Char’den had neither need nor want of another wife, but playing his sister’s game had dealt him the trump card in the dangerous web he wove. Too long his people had suffered under the self-serving Felong Dynasty. If he were to take advantage of the current agitation of the clans, he needed allies. Powerful allies. Exiting the Long Hut, he stopped briefly to update his Right Hand, Linaugh, and First Mate, Fagil. “Deal’s done. Ready the boat.”
Fagil took off to prepare the tender whilst Linaugh accompanied Char’den. “What did it cost?”
Char’den grimaced. “Redirecting our trade ships via this archipelago and allowing the barbarians first choice of goods—minus wharf duties—and taking the brat off their hands.”
Linaugh tripped. “All our ships?”
“Yes,” Char’den grumbled. “But it’s secured the treaty-bound support of the most powerful warrior clan.” He stopped to confer with his best friend. “Plus, Charis has given me the dirt on Barbican and Buttress. Within the week, both will yield. With all three of the Kingdom’s Protectors in our pocket, we can make short work of the loyalists.” For the first time in months, Char’den felt he could breathe. He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “By the end of this moon cycle, success will be ours.” Gripping each other’s wrists, they sealed the pact. Linaugh jogged off to help ready the tender whilst Char’den went to collect his bride.
***
A silhouette stood statuesque in the doorway before grunting, turning, and walking away.
Millah knew she was expected to follow, yet it was only her warrior spirit that enabled her to do so. The transaction had been made, and the transition had begun: not only from girl to woman, but from First-daughter of Bastion’s Warrior Chief, to someone’s wife—first, second, third, or fourth-wife, she didn’t know. This man was now her husband. He would be the one to deliver her to her new life: clothing her, feeding her, and treating her as he saw fit. The only hope she clung to was that it benefitted her people.
***
Not for the first time, Char’den wondered what passed for women on these cursed outer islands; muscle and sinew instead of shape and softness? He was confident lying with the girl would be like rutting a ten-year-old boy. Not something his tastes leaned to. The sooner they returned to civilisation, the better. With schemes and plans occupying his mind, he gave the order, “We sail for Barbican.”
But before any could move, a savage war chant arrested their attention. Momentarily, Char’den feared attack. All eyes were drawn to the two double-hulled canoes as they negotiated the surf. On board was another youth—similarly marked as his new wife—surrounded by intimidating warriors whose arms were all notched with thick scars, much like the neck of a minstrel’s mandolin. Their powerful strokes had them free of the breakers and heading into the complex island kingdom of Felong.
Discerning they were of no immediate threat, Char’den left the barbarians to their games; he and Linaugh had a throne to overthrow. Their heads bent close, already scheming how best to cripple their opponents, Char’den called over his shoulder, “And for frack’s sake, scrub that scratch off her and cover that hideous body.”
***
Millah sat in the hull among the ballast. Above, the rhythmic beat of the drum, mirroring the pull of oars, sipped a song of doom. She was grateful for the dark and the motion of the sea; it was a small balm for her broken heart and bruised body. The men had followed her husband’s command not to bed her, but she had suffered greatly for their entertainment. The costumes they’d brought from Rayna didn’t fit, so they’d dressed her in rags. Grateful to be covered, but rueing the absence of her weapons, Millah passed the hours into the unknown, praying for death.
The occasional crossing of her brother’s path throughout the moon cycle was the only light in Millah’s dark world. But as her husband’s circuit of the vast island kingdom closed and Rayna drew near, she quit petitioning the Great Spirit for help: it was time to save herself.
In the face of the fierce storm brewing on the horizon, the crew battened down the hatches. However, the unnatural stillness had everyone on edge. Fagil knew his men needed a distraction, and so, with Char’den’s approval, he initiated target practice and an early homecoming celebration.
Hidden by the revelry, Millah slunk to the bow. Slipping over the gunnel, stolen knife clamped between her teeth, she shimmied down the anchor line to the water. After carefully slicing the rope most of the way through, Millah couldn’t suppress the smile as she made her way back onto deck. In the maw of the storm, the rope would give, and the ship would be dashed against the rocks. The outcome was irrelevant; she just wanted to be free.
Silently rolling over the rail, Millah was knocked off her feet. She couldn’t hold in the cry when a boot crashed into her ribs and Fagil’s snarling face crowded her. Feral, rum-heavy breath added to her nausea. “You’d dishonour our new king by trying to escape? You ungrateful rat.”
Millah tried to speak, but the yells and cheers of the crew drowned her response. Fagil turned and added his hollers to the rest. “Pint of rum to the victors!” Millah’s view of flickering orange light off the starboard hull was interrupted by Fagil’s scoff. “Looks like someone finally rid us of the Bastion swine dogging our path.” His face was disfigured by a hideous leer. “Friends of yours?” With another kick, Millah’s world pitched and rocked as savagely as the stirring sea.
Tears blurred the blustering fireball of her brothers’ canoes. But the blaze was nothing compared to the inferno consuming her soul. She may have a beaten body and a bruised spirit, but Millah vowed, by the end of the day, every man on this boat would sleep in Sheol.
