all right. I'm not sure my stomach could handle anything like that just yet. And please, call me Calen."
"Sure. Though, if I had a title like that, I'd make sure to keep it." The captain shrugged, turning back towards his desk. He slotted the mugs into two of the remaining sets of pegs, letting them slide down to the bottom on their own. Then, he strode around the other side, opened a drawer that was set into the underside of the desk, and produced a lime, a curved knife, and a small bag of some type of granule.
Slicing the lime into three equal parts, he squeezed the juice into the mugs, then tossed one of the rinds into his mouth, chewing on it as he reached into the bag and poured some of its content into the mugs. "Sugar cane," the captain said when he noticed Calen staring intently. "Balances out the sharpness. I call it Sweet Sea Breeze."
The captain handed a mug each to Tarmon and Erik, taking a hearty swig of his own as he did.
"Divine shit," Erik said, coughing and choking. "That's just a mug full of rum. Why in the gods would you call that a 'Sweet Sea Breeze'?"
Captain Kiron laughed, sipping away at his drink. He shrugged. "Mostly just to see people do that."
Both Calen and Tarmon couldn't help but laugh, Tarmon taking a mouthful of the drink as he did.
"I think it's pretty good," Tarmon said, a mocking smile resting on his lips.
"Right?" The captain winked as he spoke.
The only two people who weren't laughing were Vaeril and Erik, the former because he was too busy holding himself upright and keeping the contents of his stomach firmly within the bounds of his body.
"All right," Kiron said, standing up straight, rolling his shoulders back. "It's time we talk business. It will be another few days before we pass the Arkalen Coast, so best to get our heads straight. Where are we are landing the ship?"
All eyes fell on Calen.
"Well, I…"
"You don't know, do you?"
"In truth, I hadn't thought that far ahead."
The captain let out a sigh, shaking his head. "You landlubbers. You always seem to have it in your head to go somewhere, but never have the foresight to plan anything. How are you not dead yet?"
"There are two options," Tarmon said, moving beside the table, his hand hovering over the map. "We can drop anchor at Kingspass where the river Kilnír meets the Veloran Ocean, then make our way through the Burnt Lands. Or we can sail along the Lightning Coast and drop anchor somewhere between Bromis and Khergan."
"The Burnt Lands or The Lightning Coast. Both of those sound like suicide." Erik stood beside the table, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes scanning the map.
"They are." Captain Kiron said, shrugging.
"Then why are you bringing us?" Calen narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on Kiron.
"I have a soft spot for lost causes. It's kind of a kink of mine."
Erik tilted his head back, scrunching his face. "Don't you mean flaw? It's kind of a flaw of yours?"
"I meant what I said." A long, awkward pause held in the air for a moment before the captain turned back to the map. "Anyway, if it's all the same to you," Kiron tilted his head towards Calen, "I'd prefer to drop you off at Kingspass. I've lost three ships along the Lightning Coast, and I like this ship. I don't want to see it torn apart. Also, your friend didn't pay me enough to take you along the Lightning Coast."
"Then why are you asking me?" Calen stepped a little closer to the map, gauging the distances of the journey.
"I like to be polite. So Kingspass it is."
"How long will it take to get there?"
The captain puckered out his lower lip. "Another nine days, by my measure. The waters around the Arkalen Coast may not be the Lightning Coast, but they're not plain sailing either. The waters around here are choppy, the rocks are jagged, and the closer we get to the islands, the more whirlpools we'll happen upon."
"Nine days," Calen muttered to himself. "How long to cross the Burnt Lands?"
"You're asking me?" The captain laughed, taking another sip of his drink. "You're a funny one, I'll give you that. I have absolutely no idea. I've never actually heard of someone who has crossed it. Then again, I've never known anyone who had a dragon, so I'd say your odds are better than most. I'm not sure how accurate this map is when it comes to land. The cartographer swore it was accurate, but then again, so would I if I was held at sword point." The captain scrunched his mouth in contemplation as he ran his finger along the map. "It looks like it is about a two hundred miles from nearest point to nearest point. Though that would bring you closer to Copperstille than Berona. Also, there's no chance of you walking in a straight line in that ocean of sand and dust, so I'd say closer to two hundred and fifty miles. Given the terrain and scarcity of food, let's say you can walk twenty miles in a day – it would be painful, but you could do it. That would give you about twelve or thirteen days, two weeks to be safe."
Calen just stared at Kiron. He couldn't quite work out if the man was kooky or just plain mad. The captain carried himself as though he were a well-to-do merchant with his fine clothes, his well-groomed blonde hair, and his clean-cut look. But it was quite clear that he was just a few roses short of a bush.
Calen took a step closer to the table, tracing his finger along the rough cloth map, bringing it from the town of Kingspass, up through the Burnt Lands, stopping at Berona. He lifted his head, moving his gaze between Tarmon and Erik. He had looked to Vaeril, but the elf now leaned against the wooden wall, his eyes closed, taking heavy breaths. "What do you think?"
"I think we'll probably die," Erik said, puckering his lips inward. "But it would be some story to be able to say we crossed the Burnt Lands, and after those tunnels, this is nothing."
Tarmon looked at Erik, his eyebrow raised in amusement. He shook his head. "It's very risky, though it is probably no worse than the Lightning Coast."
"So, it is decided, then?" The captain stood up straight, emptying his mug, then setting his hands on his hips. "We will drop anchor at Kingspass in nine days."
Kallinvar bit the corner of his lip, his hands resting against the cool stone edge of the war table. He and Verathin had been there for hours. But no matter how they played it out, there were not enough knights.
"What if we let the empire fend for itself? The Uraks and the old mages have more than a drop of bad blood between them. Two birds, one stone."
Verathin let out a sigh, his arms folded across his chest, one hand tracing along the bottom of his chin. "You know that is not our way, brother."
"The North is consumed by the Shadow, Verathin. It looms both outside the walls and within. Fane and The Circle have as tight a bond to The Traitor as the Uraks do. If we can let them cull each other's numbers, we will be in a better position."
"And the people? Does the North hold no innocents? Are we to leave them to the Shadow's wrath?"
Kallinvar clenched his jaw, staring down at the carved stone table. Many of the villages along the northern edge of the Burnt Lands had already been overrun, as had quite a few that sat along the foothills of Mar Dorul. The Urak numbers seemed even higher than they had been at The Fall, although they were not all concentrated in a single place. Fane had allied himself to the beasts back then; the fact that they were now at each other's throats gave the knights a better chance. He sighed, rising to his full height. "The duty of the strong is to protect the weak, Grandmaster."
"So, it will always be."
"What of the villages at the base of Wolfpine Ridge?"
"I'm still trying to decide," Verathin said, his brow furrowing as he looked down over the war table. "For now, I have assigned Darmerian and The Fifth to watch over Western Illyanara. The simple fact that we found Bloodmarked there justifies that."
Kallinvar nodded. "Darmerian is a good choice. He is young enough, but he is strong of character. And what of the Draleid?"
Verathin raised an eyebrow. "What of him?"
"We know the empire is looking for him. And I suspect they are not the only ones. We would do well to keep him safe. We need allies, old friend."
Verathin leaned down, pressing his hands against the table, a deep, ruminating look in his eyes. Eventually, lifting his head, Verathin sighed. "Where do our reports last place him?"
"In Drifaien. He has not been seen for weeks. But we received reports that sections of Arisfall castle caught fire only a few days back. I do not believe that was a coincidence."
Verathin lifted his hands and strode around the stone table until he stood directly in front of Kallinvar. "Find him and do whatever it takes to protect him. But for now, keep this only within your own chapter. Some of the other captains will not be happy with this decision. We are not meant to be the arbiters of Epheria. We are its guardians against the Shadow, nothing more."
"And we have failed in that task," Kallinvar said, not moving his gaze from Verathin's. "We must do more."
"Perhaps you are right. Go now. See if you can find the Draleid."
Kallinvar bowed slightly. "Grandmaster."