All humans, in one way or another, are helpless. All humans, in one way or another, are under the hand of a god or two. Fighting against this helplessness was useless, for it would only ever end in failure. Such was the truth that resonated in Bjorn’s head.

 

On your feet, Stormtamer!

 

The echoes of the sting of the icy waves still chilled his flesh to the bone.

 

What’s the meaning of this?

 

He rubbed his temples, trying to massage the echoes of his own voice and others out of his head. Part of him thought that he should’ve gotten used to them by now. But who in their right mind was used to voices in their heads. His self awareness was a sign that Bjorn had yet to lose himself.

 

You’re no longer fit to sail with us, Stormtamer.

 

His heart pounded shame into his chest, like the sea lapping at an eroded shoreline.

 

It wasn’t out of jealousy! How many times do I have to explain? If I hadn’t done it, she’d be-

 

He was right. He was right. He was right. Bjorn had done no wrong. It was wrong that had been done to him. So then why? Why the shame?

 

You disgrace us to call us your comrades. We haven’t sent a soul to this place, but if you don’t apologize and ask for forgiveness from both of them, we’ll have no choice but to leave you here.

 

Disgrace. That’s what he was. That’s why he felt it.

 

Disgrace to those who had disgraced him!

 

But that didn’t matter. So long as the many saw him that way, that’s what he was.

 

I won’t apologize for doing the right thing!

 

He shook his head, trying to banish the echoing voices in his mind. That declaration meant nothing now. They carried the weights of his efforts and had been swatted down by one singular statement.

 

Then languish.

 

Bjorn’s pickaxe clattered into a box full of identical rusty tools as he followed the single file line of soot-stained men out of the mine. Guards protected by the south’s arcane magics stood over the pitiful snake of father, brothers and sons who were all forced to work here or be sent back to their homelands with their families to die.

 

They were sick. All of them. All except the guards. The mysterious disease only ever referred to as the Plague infected each of the souls who came to this island. Here, they would be safe, they were told. The Plague spread seemingly at random, marking all those with its touch with blackened scars along their flesh. It wasn’t rot, more like that of a tattoo. But whatever it was, it was enough to get you sent to Pomedua.

 

Bjorn wasn’t sick. He bore the scars, yes, but he wasn’t sick. He didn’t hack and cough in the night. He was never down with fever. He never even had a spell of dysentery. He was as strong and healthy as ever.

 

The doctors told him he still carried the Plague, but wasn’t weakened by it and thus, was still a danger to the uninfected. Bjorn didn’t know how much he believed that assessment, since Avisilan doctors also believed that flowers stuffed up their nose would prevent the Plague, as they thought the stench around it was the cause. The scent was just rot. It was there wherever there was death. Bjorn knew that putrid smell well enough.

 

Bjorn felt his eyelids becoming heavy as he followed the path back to the island’s encampment. No. He needed to stay awake tonight.

 

“A shame about what happened to Antero, eh Stormtamer?”

 

Bjorn stopped himself from physically recoiling at the use of his title. Stormtamer. That title was naught but a formality at this point. It was known only among his people. Outsiders knew him either as yet another raging Ashman or Bjorn Olafsson, if he got the chance to introduce himself. Well, except for this man.

 

Ruhak, a dark skinned man with long, black hair and uncommonly narrow eyes, was from the Koinelian Imperial territory of Hikuptah. He made an extra effort to try to get to know people who didn’t want him poking his nose in their business.

 

Bjorn grunted, attuning his mind to Koini, the only other language he spoke, “I thought I felt something rumbling. Though I’d congratulate the poor sod. I can’t say I don’t envy him.”

 

“Don’t say that, Bjorn,” Ruhak frowned. “It’s in bad taste.”

 

“Bad taste is all they ever serve these days, Ruhak. It would do you well to get used to it,” Bjorn remarked, before pulling away from the Hikupti.

 

For as much as Ruhak liked to talk, he sure wasn’t very good at it. Bjorn never opened his mouth unless it was necessary or he had a tongue-lashing prepared.

 

He walked up the beach to a collection of campfires that dotted the area, surrounded by a plethora of tents where the infected languished.

 

Bjorn stopped by the guard who was serving supper at one of the fires and got his serving of lackluster gruel and pork with a side of crackers that tasted much like the bland little wafers the Sarfans thought they could imbue their god into.

 

Then he, everyone around, and all the guards turned their heads as an agonizing scream pierced the air.

 

A woman was writhing around on the ground near one of the main fires, her Plague Scars glowing bright with arcane colors. She screamed and wailed, clawing at the ground.

 

No one bothered to help. They knew what was coming and started to just murmur their pity amongst themselves.

 

The screams turned to echoes as the light flashed and the woman’s skeleton collapsed to the ground, a few remnants of flesh burning away.

 

Sometimes deaths from the plague were...showy.

 

Bjorn looked down and continued onward. Witnessing that was commonplace now. And nobody talked about it.

 

He looked back at his meal. This here was why he worked the mines. If he were sent back to Ascomarch, that would be great. Except the fact that he would be stranded out in the cold to die. If he wanted to live, he needed strength to finish his project.

 

Bjorn took his meal across the island’s small northern tip to the little sandbar on its west side. It was a secluded little bit of shore that he enjoyed the quiet of.

 

He sat down right where the sand met the small forest and started to eat.

 

As he ate, he couldn’t help but look at his Plague Scars. Strips of his skin had gone blacker than any ink in a continuous pattern over his left arm and elbow. The black flesh mixed made the last conversation he’d had in his own language echo through his mind again.

 

Under his actual Scars were smaller, fake ones tattooed on to him before he was first abandoned here. In that time, he managed to catch the Plague for real.

 

“That’s what you get for sticking your neck out, idiot,” he muttered to himself. “Get that through your thick skull whenever you get...well, somewhere.”

 

He glanced up, able to see the sunset in the west. The sky was clear this far down south. The only colors in the sky were the orange and pink that the sun seemed to drag with it into the oblivion of night.

 

The fool part of him longed to return home, to the people that had betrayed him and ask forgiveness. To the green and red ribbons of the dancing gods that would wave in the sky.

 

Bjorn violently suppressed the nostalgic longing for his hometown. He had no place left in Ascomarch that would welcome him back. The part of him that knew this was also angry. He desired revenge against that snivelling rat, Angi. He wanted to rip his heart out and wring the blood like a fistful of berries into a cup made from his skull.

 

But where the first of him had been refused the ability to return home, the other part had been refused his revenge. Bjorn as a whole was okay with that.

 

His only chance to stay in his homeland was to try and make a new life for himself in another, far-off Chiefdom. Perhaps Uppland. Otherwise...he would have to seek out new kingdoms.

 

A soft disturbance in the dirt behind him caused Bjorn to launch his wooden spoon as he whirled around. The spoon whizzed past its target and knocked harmlessly against a tree.

 

“Is that how you greet everyone or am I special to you, Bjorn Stormtamer?” A feminine, heavily accented voice spoke.

 

Did he just have the title written on his chest? Ruhak asked the guards. But how did this person know?

 

The woman before him was just as old and tall as he was, the second of which was off putting, given that Bjorn was quite large for a man. She held herself with an assurance Bjorn felt challenged by.

 

She looked deep into his eyes with her stormy grey pupils as the coastal winds blew through her brownish-black hair which had been tied up in the back of her head. She wore the same rags as all the other patients, but had seemingly ripped off most of the legs of her pants. She had Plague Scars running down her leg from her thigh.

 

Bjorn frowned. It was then he realized this woman had been speaking Ascomanni, “You speak my language…”

 

“Admittedly not well, but yes. Sklavenis and Ascommani are close cousins,” the woman said.

 

The Sklavenis hid within the northern forests just south of the White Sea, which separated Ascomarch from the rest of the continent. They were a very close-knit culture of tribes that valued war almost as much as the Ascommani valued shipbuilding.

 

“What do you want?” Bjorn asked.

 

The woman tapped her fist to her upper chest like she was giving some kind of salute, “I am Taya. And I want off this island.”

 

“And?” Bjorn asked.

 

“And what? I want off island. You can help, no?” Taya asked.

 

“What would give you that impression?”

 

“Well, I know that all you Ascommani are taught from young age to build longship,” Taya shrugged.

 

Bjorn didn’t react.

 

“And let’s say I maybe see tree stump or two...Or fallen log after storm is missing...it’s not hard to put together when you spend most of your time in forest,” Taya said.

 

Bjorn tensed up, “Why would that be indicative of anything? It’s just some missing wood.”

 

“You know, you almost broke my legs once because of ‘missing wood’. You should really be more considerate of those who prefer jumping through forest canopy to walking,” Taya pursed her full lips.

 

The Sklavenis liked to climb and traverse the forest by jumping and swinging along trees. Branch-Walkers, they were sometimes called.

 

“Maybe you should just pay more attention to where you’re going,” Bjorn said.

 

“Then...maybe I should just take giant hull in middle of forest and use it myself. If no one else is using it…” Taya said.

 

Bjorn’s nostrils flared with alarm before the calm look on Taya’s face made him sigh, “You better not have breathed a word of it to anyone.”

 

“Of course not,” she said.

 

Bjorn hesitated. She could rat him out to the guards at any time. But...something about her put him under the impression she was truly interested in helping him. And the extra hands would be useful.

 

“If you cross me…” Bjorn warned.

 

“I swear I will not betray. On blood of my forefathers,” Taya swore. With the way she said it, that oath must’ve been important in her culture. Still, there were many benefits for her to gain by turning him over, so he wasn’t fully convinced.

 

“I...I don’t know,” Bjorn muttered.

 

“You are not sick, Bjorn.” Taya said. Bjorn’s eyes snapped up. “Neither am I. This Plague isn’t sickness. I know you know that. We don’t belong here.”

 

Bjorn took a deep breath and nodded, “Alright. I just need to rivet some things and tie some knots. Can you row?”

 

“Of course I can row. Who in hell do you think I am? Some Sarfan woman with hollow bones of bird?” Taya chuckled.

 

Bjorn set down his bowl and stood, “Right. Let’s not waste time before nightfall, then.”

 

Ever since he got here, Bjorn had been working each night on his mini longship. It was a toy boat in comparison to the warboats his people were taught to build. But at least it could get him off the island.

 

Each time he looked at it, he questioned why he bothered. But hope of escape was the only thing that kept him going, no matter how ultimately unfeasible it seemed. Part of him felt guilty for getting this girl he didn’t even know involved in this frankly impossible scheme, but the rest of him had stopped feeling guilty full stop months ago. Besides, Taya seemed like she knew what she was getting into.

 

Bjorn had used rags he’d looted off dead bodies to stitch a sail together and wove rope from plant fibers near the beach.

 

The boat was held up on three wooden stands in the middle of a clearing in the forest. Had the Sklaveni not been so attached to the woods, it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone.

 

Bjorn took a few minutes to pound in the last of the riveting he’d scavenged and traded for before tying the ropes up and finishing the ship off. He stood back to examine his months of work. The ship was a dinky little thing, but when scavenging was all he could do, it wouldn’t have been wise to ask for more.

 

“So how exactly are we going to get it down?” Taya asked.

 

“We’re going to carry it,” Bjorn said.

 

“Carry?” Taya raised an eyebrow. She seemed more mildly surprised than shocked as though carrying the ship would be no big deal to her.

 

“It’s not as heavy as it looks,” Bjorn placed his hand on the front stand. “I’ll kick this stand away and carry the front. You do the same to the back. When we stand up, the third should just fall away.”

 

Taya nodded, “Alright. Let’s not delay.”

 

Bjorn kicked over the first wooden stand and positioned himself under the boat, knees bent and hands latching into the overlapping planks that formed the hull.

 

“I have back!” Taya said.

 

“Lift!” Bjorn grunted as he pushed up.

 

After nearly tipping the boat over, they一well, actually just Bjorn, since Taya wasn’t the one who stumbled一stabilized, keeping the boat above their heads.

 

Now was the hard part.

 

Slowly and methodically, Bjorn and Taya maneuvered around the forest, the longship just thin enough to pass through the tight spaces.

 

After the sun had set, they finally made it out onto a beach far from the view of any guards. At Bjorn’s instruction, they set the boat down in the sand.

 

Bjorn squinted, looking out into the night sky. The moon was nowhere to be found, but there were no big winds aside from the usual coastal gale.

 

“Hm...We should be good to head out. The sky was completely clear before the sun set.” Bjorn said, “Can you swim?”

 

Taya shook her head, “I would like to. Can’t really learn to swim when deepest part of river you live near doesn’t go past your chest.”

 

“Then get in. I’ll shove it off,” Bjorn said.

 

Taya hopped in the boat and just before Bjorn was about to push off, his eye was drawn to something.

 

A raven sat on a nearby washed up branch. It stared at him with eyes that he swore glowed blue. A raven? This far south?

 

“What’s hold up?” Taya peered over the deck, but was silenced as her eyes landed on the bird. She audibly gulped as the raven cawed and flew into the air, wisps of bright azure light trailing its wings. “Follow it, Stormtamer.”

 

“What?”

 

“I heard no Ascomanni takes message of raven lightly. One with glowing body must be of high significance. Follow it,” Taya insisted.

 

Bjorn looked back at the raven and despite his own mind telling him to get on the boat, followed it.

 

A trail of light followed the bird through the trees as Bjorn chased after it, into the forest, running through the brush and vegetation.

 

Bjorn burst through the greenery and stumbled onto another beach, where the raven circled overhead in slow, lazy rounds.

 

He narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of a ship a few yards down the coast.

 

It looked like a Nikan junk, hailing from the largest empire to the east. Bjorn’s people had been there once or twice and the explorers had come back with tall tales of mountains shaped by human hands and cities made of metal and stone.

 

Actually, there was another vessel behind it. And another behind that. Bjorn got closer and counted a total of ten ships.

 

Why would they arrive at night? Moreover, the ships appeared to be empty. This wasn’t a random drop off of the infected.

 

Bjorn slowly turned to face the forest and the orange glow that emanated through the treeline told him all he needed to know.

 

This was a raid.

 

Bjorn sprinted back to his ship as fast as he could.

 

“Taya!” He shouted as he approached the boat, “We need to leave! Now!”

 

Taya readied their oars as Bjorn pushed all his weight against the boat, moving it from partially in the water to all the way in. Bjorn hopped into the boat and grabbed an oar as Taya tossed it to him. Bjorn sat on the left side and started rowing as Taya did the same on the right.

 

As they started to row away from the shore, Bjorn spotted a few figures burst from the tree line. They were armored Nikan soldiers. One of them held a large metal cylinder and pointed the hollow opening at the ship.

 

“What...What are they doing?” Bjorn asked.

 

“Oh shit!” Taya hissed. Before Bjorn could say another word, Taya tackled him and threw the both of them off the ship’s side. A blast louder than anything Bjorn had ever imagined rippled through the water, shaking his bones, as his boat erupted into flames.

 

Bjorn grabbed onto Taya as she struggled in the water and pushed them up to the surface. He took a deep breath and pulled them back to where they could reach the ocean floor.

 

“What the hell! What the hell!” Bjorn gasped as he crawled ashore, staring at his water-steed as it burned like a funeral pyre.

 

“Bjorn!” Taya snapped, getting his attention. “Leave it! Come, we need weapons!”

 

Taya pushed herself up and ran onto shore, where the soldiers were. There were four of them. Taya was going to get surrounded if she tried to take them on. Unarmed, no less.

 

“Wait!” Bjorn tried to call out for her, but his voice was ragged. He pulled himself out of the tide and ran after her.

 

But to his amazement, she launched off the sand at the soldiers like she was flying. Taya spun through the air and released a deafening boom of wind as her bare foot collided with a breastplate. The armored man was the one who was sent flying through the treeline.

 

She grabbed the speartips of two soldiers as they tried to attack her and snapped them off their weapons before skewering their wielders necks with them.

 

She approached the man with the cylinder and socked him in the jaw so hard his head flew off his neck.

 

Bjorn watched in bewilderment, his eyes looking at the Plague Scars on her thigh that glowed with violet light. He braced for what was coming.

 

But...the glow just faded.

 

Taya returned to him, covered in blood splatters. She offered a hand. He took it and was pulled to his feet.

 

“What...What was that?” Bjorn murmured.

 

“Only two things ever come out of getting Scars, Bjorn. Sickness is the most common one. But a rare few gain something much more favorable: power of gods.”