Quarter wasn’t exaggerating when he said that Cook was a mean bastard. The only sort of direction we get are pans thrown across the room when we don’t move fast enough or a snarl if we dare to ask him a question.
We all rush around the narrow galley like chickens with our heads cut off, throwing things together with shouted directions barely more detailed than, “Go make the fucking biscuits,” despite the fact that none of us have ever worked in a kitchen and have no idea how to make anything.
The room grows hot and humid from the steam and smoke, sweat gathering to mix with the rainwater on our already wet bodies. It’s uncomfortable to say the least, but Cook doesn’t give us an inch to slow down, and none of us dare to look idle.
The entire hour is anxiety-ridden and feverish, and it seems like we make enough food to feed the entire ship twice over. When the ship rocks to a sudden stop, our only warning is the booming growls of the fire claws that preclude it.
Everyone lurches on their feet as our momentum comes to a skidding halt, but we barely have time to get our bearings before Cook is yelling at us to start bringing up the serving ware above deck.
With tin plates and tankards in hand, we file out, following our watchdog who leads the way. When we get upstairs, I find that the storm has ebbed, leaving only a stubborn wind behind.
We follow the pirate through puddled spots on the deck, to the door located to the right of the ship, all the way to the back, past the captain’s quarters. Inside is a small dining area, though it’s packed tight with rows of wooden tables and built-in benches. There’s barely room enough to walk between them, but we all slip down the aisles sideways, quickly unloading everything.
I somehow end up beside Mist, and the woman gives me an ugly glare sharp enough to prick my skin. She slams down her plates in front of me, apparently unwilling to stand next to me any longer than necessary.
She elbows her way past me to leave, the other saddles shooting me looks as Mist storms out. With a sigh, I pick up the pile of dishes she left and start to distribute them on the table. I’m the last one to finish, the rest of them already filing out to return to the kitchen and get the food. I follow several steps behind them, and the pirate watching us smirks as I walk past.
I still haven’t been able to take out a single knot in my ribbon. Aside from them being wrapped so tight, they’re still damp, and it’s making the task that much more difficult.
Frustration makes my lips press into a thin line, yet that frustration sizzles out when I get onto the main deck and notice that the saddles have stopped dead in front of me. And there’s also something…different.
It takes a moment for me to realize that it’s the silence.
The constant noise of shouting and growling, as well as the sound of the ships skating across the Barrens with the pelting rain and whipping wind is gone. All is quiet. I skirt around the saddles, squeezing between their group and the railing to get a better look, to see what’s brought on this muted stillness.
When I push my way to the side, my eyes sweep over the scene. All the Red Raids are gathered together at the middle of the ship, each and every one facing the lowered gangplank.
Captain Fane stands at the center, his band still hanging around his neck but his hat proudly sitting on his head. Quarter stands slightly behind him to the right, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Tension—the kind specific to anticipation—is pushing its presence around to everyone. It’s pushing even more incessantly than the bitter wind, keeping us still and silent. My heart starts to beat quickly, nervously, though I have no idea what awaits.
But something…something is coming.
I glance around, confirming that no one is looking my way, everyone too caught up in whatever the captain is waiting for, on whoever sent him that messenger hawk. Even the guard dog pirate is standing on the other side of the saddles, watching the ramp. I can’t waste this distraction.
Wedged on the outskirts between the side railing of the ship and the saddles’ turned backs, I turn my body slightly. I’m still cold and damp, but at least my time in the kitchen dried me slightly, and the wind now, although cold, is whipping around my limp hair and dress, drying even more of me.
Using the diversion, I concentrate on my ribbons again, attempting to untwist the gnarled loops. The ends struggle to move, pulling weakly, tiredly. Captain Fane knotted them so tightly that every tug hurts, like pressing on a bruise.
Taking a risk, I carefully bring one hand behind my back and shove it under Quarter’s sash. The fabric is taut, but somewhat stretchy, so I’m able to delve beneath, my searching fingers finding the cluster of tangles.
With a quick glance, I angle my back even more to the railing, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible as I bring my second arm behind me. Fingers meeting, I feel for the largest, most tender knot. With my face left carefully blank, head pointed in the same direction as everyone else, I start to work the tangles, praying to the Divine that no one looks my way.
But amidst that heavy tension of wait, something changes. Something interrupts the hush.
The sound of booted steps starts to clamor up the wooden ramp. One set, then two, then more, all of them walking in near perfect symmetry up the gangplank, their footsteps growing louder and louder as they get closer.
Stomp, stomp, stomp.
The Red Raids go rigid, and the pirate captain stands up a little bit taller. I start to tug more frantically, the feeling of impending danger spurring me into a frenzy to get myself undone.
Accompanying the footsteps, I can hear metal armor, rattling like the tails of desert snakes. And where chain mail and chest plates are, swords and daggers won’t be far behind.
I keep trying to get unbound, but I’m struggling to make even a single loop loose enough that I can pull it properly. My heart pounds in time with their steps.
I need to get free, I need to get these knots out, I need—
A dozen soldiers appear on the ramp, marching straight onto the ship, two by two. They stop in front of Captain Fane in a formidable formation that flares out like a pyramid.
It’s an imposing sight. Black armor as dark and flat as burnt coals, brown leather pants and straps that crisscross over their chests. Onyx sheaths are belted around their waists, their sword hilts made of gnarled deadwood tree bark contorted wickedly. Heads covered in helmets, postures threatening, my mouth goes dry at the sight of them.
Because there, carved at the center of their midnight chest plates, between the leather straps, is their kingdom’s sigil. That twisted, misshapen tree with thorned roots, stripped of all leaves, four crooked branches reaching out like the devil’s claws.
These are Fourth Kingdom’s soldiers. King Rot’s soldiers.
And they’re an awful long way from their borders.
My hands go still on my ribbons, my eyes go wide. King Ravinger’s army is the most feared in all six kingdoms. I’ve heard plenty of stories telling of their viciousness on the battlefield. I find myself wanting to inch backward, as if I can try to fade into the shadows, though my feet are frozen where I stand.
No one speaks. No one moves. Even with the twelve soldiers standing there, Captain Fane waits, though I don’t know why.
My brows pull together in a questioning frown, until I hear it—a single pair of footsteps.
A thirteenth man stomps up the ramp, passing his soldiers who stand at attention on either side of him like brick walls. He’s tall, his very presence demanding of attention. Yet despite the fact that he’s wearing the same black armor and brown leather as the others, he has a very distinct difference.
“Are those…spikes?”
I hear the hissed whisper from a saddle to my right. I hear the murmurings of cursed and evil. I hear them explain how King Ravinger created him from the rotted wastes, turning his body into something unnatural for one purpose: to command his army.
But they’re wrong.
The commander with spikes jutting from his spine and arms isn’t cursed. The male who stops at the front of the group, so tall that Captain Fane has to tip his head up to look, isn’t some result of King Ravinger’s powers perverting his body.
No, the man standing there, whose body basks in menace, is one thing and one thing only.
Fae.
