The Red Twins

By Tony Belmonte

The Torcama Dynasty has ruled the small island of Saara for generations. Saara, besieged by the monstrous veshuti, is the last holdout of civilization, and though the mighty walls of the island keep the vile sea serpents from conquering the island, there seems no hope for renewed contact with the mainland. When the King betroths his daughter Princess Aelia to Earl Pedras, expecting her to do no more than breed heirs, she cherishes every remaining moment of freedom. But when the mysterious disappearance of the veshuti alters her destiny, the fate of every last Saaran depends on Aelia's courage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543924398

Tony Belmonte

Tony Belmonte currently is an elementary school teacher in the Chicago-land area. He received his B.A. in Political Science with a Minor in History from Seattle Pacific University and received a Masters in Education from Roosevelt University. He and his wife Jenni make their home in Arlington Heights, Illinois. He "writes for fun and therapy," and has previously published a trio of short stories, The Sweet Taste of Spring in 2002. The Feral Flu, from Black Bed Sheet Books, is his horror/thriller fiction debut.

Book preview

Glossary

Princess Aelia Torcama stared down at the waves washing against the cliffside of Saara, the island her family had ruled for generations. Usually the waves of the Tytherian Sea crashed against the granite face of the cliff with great force, sending towers of foam high into the air. Today, however, there was a marked calm. It was this very calm that had driven Aelia’s father to send her on this errand.

She cast a glance toward the southwest tower of the keep, where her brother Varro lived. Varro was the best veshuta killer on the island—not just currently, but in all recorded history. As much as Aelia despised him, even she could not deny his right to make this boast. She was as well read in history as any Saaran. She would have loved nothing more than to find an example of any man, no matter how long-dead he might be, who could be held up as an equal to Varro in this regard. But copious research had failed to find any such man.

Despite his skill at defending the king’s subjects from their tormentors and saviors, Varro was by far the least popular of the king’s three children. Aelia was very popular, but even more so was Crown Prince Runario, the Golden Prince. That popularity led many Saarans to claim that Runario surpassed Varro as a warrior, but Aelia knew better. She had seen many attacks on Saara’s mighty wall. Runario was an able fighter, but he lacked Varro’s raw rage and ability to direct it at the veshuti.

Good morn, Yer Highness.

Aelia spun about, startled. She found the little waif Tisenna standing behind her, hefting a bag of laundry. Aelia smiled at her. Hello, Tisenna.

The girl’s jaw dropped. Yeh...know me name, Highness?

Of course. I know the names and biographical details of every single one of my father’s subjects. All 3,263 of them.

Tisenna stared at Aelia blankly. With shame, Aelia realized how foolish it was of her to assume that the poor thing would know what biographical meant. Why should she? She was born in the Chain District (named for the great chain that once existed there, four centuries previously), the seediest part of seedy New Saara. Aelia hastened to elaborate, hoping Tisenna would be able to work out the meaning of the word by context and spare both of them the awkwardness of the princess having to explain it to her. It is important for every member of the Royal Family to know the details of the lives of every single Saaran, because we are all that is left.

God preserve ta’ Granite Ark, Tisenna said, releasing her right hand from its grip on the sack and doing a quick sign of the Io-Vu on her chest. Aelia repeated the words and did a more elegant sign of the Io-Vu. The first and last letters of the alphabet, they symbolized beginning and end. A strained silence ensued, during which Tisenna shifted under the weight on her back.

It’s a beautiful view, today, Aelia stated.

Tisenna grinned, taking the princess’s words as permission to drop her burden. The maid flopped the sack on the ground and went to the battlements. ’Tis, Highness. Such a lovely view, up ta’ keep. Aelia smiled indulgently at her, then took stock of the same view. Though raised in the towering keep of Saara, which doubled as the Royal Palace, she still found the vista impressive. To a girl raised in the lowest part of New Saara, it must have seemed like a vantage point from heaven itself.

Old Saara had been built by the mighty Tytherian Empire, Queen of the Seas, six centuries before. The Tytherians meant the masonry of Saara to impress potential allies and intimidate potential adversaries. They quarried the granite of Saara to build the glowering wall that encircled the island and built stout buildings on the terraces that the quarrying left behind. The cliff-face was nearly four hundred meters at its highest point, upon which the keep was perched. The island sloped down at a steep gradient from this pinnacle until it plunged below the old natural coastline.

The Tytherians liked the mighty cliff on the western side, but the eastern side did not suit the needs of a maritime empire. So they extended the wall into the water, to enclose a large artificial bay. Then they temporarily drained this bay and straightened out the exposed granite to form a neat wharf. Finally, the water was let back in through the gap between the two most easterly towers. Between these towers went the chain, which could be raised to bar the entry of ships or lowered to allow it.

For over two hundred years, ships sailed in and out of the harbor. Though built to withstand a siege, Saara did not have to endure a single one during that entire period. None of the empire’s rivals were foolish enough to test the island’s defenses. But then a new enemy arose, one that even the Tytherians could not withstand. The wall was sealed up once more, and the artificial bay drained. The purpose was not to improve the wharf, for it was now useless. No more ships would ever again come to Saara. On the drained land New Saara was built.

Even from the lofty height Aelia and Tisenna beheld it from, the inferiority of New Saara’s masonry compared with that of Old Saara was obvious. The class divisions of Saara were equally visible from their vantage point. In the high keep were the Royal Family and their courtiers. Further down were the nobles, and at the bottom were the Saaran equivalent of peasants: the blacksmiths.

Good bein’ out ta’ soot, Tisenna said. It was vital that the blacksmiths never rest, for only they could feed Saara. The veshuti were willing to give fish to the Saarans, but only in exchange for something the monsters could not create in their briny home: galvanized steel. All day every day, the forges poured out smoke and soot. Despite the best attempts to carry it away from the island, soot coated New Saara. The chimneys of the blacksmiths’ shops joined together like tributaries of a river, forming the great chimney that went over the wall. Prevailing winds carried the smoke away, so that the rich and powerful living in Old Saara need not be troubled by it.

I would imagine that serving Varro is hardly less pleasant than living in the Chain District, Aelia said wryly.

No, Highness. Much talk growin’ up of how nasty ta’ Slag Prince be, but he’s nay spoken an angry word me ways. Aelia nervously glanced about to make sure that no one was within earshot. There were two militiamen on duty, but they were far away, on the opposite battlements. There was no way they could have heard Tisenna refer to Varro as the Slag Prince. Whatever wag had coined the phrase, he had neatly encapsulated the contrast between the Golden Prince and Varro. Varro had once beaten a courtier half to death when he overheard the man refer to him by this moniker. Much betters livin’ up here, in ta’ keep, than down chain way. Only regrets ta’ reason, Highness.

Aelia steeled herself to respond to Tisenna’s words in a way that her parents would be proud of. She must not surrender to the temptation to ignore the remark and avoid the painful subject. Your father was a valued member of the militia. My dear brother Runario mentioned his bravery to me more than once. Allowing you to serve as a royal servant before the proper age was the least we could do, to help your poor widowed mother.

We’ll always be grateful, Yer Highness.

It’s unfortunate that all new royal servants must serve Varro first, before serving... Aelia stopped herself before she said the real royal family. The king valued Varro’s skill at veshuta killing, and nothing more. The Slag Prince’s obnoxiousness had led him to be exiled to the southwest tower of the keep. It was not suited to serve as living quarters, but there was no other way to keep Varro away from the rest of the family and still have him within the keep.

Still no veshuti, Highness?

No sign. Fourth straight day. The first day was a bit rough, so it didn’t seem too strange, then. But each day since it’s been clear and calm. It doesn’t make sense. Very odd, to so miss one’s enemies.

Hate ta’ hand that feeds yeh, Highness.

Aelia nodded. This was a very old saying, on Saara. The veshuti, who attacked the wall of Saara at least once a week, also gave the Saarans all their food. The violence that the countless veshuta tribes inflicted on the Saarans was as nothing compared with the violence they directed at each other. For their endless wars, the veshuti required spears, hook-spears, and javelins with galvanized steel tips. Only Saaran blacksmiths could give them these things. The veshuti brought the Saarans both scrap iron and iron ore. How and where the veshuti acquired this raw material for Saara’s forges was a matter of great dispute on the island. The veshuti had steadfastly refused to answer any questions on the subject. Whatever the source, clearly the veshuti could not make their own weapons, for they would never have contracted with the Saarans to do so if they had an alternative. Despite their mutual loathing, the Saarans and veshuti needed one another and had come to a rough understanding.

Well, I must stop tarrying, and give Varro the message, Aelia said. The tone of her voice made her distaste at the prospect clear.

I could give yer message to ta’ prince, Highness, Tisenna ventured.

No, you can’t. Varro only responds when the king or crown prince speaks to him directly. They’re both busy, and my father is hoping that I’m royal enough for Varro to listen to. Aelia took a deep breath. You and I are both putting off our duty. You must attend to laundry, and I must speak to my brother. Let us be about it.

Tisenna did a quick bow. Yes, Yer Highness. She picked up her laundry bag and headed off.

Once Aelia was inside the tower, Varro’s servants greeted her with ebullience. Interacting with royalty that wasn’t Varro must have been a real treat for them. Instinctively, she knew where her brother was. She made her way to the dining room, finding Varro’s favorite mistress, Luna, lingering by the door. Luna was a buxom girl, bubbly and vivacious. Aelia, chaste and modest, generally disapproved of sluts. But she could not help but like the exuberant Luna and admire how she managed to put up with Varro. Luna saw Aelia and bowed graciously. Your Highness, she purred.

Hello, Aelia replied, grinning. Her grin evaporated as she heard the hideous slurps and growls of Varro’s eating through the doorway. The prince was shoveling fish into his mouth. Varro was horrifically rude when eating. He consumed food like a beast, perhaps even a veshuta. You are what you eat, Aelia muttered, snidely.

Luna smiled. He does love his veshuta meat. And he’s not going to like the news.

Aelia nodded. Varro wasn’t picky about what sort of fish he ate for his appetizer, but for his main course there was but one choice: veshuta meat. The veshuti had no compunction about treating the corpses of warriors from rival tribes as just another trade good. Veshuti who died on the wall were also butchered for meat by the Saaran militia. Veshuta meat was quite tasty, rather like lobster. The problem was that this meat reacted very badly to salting, and no alternate method of long-term preservation had ever been found. Keeping veshuta meat in a waterproof bag, suspended in the cold fresh water of Saara’s huge rainwater cisterns, could keep it fresh for a day or two. But beyond that, there was nothing to be done. Varro’s servants had managed to spice the previous day’s veshuta meat enough for him not to complain too much. But that would not work today. The servants paid me twenty suno coins to give him the bad news, Highness, Luna whispered. I should have held out for more.

Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Drop a few of those coins in the poor box at the cathedral, and I’ll tell him.

My soul could use it. I’ve got at least eighteen eons in purgatory awaiting me.

Putting up with Varro is penance, in and of itself. I doubt it’s more than six or seven.

Luna giggled and then glanced up at Aelia’s horns. All umanti had horns, those of males generally being larger than those of females. You need so little jewelry on your horns to make them beautiful, Highness, Luna observed. And such a gorgeous brow-jewel. Along with horns, all umanti were born with a round dot between their eyebrows, about the diameter of a pea. As commanded by the Gospels of Notali, the brow-dots of baby girls were cut away, the wounds cauterized, and brow-jewels were put in their place. The Gospels also commanded that the rich pay a brow-jewel tax, to subsidize the purchase of valuable brow-jewels for poor girls. But, of course, in practice this brow-jewel equality had never really worked out. As for boys, they got to keep their brow-marks. Most of these marks were black, but a few were a dark blue, and a very few were bright blue. The Notalian Church asserted that the notion that bright blue brow-marks were lucky was superstitious nonsense, but most Saarans continued to believe in that superstition.

Your horn-jewels are gorgeous, Aelia said to Luna, meaning it. Aelia’s graceful beauty meant that the relatively few and tasteful jewels on her horns were more than enough to accentuate her beauty. But Luna was a beauty as well, even if it was a common, rather than royal, sort. Since she was a kept woman, her horns were dripping in finery. But the garishness suited Luna’s face.

You are too kind, Highness.

Varro slurped up the last fragments of fish off his plate, then glanced up. He glared at Luna and then cast his icy gaze on Aelia. What the fuck are you doing here?

I shall depart, Highness, Luna said, bowing and then fleeing, her high heels clacking on the wooden floor.

Father sends me, Aelia announced, entering the room.

For what? he snapped, waving vaguely with his fish-covered hand. A servant took away his fish bowls and the three traditional dipping sauces. Having finished his appetizers, it was now time for veshuta meat. His butler, a long-suffering man, inched forward and bowed, about to give the bad news. Aelia spared him this onerous duty.

There’s no veshuti, Brother. Still no sign of them. Fourth straight day. Father wants something done.

Varro’s cold eyes stayed locked on his sister, while the cadence of his breathing slowly sped up. After about ten seconds, his eyes shifted to his butler, who did not deny Aelia’s words. Damn snakes, he growled, standing up so suddenly that his chair flew back, and tumbled away. Armor! he bellowed, walking directly toward the doorway that his sister stood in. Aelia jumped out of the way to avoid being knocked over.

What good will armor... She did not finish the thought. Varro wasn’t bright, but at least he knew he had only one talent. So good was he at killing veshuti, Varro had even found respect from the vile sea serpents themselves. They called him the Zinc Walker. To the veshuti, who swam in the oceans and slithered on land, walking was a contemptible mode of travel. Varro was clearly a very different sort of walker. Zinc, which galvanized steel against the corrosive effects of the sea, was a symbol of mystical power to the veshuti. The blood that pumped in Varro’s blood must contain zinc, they reasoned. The veshuti believed that eating the flesh of any umanta would empower the body of the warrior in this life and his spirit in the next. The Zinc Walker’s flesh would grant many times more strength. But though he was a special target of attack, every single veshuta who had ever slithered toward the Zinc Walker ended up as the killed, not the killer.

Aelia left the tower and returned to the battlements to stare at the sea. It would take Varro’s servants at least ten minutes to get his armor on. She looked to the west. Beyond the horizon lay the mythic lands of Cosovallia. Well, not mythic: that land was definitely out there. But veshuti slithered all over it. Saara was all that was left. Aelia tried to picture this strange land: like an island, but unfathomably larger. There were pictures in books — pictures she stared at, as a child. Enormous forests. Towering mountains. The Great Lake, fed by rivers. The water of the rivers and lakes was not brine but fresh water, like that of the cisterns. How it must sparkle, the Great Lake...

Aelia was shaken from her reverie by Varro’s raspy voice. Let’s go. The Zinc Walker strode purposefully forward but then stopped in his tracks. Where are we going?

Um, I don’t know, Aelia admitted. Father said to find you and tell you to sort out this veshuta business. Nothing more.

Well, let’s find the golden boy. Maybe he has a thought. Varro started toward the wall. Runario was beloved by all on Saara, especially the island’s women. The Golden Prince was extremely handsome, his piercing blue eyes in particular hard to tear one’s gaze from. Varro looked a good deal like his brother, but though all the pieces of a handsome face were there, somehow the pieces didn’t fit together. Varro’s blue eyes were cold and grayish, holding only menace, not allure. As for Aelia, she did not think that she inspired the sort of breathless desire in Saaran men that Runario did in Saara’s women. In fact, fear of the king’s wrath kept Saaran men from making their attraction to the princess clear to her.

Aelia couldn’t see how finding Runario would help, but it couldn’t hurt. And, anyway, he’d make much more pleasant company. The royal pair strode along the wall, passing Saaran militiamen along the way. Every adult male on the island served in the militia, commanded by the nobility. This gave a full strength of just under one thousand men. They soon came upon the Duke of Lutuna, head of the most powerful family on Saara after the Torcamas. Where the hell are they, Sevio? Varro asked.

The duke bowed stiffly. I have no notion, Highness. He smiled at Aelia. Highness.

Do you fishmongers have your floats out? What are you playing at?

We’ve had floats out for days, Highness. Nothing. I can’t remember a single calm day when the veshuti didn’t appear, never mind three in a row.

Varro pouted for a moment, then continued down the wall without a word. Thank you for your help, Your Grace, Aelia sighed, before heading off to catch up with him. You should be more polite to your future father-in-law.

I haven’t married that shrew yet. And you think even less of Pedras than I do of her.

Aelia opened her mouth to object to Varro’s assertions but immediately thought better of it. Varro’s betrothed, Cesella, had a well-deserved reputation as a schemer. She was also very pretty. Aelia had to admit some amount of admiration for Varro, inasmuch as he didn’t let Cesella’s looks blind him to her true nature. Aelia’s own intended wasn’t bad looking, but he was even more stupid and arrogant than Varro. And where Varro could claim peerless excellence as a warrior, Pedras was widely denounced as an incompetent and even cowardly commander on the wall. But he was the eldest son of the fourth most powerful family on Saara, and so Aelia was set to marry him. Aelia had no idea why she and Varro had not been married off already. Runario was wed at sixteen, and even that tender age was a bit late by the standards of royalty. One wanted to get the young ones breeding heirs and spares as rapidly as possible. Whatever her father’s reasons for delaying her nuptials, Aelia was glad for them. She considered each day she remained unmarried a day stolen from her prison sentence as Pedras’ bride.

As they continued down the wall, the pair encountered Count Triano, scolding his servants. Send out two more, Triano ordered.

Your Grace, there are three floats out already. The veshuti can see them; it’s not a matter of—

Four days, Triano, Varro said. What’s going on?

Highness, I do not know. The weather is clear, the floats are out. Nothing, not a single herald. Perhaps... Triano hesitated. Perhaps God has finally withdrawn the veshuti—

Varro laughed. Are you volunteering to take the ship out there? We’ve had it ready to go for, what, four hundred years? If only any of us knew how it worked. Varro was referring to an ancient ship kept carefully preserved in the Maritime Hall. It was the center of an annual religious ceremony in which the Saarans prayed to God to end their exile so that they could once again take to the seas, as their Tytherian ancestors had.

Highness, I cannot find any other explanation.

The only thing I like more than eating those snakes is killing them, Triano. Find them!

I’m so sorry, Your Grace, Aelia muttered before scurrying off after the prince. Trust Varro to find a downside to the end of God’s vengeance on mortals. Aelia wondered if Triano might be correct. Maybe God had finally finished purging the world of evil. But wouldn’t He...wouldn’t He say so? Wouldn’t His voice boom across the island, telling the Saarans that it was time to repopulate the mainland and the rest of the world? Or angels, perhaps, descending from on high, trumpets blaring?

As the prince and princess proceeded down the wall, they found more nobles impotently blaming their servants for the lack of veshuti. The notion that God had finally released the umanti of Saara from their exile was voiced more than once. While Varro was tongue-lashing Baron Ifino, Aelia slipped away, continuing down the wall. As she was unaccompanied by her brother, the lustful gazes of the militiamen she passed became more brazen. They said Your Highness and bowed, but their eyes remained impudent. She couldn’t decide whether she found this flattering or insulting. Then she saw the crown prince. Aelia grinned and sped up, almost running to him. Dear brother!

Runario turned and smiled. Sister. They embraced. His armor was cold, its veshuta scales jabbing into her. Both umanti and veshuti alike used the scales of fallen veshuti as armor: the veshuti over their own scales, the umanti over chainmail. Despite the pain of the scales poking her, she still longed to hold Runario for as long as she could. On many nights she had vivid dreams in which Runario killed Pedras, or Varro, or both. Afterward, Runario married her. She would pray fervently the next morning, begging God to banish these hideous desires from her mind. She had even confessed her sins to the pontiff himself, who was surprisingly forgiving. Dreams are a place of twisted logic, he had assured her, and sinning in them does not carry the same weight as considering sin does in our conscious life.

The current pontiff was a great exponent of the dogma of sin of thought: that merely contemplating sin was, in and of itself, a sin. In that, he stood in stark contrast to his predecessor, who had publicly called the sin of thought so minor a sin as to barely count as such. The stern nature of Pontiff Antivo II made Aelia hesitate to confess any of her sins to him, never mind the horrific sin of incestuous desire.

But sin could not be purged save by confession and penance. And by longstanding tradition, only the pontiff took the confessions of the Royal Family. So after her first such dream, she had screwed up the courage and forced the filthy words through her mouth. To her shock, the pontiff had assigned her a mere seven Apologies to God: the shortest of the standard prayers of penance in Notalianism. It was one of the lightest penances Aelia had ever been assigned. After that, she told the pontiff about each subsequent dream and received as little as three Apologies to God as penance. She even began to long for these dreams: so much pleasure, offset by so little penance.

Her brother released her from his embrace, and for a moment she stared into his exquisite eyes. Any word on the veshuti? she asked, trying to keep her thoughts away from her dreams. When did recalling a sinful dream become a sinful thought? Better to not find out...

Nothing, not a word. I— Runario glanced behind Aelia, seeing Varro approach. There are some who say it has finally happened, Runario told him.

You too? Bunch of religious hysterics, all of you! The veshuti lay low for a few days, and you become weeping holy women.

Do you have an alternative explanation, Brother? Or does the prospect of no more veshuta meat frighten you that much?

Besides pussy, it’s the only reason to get up in the morning.

Runario sighed heavily. Brother, you speak thus, in front of our dear sister.

She’s not the delicate flower you imagine, golden boy. Varro stalked toward the battlements. And this is not a theological event. The slithering fuckers are...it must be a big tribal war. Something.

Four days? Runario shook his head. What do you think, Aelia?

It’s too early to assume that God has taken the veshuti away, she replied. But if this keeps up for a few more days, then, well, it might be time to get the ship out of the Maritime Hall— Varro chortled, still staring out at the sea. Aelia smiled slyly. As I remember it, the son of the king is tasked with taking the first ship out, to test if the veshuti are gone, she said, enjoying each word. And I believe the crown prince is to be exempted, if there are other princes avail—

"Oh that’s cute! Varro snapped, spinning about to thrust an accusing finger at Aelia. You want to send me out on a bobbing piece of wood so I can get eaten?"

You’ve never feared veshuta jaws before, Runario pointed out.

I’ll fight on this wall every time they attack us for the rest of my life. It’s what God made me for. When I’m too old to kill them, I’ll gladly accept being eaten, for my time will have come. But getting on a ship? Why don’t you volunteer for that honor, golden boy?

Aelia smiled, expecting Runario to accept the challenge without hesitation. If anyone deserved to be the first Saaran to sail to the mainland and confirm that God had finally taken away the scourge of the world, it was Runario. Aelia was surprised and disappointed when the Golden Prince’s face displayed just how afraid he was of the prospect. It could be a trap, he said. Just a ruse, to get us to send a ship out.

Aelia’s disappointment at Runario’s fear was replaced by her own fears for him, as she pictured him being dragged off the ship by the veshuti. There’s no way all the tribes would cooperate to stage such a ruse, she said, hoping to convince herself that her own assertion was true. The notion of dozens of veshuta tribes putting aside centuries of hate in order to fool the Saarans seemed impossible. But so did the idea of God releasing the umanti from their island exile without giving a definite sign that it was over.

The sounding of an alarm horn rendered this dilemma moot. Aelia’s eye caught motion in her peripheral vision. She turned to look and saw a large grappling hook sail lazily over the wall. Varro and Runario also took note of this, as well as a second grappling hook, further down the wall. Aelia glanced through the battlements and saw a veshuta water ballista propelling another grappling hook into the air with a spray of water. It was assumed that the veshuti used whale organs to make these water ballistae, though the blowhole of a whale had not been seen by Saaran eyes since the veshuti emerged. The veshuti never answered the Saarans’ questions on the subject. Told you! Varro exclaimed. Chowtime! He drew his blade from its sheath. To arms!

Get back to the keep, Runario commanded Aelia.

Of course, I—

"Dear God!" a militiaman yelled. He was staring, agape, at the keep. Aelia knew a great deal about all Saarans, as per her father’s instructions. She knew more about this particular militiaman than just about any non-aristocratic Saaran. He was Gempesso, famous across the island for his unflappable nature. Aelia and Runario turned to look at what had so unnerved the steely Gempesso. Both of them, at once, also called upon the Lord at the sight.

What they saw looked like the ship in the Maritime Hall but was much larger. There were two more significant differences. The first was that instead of sails or oars, it had four windmill-looking things jutting out of its sides, their blades spinning furiously. The second was its location. It was in the air. It was hovering over the keep. Hatches opened on the bottom of the ship, and ropes tumbled out. Veshuti began sliding down the ropes and onto the roof of the keep, where Aelia had been only minutes before. Never, in 413 years, had veshuti ever come close to slithering on this high holy place of Saaran fortification.

The three royal siblings stared in shock at the flying ship for several seconds. Varro was the first to tear his eyes away. He scanned the wall and did a quick count of the number of grappling hooks. Most veshuta attacks involved three hooks, a few four, very few five. Almost always it was only one tribe that attacked. Sometimes two tribes managed to put aside their hatred long enough to attack the island. Twenty-seven years previously, in a triumph of veshuta diplomacy, three tribes had allied, getting eight hooks over the wall. That was the day their uncle had died and their father had become the crown prince of Saara.

Two dozen hooks at least, golden boy. Runario and Aelia turned and saw what Varro was describing. We need to secure as many of the towers as we can.

God has abandoned us, Aelia breathed.

Runario stared at Saara’s wall for several moments, then returned his gaze to the airship. What is it? How does it fly?

The Nameless One must have made it, Aelia asserted. She could see no other explanation. The Demon King, Lord of Hell, Betrayer of God, had triumphed. God had spared the Granite Ark as the last seed of the civilized races, but now that seed would be crushed.

We must fight them! Varro yelled, grabbing Runario by the shoulders and spinning him about to face him. We must remain Saarans to the end!

If...if God Himself is defeated—

Then we take as many of the slithering shits with us as we can!

Runario stared at Varro, then Aelia. His eyes asked her what to do. What she wanted to do was curl up and cry. But she knew she must act. Devotion to God wasn’t just about prayers and avoiding sin. In the war of light against dark, one must never stop fighting for the light, even if only a dying ember of that light was all that remained. Runario, he’s right. You must order the men to fall back to the towers.

That the mutually hostile Aelia and Varro agreed with one another had the needed effect on Runario. Defend until they’re in javelin range, then retreat to the towers! he bellowed to the militiamen. Get to the tower, Aelia.

Aelia brushed her fingers across Runario’s cheek, then pulled up her skirt, cursed her choice of shoes, and ran as quickly as she could to the nearest tower. Three militiamen ran past her carrying a three-handled axe between them. This was an implement specifically designed to cut the sinuous kelp ropes connected to the veshuta grappling hooks. The veshuti knew how to breed strong strains of kelp and braid them even more strongly. The militiamen then reeled back as yet another grappling hook flew above their heads.

Aelia waited as calmly as she could for the rope before her to go rigid. She had once seen a militiaman knocked into the air, and then off the wall, when a grappling rope snapped taut as he was stepping over it. Once the rope was secure, the three axe-men began the arduous process of trying to sever it. About one time in five they pulled it off before the veshuti coming up the ropes got to within javelin range. Veshuti had strong arms and could throw javelins with an accuracy and force no umanta could hope to match. Aelia gingerly stepped over the rope and then continued on toward the tower. She went up to its roof. The higher vantage point gave her a full sense of the disaster.

The veshuti dyed the scales of their over-armor to identify their tribes. Aelia picked out the colors of a dozen tribes with just a quick glance. There had never been any attack in Saaran history on a scale that was anything like this. Her gaze shifted to the airship, which was now hovering over the ocean, its ropes dangling in the water. Veshuta warriors of multiple tribes began slithering up the ropes. Once restocked with warriors, the airship rose and headed to the wall-tower directly to the south of the keep. Like all the high towers, it was not manned. Up until that day, there had been no point in wasting manpower on the higher sections of the wall, for these were well out of water ballista range. The veshuti slid down the ropes and took the tower unopposed. The airship flew back to the ocean to take on a fresh detachment of warriors.

Aelia’s gaze shifted to the drawbridge of the keep, and the terrified Saarans scampering across it. They were obviously fleeing the veshuti who had entered the keep from above. Aelia’s eyes snapped over to the sight of one of the grappling ropes being severed by a triple-axe team. The rope whipped into the air, then tumbled away, the veshuti on it plummeting into the water. Normally, the cutting of a grappling rope would cause a great cheer on the wall. On this occasion, the axe-men simply moved on to the next rope, in the forlorn hope that they could cut it before the veshuti climbing it reached the battlements.

Aelia noted something the militiamen were also gradually becoming cognizant of: the veshuti were not armed as they normally were. Instead of the leading wave bearing javelins, and those behind carrying spears and hook-spears, all the veshuti had wooden clubs. Aelia was not aware of any example in history of veshuti using clubs in battle. Without their javelins, the veshuti on the ropes would not menace the crossbowmen until they actually reached the wall, allowing the defenders to shoot at the barbarians for far longer than normal.

Once the veshuti did reach the wall in significant numbers, it quickly became clear that they were much less dangerous opponents with clubs than with their traditional weapons. Had there been a manageable number of grappling hooks, the militia would have easily been able to contain and destroy the veshuta footholds on the wall. Veshuti were surprisingly quick and dexterous when soaked in brine. But the longer they stayed out of the water, the more sluggish they got, until they were entirely debilitated. In normal attacks, the Saarans gave ground on the wall grudgingly, forcing the veshuti to exert themselves to expand their bridgehead. Such exertion accelerated the enervating effects of being out of water.

Veshuti were seven to nine meters long, and when they reared up, a quarter of that length could stand, to look down on even the tallest umanta. Their scales were tough, reckoned by Saaran blacksmiths to give roughly the same protection as well-made bronze scale armor. Veshuti could put a lot of force into spear-lunges, though this left them off-balance for a moment afterward. All Saaran militiamen trained assiduously to take advantage of this brief weakness. Things were very different this day, with the veshuti using clubs instead of spears. They swung the clubs about with great force, but their strikes were ungraceful. The Saarans easily deflected the clubs with their shields, then got in good ripostes.

But there were just too many grappling hooks over the wall and too many veshuti to kill. Besides, the airship was continuing to pick up warriors from the ocean and deposit them on the wall-towers, one by one. The Saarans were doing a good job of delaying, but that was all they were doing. The Granite Ark was the last refuge of the civilized races, who once inhabited many lands, spanning great distances. Now even the Ark was lost. The last remnants of the umanti, themselves the last of the seven races that God had placed on the world on the Day of Creation, were to die this day.

Aelia fell to her knees and prayed aloud. My Lord, if you are destroying the Ark because of our weakness, please do not cast us into hell. Please, oh Lord, in your mercy, let us suffer in purgatory for our sins, so that we can join you in heaven. I have confessed every sin I could think of to the pontiff, and done all penance assigned to me. If my pride has blinded me to what sins I have committed, or to do my penance without true contrition, please allow me to make amends in purgatory. I beg this, oh Lord. Aelia now rhythmically repeated standard prayers, over and over, while the militia fell back toward the towers. Runario and Varro were the last to enter the tower in which Aelia had taken refuge. Once the doors were securely barred, they ran upstairs to defend the top of the tower from the air assault they knew was coming. Concentrating on her prayers, Aelia did not notice them arrive.

Runario seized Aelia by the shoulder and turned her to face him. She flinched, then stared into his eyes. Their beauty was marred, for they were moist and bloodshot. Runario lifted his main sword, slick with veshuta blood, and leveled it at his sister’s throat. Momentarily, Aelia cringed in terror. But then she saw his purpose, and she lifted her neck toward the blade. Better to die like this than to feel the tearing of veshuta jaws. The veshuti did not always kill their prey before consuming it. I am ready, Brother. I love you. Runario’s blade quivered, and he just stood there, motionless. Do it, she begged. Runario closed his eyelids, and tears squeezed out. He lowered his main sword, then yanked his short sword from a sheath on his belt.

I’m sure the pontiff would absolve you, if he were able, he muttered, tossing the weapon toward her. It flopped onto the ground, and she picked it up, momentarily mesmerized by it. Staring at it, she realized that it was not her brother’s place to kill her, nor even her own. Suicide was the worst form of murder: a sure path to eternal hellfire. She took the short sword in both hands and stood up. She backed up against a merlon and practiced what she would do, in her mind. A veshuta would lunge at her, to taste her umanta flesh. She would stab him inside his mouth, angling the blade up, in hopes of penetrating his skull. It wasn’t likely to work, but it was better than trying to slip the blade between his tough scales. If she could take one veshuta with her, just one...

It seemed an eternity, waiting. The crossbowmen loosed bolts, joined by the two princes (who would normally never stoop to such a base form of fighting). They kept at it until the airship arose above them. Staring at it, Aelia shuddered in terror. She also noticed, for the first time, that the ship was not made of wood. She had previously assumed that it was, like the one in the Maritime Hall. But close up she could clearly see that it was made of steel, with layers of paint slathered over it.

Aelia took a deep breath and held the sword before her. Lord, our God, creator of life, and the seven races, cleanser of the wicked, preserver of the Ark of Saara, take my soul unto thee, Aelia prayed, almost yelling. The hisses of veshuti were audible as they slid down the ropes. "No kills! one intoned, in the trade dialect common to all tribes. Death to those who taste their flesh!" The Saaran nobility owed their power and wealth to their ability to converse with the veshuti in a pidgin language that both races could speak and understand. Umanta vocal cords were simply not able to make most of the sounds that veshuti made in their own language—thus the simplified pidgin. Saaran aristocrats could also understand many or even most of the various veshuta dialects.

Aelia was rather struck by what the veshuti were saying to each other. Other veshuti repeated admonitions against killing and eating the Saarans. Given that veshuti were more than willing to die for just a chance to taste umanta flesh, their words were inexplicable. But so too was their using clubs instead of spears, and so many tribes allying for an assault, and their possession of a flying ship. A veshuta crashed onto the roof of the tower, knocked off his rope by a Saaran crossbow bolt. He hissed and flopped about until Varro stabbed him. Aelia looked up, momentarily awestruck by a close-up view of the ship and its spinning blades. She also noted a strange black liquid, shiny and metallic, in the middle of those blades. The liquid seemed to be spinning the blades, rather than vice versa.

Several veshuti now landed via the ropes. Runario stabbed one, but then another struck him in the back, knocking him to the ground. Aelia instinctively took a step toward Runario in order to aid him, but then another veshuta slithered toward her. Lord God, let me smite just one! she screeched, leveling her sword at the beast. The veshuta feigned a lunge. Aelia took the bait, jabbing toward him with her blade. The barbarian then lithely shifted position and swung low with his club, knocking her off her feet. She hit the stones hard, dropping the sword. She desperately tried to grab it again, but the veshuta grasped her by both shoulders, lifting her up with ease. "Tender meat, he hissed, but promises made."

Aelia heard the words but kept expecting the searing pain of veshuta jaws in her flesh. Instead, she was swiftly bound and gagged with kelp rope, along with all the other Saarans on the tower. Varro yelled obscenities in pidgin at the veshuti until he was gagged. "Zinc Walker hisses like us, one veshuta said, making the undulating noise that was their equivalent of a laugh. His flesh will give so much strength."

"The god will take his flesh first, said another. Oaths are made." Aelia felt herself trembling, even bound tightly by the ropes. She could not fathom why the veshuti weren’t eating them. The veshuti hefted the bound Saarans over their shoulders and carried them down the tower steps. Squat spikes jutted from the edges of the steps, specifically designed to cause pain to any veshuti slithering on them. These sometimes tripped up unwary umanti, but they served their purpose in slowing the veshuti. The creatures hissed and complained the whole way down.

Once on the ground, the veshuti carrying them made a stop at a hose station. The barbarians had opened the small spit gates from the inside and put kelp hoses through them to keep their warriors soaked. In normal times the spit gates facilitated trade without risking Saara’s security. They were big enough to allow an umanta to wiggle through them (barely) but far too narrow for a veshuta to pass through. Now they made the perfect gaps for hoses. The seawater was frigid and set Aelia shivering. As she was carried up toward the keep, she tried to pick out as many snippets of veshuta conversation as she could. It was strange to see veshuta tribes intermix so readily. They traded insults and challenges, but their leaders seemed able to keep a lid on things. A god was constantly referred to. "Any who taste walkers will be revealed by the god’s power! a tribal leader thundered. He pointed toward a veshuta being beaten to death by warriors of his own tribe. Those who eat their flesh die! We need as many live walkers as we can get, to feed the god!"

Aelia and the others were carried to the open square in front of the keep, where many other bound Saarans were being laid out in neat rows. The veshuti dropped the royal siblings into this ever-growing collection of captives. Looking about, Aelia guessed that a majority of the Saarans were still alive. A veshuta chieftain now pulled the kelp gag out of Varro’s mouth. He spoke to the prince in pidgin. "Talk talk, Zinc Walker, or children cut. The chieftain held out his hand, and a warrior gave him a bawling, bound child. The chieftain held a hook-spear to the child’s throat. It was the first edged weapon Aelia had seen the veshuti use since the attack started. Talk talk, tell us royals, tell us nobles, or cut cut."

"Cut cut, Varro snarled. You veshuta women, guano of ocean, no deal, no deal. Cut cut." The chieftain hissed in rage. Aelia closed her eyes, unwilling to see a child’s throat sliced open, even knowing it must be a better fate than any other he could possibly receive. Then she heard muffled noises: attempted yells, through a gag. She opened her eyes to see who was trying to speak. It was Runario. The chieftain gestured to a warrior, who pulled the kelp out of Runario’s mouth.

"I talk talk," Runario said.

Shivering bitch! Varro spat. They haven’t eaten us, which means what they want to do is worse!

"Talk talk, the chieftain said to Runario, as the warrior gagged Varro. Where royals, where nobles?"

"I royal. I second royal. Zinc Walker third. First royal mate woman is fourth royal. Runario looked at Aelia, hesitating. She fifth royal. First royal is yellow blue, find yellow blue." Aelia didn’t know whether to be angry or hopeful. Was Runario betraying them? Was Varro right to not cooperate, no matter how many children the barbarians killed? Was the Zinc Walker not correct in asserting that whatever the veshuti had planned, it had to be worse than eating them? Or was there some hope in the strange behavior of the veshuti?

Aelia was a bit astonished, but it rapidly became clear that the veshuti knew the heraldry of exactly one Saaran individual: Varro. Even the king’s royal colors were no more known to them than those of any other tabard. Eventually the king was found, and his bound body was hefted to the center of the square. As her father flopped onto the ground, Aelia heard the noise of the flying ship, and she turned her head to watch it land. For a tiny moment, she was glad to have seen such a wondrous thing before her death. She looked back to her father, whose kelp gag was being removed. Apparently he agreed with Runario’s assessment of the situation. "I first royal, first royal. What veshuti want?"

"Twenty biggest walkers, twenty smallest. Royals biggest. In order of big to small, biggest twenty. In order of small to big, twenty smallest." Pidgin was not always clear, at least when discussing anything other than the trade it was meant for. But it seemed that the veshuti wanted twenty each of the highest- and lowest-ranking Saarans. She could see why they would want to identify royals like herself. But why the most humble?

The king rattled off names, displaying his comprehensive knowledge of every single Saaran. His lack of hesitation in identifying the top twenty Saarans made sense: aristocrats spent a lot of time working out their exact place in the social hierarchy. But the king seemed just as certain about who belonged at the bottom of the list. Aelia wasn’t sure if she admired or despised her father’s ability to use mathematically precise snobbishness, even in his last desperate moments. Fitting names to bound bodies took some time, as to the veshuti all walkers looked the same.

That all forty Saarans identified by the king were found alive confirmed to Aelia that few Saarans had been killed in the veshuta attack. These forty were now hefted onto the airship. Once aboard, Aelia paid close attention to the veshuti nearest the windmill-things, whose hands were grasping at unseen energies. She also noted that small hoses brought up more black goo from storage tanks inside the ship. The veshuti gesturing oddly must have been magicians of some sort, controlling the black liquid. The more she looked at the black goo, the more she seemed to...feel it? Was it just a delusion? Or did she actually sense its demonic power? But it did not feel evil. It felt powerful, certainly, but not...what did it feel like?

As the ship rose into the air, Aelia got a better sense of the liquid and how it worked. She could feel it spinning the propeller blades and bubble away as it did so. Like wood burning in a fire, more had to be added to keep the fire burning. She could also feel more of the goo contained in four large storage tanks inside the ship. Each tank supplied more of the liquid to the propellers, via small hoses.

Inside of her, a battle raged between hope and reason. Reason told her that she was doomed. But her hope was kindled by the notion that somehow the black goo would be the salvation of the Saarans.

"See the hole!" hollered a veshuta.

"Soon a god!" another exclaimed.

Aelia turned her head to see what the barbarians were so excited about. What she saw didn’t make sense. It was a gleaming white light in the sky. But it also shone with just as much black light, however that was possible. Aelia racked her brain, trying to remember if any similar thing was mentioned in scripture. She could not recall any stanzas that referred to anything like that. But white light fighting black light: surely this was a battle between the forces of good and evil. What else could be the source of inky black light, save the power of the Nameless One? And that meant the white light, which seemed just as powerful as the black light, was from God.

Believing that the white light emanated from God Himself was a comforting notion. But it was a notion Aelia found harder and harder to believe the closer the ship got to the...hole. It was a hole. She could feel it, just as she could feel the black goo. It was a hole between this world and...what? Heaven? Hell? It didn’t feel like either. But what did it feel like?

The glowing thing disappeared from her view as the ship went above it. Then the horror began. The veshuti grabbed one of the humble Saarans, undid his kelp ropes, and broke his limbs, one by one. Screaming in hideous pain, he soon screamed even louder. They began flaying him alive. Aelia closed her eyes as hard as she could and wished she could do the same with her ears. It went on for agonizing minutes. The screams ended at the same moment that there was a crack of strange thunder. She didn’t just hear this thunder; she also felt it, in the same way that she felt the power of the black goo.

Aelia opened her eyes but could not see the man. His skin and blood were scattered about the front of the ship, but he was gone. The veshuti who had flayed him now nonchalantly selected another victim, who struggled pitifully. They repeated the process. This time, Aelia forced herself to watch for as long as she could stand, which was no more than a second or two at a time. But she saw enough to know what had happened to the first victim, for the same happened to the second. The poor woman, her skin gone, was dragged to the front of the ship and thrown over the side. Aelia expected to hear her screams on the way down to the ocean, no doubt hundreds of meters below. Instead, the screams ended at the instant a light flashed, white and black, and the strange thunder boomed. While the veshuti selected their third victim, Aelia bit on her kelp gag, hard. She tried desperately to choke herself to death. She now did not care that suicide was the worst sin of all. She had to die before she screamed like that. God did not want this for her. He could not.

The fourth victim was Sulana, widely called the cheapest whore on Saara. A horrid drunk, never pretty, even in youth, she was notorious on the island. No doubt this was why the king chose her to be among the twenty lowest people on Saara. Aelia prayed that Sulana’s pain before death would count as penance and remove time from her doubtless long sentence in purgatory. As loud as the three before her had screamed, Sulana somehow screamed even louder. When the veshuti tossed her skinless body off the ship, a stronger and sharper crack of thunder sounded. The veshuti began to hiss in exaltation. But Aelia did not hear this noise for long, for another sound filled her mind. Not her ears, her mind.

People of Saara, I am Sulana. I was once a mortal, like you. I was a sinner, a drunk, a whore, a fool. I was a slave to my body. Now I have no body. Now I am immortal. The veshuti sought to make me a dark goddess by torturing me before they threw me into the rift. They have failed. I see their plans, I see their minds, as I see yours. People of Saara, I will save you. However, some of you must suffer, so the veshuti do not find out what I truly am. I will cloud as much of the pain as I can, but I cannot eliminate all of it. The veshuti must not know that I am a goddess of light. I will disgorge black essence, for it is what these beasts want out of me. One of you might have the power to manipulate this essence. Use it to fly to the mainland and find a powerful state to the west. The veshuti fear this state. Find this state, make an alliance with it, and exterminate this scum.

Aelia reeled from the words slamming into her mind. She glanced about and saw that the other Saarans were experiencing the same thing. It wasn’t just her hearing these words. The veshuti were bowing, supplicating themselves, apparently not hearing the same things in their heads as the Saarans. The ship slowly reduced altitude, and the glowing thing rose into view. It was far smaller than before, but its light was also far more intense. And that light was all black.

This is how you push essence, Sulana said. As disorienting as it was to have words thrust into her mind, this was nothing compared with the sights, sounds, and sensations of essence pushing. In a fraction of a second, all thirty-six surviving Saarans on the airship knew enough to give essence pushing a try. All of them attempted to pull as much of the shining black goo pooling under the rift toward themselves as they could.

Nearly all of the essence oozed toward the princess. Aelia Torcama, you are very strong with black essence, Sulana announced. People of Saara, the princess will save you. The flow of information from Sulana to Aelia began to accelerate rapidly, very quickly going beyond what could be described as a mental conversation. Knowledge poured into Aelia’s mind, but much of it was confusing and lacked context. Distracted by this rapid education, Aelia did not notice that the roaring sound of the propellers had disappeared from her perception. She also no longer perceived the scent of the blood of the flayed Saarans, nor what had exited their bladders and bowels while they were being flayed. Fear and confusion left her, replaced by a serene calm.

The essence began to envelop her body and lift her off the deck. As it seeped into the gaps between the ropes binding her, she gained a rough understanding of essence and magic. The mental manipulation of essence was always called pushing, whether or not the essence was being pushed, pulled, lifted or thrust downward. The essence that Sulana could produce was called gray. Its actual color could be white, black, or any shade of gray in between. The veshuti believed that black essence surged with demonic power, which was why Sulana had disgorged this color. Others agreed with the veshuti that black essence was liquid evil. They would never use it because of this belief, instead using white essence, which they believed to be liquid good. Sulana did not explain who these others were. At that moment, as Aelia used essence to tear apart her bindings, she had no interest in the subject.

Kill the veshuti, Aelia. Crush their bones. Aelia did as instructed, feeling sexualized pleasure as she did so. Angry tentacles of essence wrapped around the veshuti, snapping them like twigs. Do not kill their essence pushers, Sulana commanded. They are needed to keep the propellers going. Aelia began batting at the heads of the veshuta pushers, stunning them. As she did so, she learned from Sulana that the only sort of essence the veshuti could push was gray essence. Umanti could additionally push blue essence. The brightness of an umanta’s brow-dot indicated his or her strength with blue essence. For a small moment, Aelia’s intellect reflected on this information: that meant the bright blue brow-dots that umanti superstitiously believed were lucky really were lucky. Aelia might have mulled over the further implications of this, but the impulse to do so was suppressed before it could fully form.

Aelia now calmly pulled all the essence on the deck around herself and began to float toward one of the two small airboats lashed to the sides of the airship. She sent out tentacles to sever the ropes binding the pinnace (which the vessel was apparently called) to the airship. As she did so, she glanced back at the Saarans.

Everyone was staring at her with wide eyes, not least Runario. She felt a sudden urge to free him from his bonds, as she had freed herself. A tentacle began slithering toward him.

"No!" Sulana thundered. Aelia flinched, and the elegant blob of essence holding her up began to ooze downward and