Page 34 of Daughter of the Dark Sea

Callan’s incessant drivel to ride with Kora in the beginning of their journey had Blake snapping at him to ride with Samuel, who was more than happy to keep a leash on the male. Kora was just glad to have his wandering, grimy hands away from her, but it didn’t stop his leering empty stares. Fucking creep.

The archers perched on top of Fajra in bizarre silence, towards the rear of the convoy. Occasionally, she’d glance back to find Ivar tensely sitting back-to-back with Aryn, his longbow resting on his lap as his dark eyes scanned the barren, sandy horizon through a makeshift wrap protecting his face from the sand blasts.

They’d been riding like that for nearly three days, and had not spoken to each other once.

Theron rode with Blake, even going as far as offering to walk or jog beside Erebus to allow the stallion a reprieve from the weight. Intense, whispered conversations floated across the tundra from them, their heads close together as they spoke. They’d been practically joined at the hip since they set off from Whitestone Bay, and Kora only ever caught the odd word regarding the empire, the state, and the upcoming plans of the king-soon-to-be-emperor.

What it meant for the Azarian Islands. What it meant for home.

She supposed she should be more interested about the future of her homeland. Yet, all Kora could focus on was the thrumming trinket nestled against her chest. The growing magic flowing in her veins. She’d been mulling her revised plan over and over in her mind, chewing on the potential risks as they trotted through the blistering heat.

Escorting Theron back to the fortress was the top priority. After that, she could flee to Shannara and dispose of the talisman, absolving her treacherous status to the empire. She was certain that, once the talisman was gone, her powers would diminish. She’d still be a mage, just a normal mage. After that . . . she wasn’t sure. Perhaps the witches would use her for their voodoo practices and eat her flesh.

Nightmare tales, spoken in hushed tones through the winding streets of the port town, bounced through her mind. Rumours the witches hunted trespassers, killing them in slow, excruciating ways, and harvesting the flesh and organs for rituals . . . and for consumption.

The sun set against the distant dunes, and the bounding sandy slopes curved across the simmering glow of the ball of light. Ember orange tones blended into the yellow grains of sand, creating a decadent summer hue of warmth. Kora pushed her goggles onto her head, basking in the final remnants of warm light before they were plunged into the cold evening darkness.

Blake barked an order for them to set up camp for the night, and Cadence’s tail flicked gently swatting Kora’s back. Time for rest.

By Samuel’s calculations, they had passed the Southern Oasis this morning, and should be well in shot of exiting the exiles’ territory tomorrow, before crossing the Bellmoor border. The tension in her shoulders eased knowing Theron and his cabal would be off their hands soon.

Luckily, the royal posse had brought water, and enough rations to feed a small army, and the itch crawling around Kora’s skin from the dry desert had eased more and more each day after she’d downed two waterskins.

As they set up camp that evening, they filled their bellies with fresh fruit, bread, and sea biscuits, as they’d done the past few nights—Cadence included. Kora even went as far as splashing cold water on her face, cleaning her pits and feet every night, and letting Cadence drink her fill to endure through the last leg of the journey home.

“Tell us Theron . . . what’s Azaria like?”

Kora asked as they lounged around the dim campfire.

It wouldn’t be long until Blake doused it, paranoid of exiles and rebels locating them by the smoke. Theron and Ivar sat across the fire, the latter peering into the surrounding darkness blanketing the sky, the former sipping from his waterskin. Firelight danced in his deep eyes, and he let out a short, elated sigh, laced with acidity, at her question.

“Not too dissimilar from this.”

Theron gestured to the sandy dunes surrounding them.

Samuel, sat to her right, raised a blonde brow as he peered at the dunes enveloping their camp.

“Sounds . . . charming,”

he spoke flatly.

A small chuckle escaped Theron.

“Azaria is a harsh land. It is mostly hot, arid desert, with no chances of vegetation or crops growing. Our city is nestled in the north, where we have the coolest climate. Well . . . as cool as it can be.”

Ivar grunted in response. His long black hair was tied and plaited at the nape of his neck, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his skin against the flickering light of the fire. Not a fan of the heat, then.

“Surely, there are more habitable areas?”

Kora asked.

Blake collapsed to her left, equally distanced between herself and Theron. He brought his knees up, crossing his ankles before resting his arms on top. Aryn had wandered off to the tents and horses stationed far from the fire, scouting the edges of the rising dunes for potential intruding enemies.

She wasn’t sure where Callan was, but hopefully he wasn’t returning anytime soon.

“Yes, the south of the continent is rife with jungles. Trees bigger than you could imagine.”

Theron raised his hands in the air, stretching his arms wide to imitate the size, and Kora’s eyes widened at the span of them—he was truly a walking giant.

“It would take a small unit of men weeks . . . maybe even a month, to attempt to navigate it. The intensity of the jungle foliage makes it difficult to farm, so we import the majority of our goods.”

“From us,”

she observed.

“You need the islands.”

Theron paused and then slowly nodded, his gaze lingering on the fire.

“Our relationship with the islands is vital, and one we cherish deeply. We hope to continue to grow our bonds together through my time visiting.”

Kora nearly vomited from the grovelling, courtly tone. So different from his original commanding voice when they’d first met. Almost as if it had been scripted for him to say. Typical sentinels.

“Isn’t there a war waging between the two halves of your continent?”

Samuel asked, sitting back on his large hands.

Theron’s eyes flashed at Samuel’s tone, and his face tightened at the subtle lack of fealty to Azaria being their continent as well. It wasn’t uncommon for some islanders to separate themselves from the continent—albeit there were not many who would proudly declare so. The silent tear down the middle of the islands was ever-present. No one knew which side the people around them stood on.

One side believed the Azarian Islands were a nation in their own right, led by the viceroys. The other side were fanatics of the royal family, and all things Azaria. The former kept their opinions entirely silent compared to the latter. The continent dwellers even considered the islanders as rebels at times, if they didn’t swear fealty.

And then there were the rebels, devout to the old ways. That was a whole can of worms Kora didn’t want to touch. Not when she’d physically been in their nest. Perhaps the tear in the islands had a few cracks slithering through it.

That was all about to change soon.

Theron cleared his throat, setting his waterskin aside.

“I can assure you . . . all is well in Azaria.”

“But there is a war?”

Samuel pressed.

“There have been some disputes with natives of the jungle. But there are no wars,”

Theron’s tone sharpened.

From what she could remember of Erick’s history lessons, the continent was barren. Worse than the tundra. Wars had raged between the jungle natives—the Loukash—and the Stagharts, until the ground had split, a cavern gaping open across the width of the land, as if the hardened earth had developed jaws.

It’d miraculously split the two peoples, forcing them to remain to their halves of the continent. But Erick had reported Azarians still attempted to build bridges to this day, sending scouts to scale the caverns and spy on the Loukash. Whilst the natives chose to guard their side, silencing any trespasser they discovered.

“I’ve heard that the king wants to expand to take control of the islands. To gain more troops and supplies for these . . . disputes,”

Samuel’s words were slow and forceful, his stare not faltering as Theron’s face darkened.

“Samuel,”

Kora hissed.

“Those are just rumours, Sam,”

Blake murmured, hedging around Theron’s tensity.

“Rumours are impactful,”

Theron replied.

“They can tear a nation apart, topple kingdoms and thrones.”

“Good thing it’s just a rumour then.”

Kora glared at Samuel, but his boulder-hardened face didn’t waver.

“If you pull our troops and resources, you’ll kill these islands,”

Samuel replied gravelly.

“You should rein in your dogs.”

Callan’s legs brushed against her spine, and she shot to her feet to create distance from him, cringing at the fabric of his trousers touching her. He peered down at her once again, with that disgusting, annoying grin. Definitely a creep.

“Watch your mouth,”

Kora spat.

“Oh . . . I intend to do much more than that,”

Callan’s voice lowered along with his eyes as he hungrily surveyed her body.

“Those leathers must be suffocating in this heat . . . why don’t you take them off?”

he purred.

“You will respect the captain.”

Blake stood, seething, his fists clenched at his sides in restraint.

Callan huffed a laugh.

“Women are good for one thing only—and it’s certainly not being a captain.”

He leaned in, and her eyes watered at the reek of him.

“Come on, give us a show.”

She tried not to gag at the smell of his breath. Oh, she’ll give him a show. A pointy one with daggers.

“You heard her,”

Samuel’s broad presence appeared next.

“Watch your mouth, you lily-livered scourge.”

He smacked his spyglass against his hand, his intentions clear if Callan tried to touch her.

“Callan!”

Theron snapped.

“We are guests here.”

“And as guests—royal ones at that—we should be treated as such.”

Callan’s smarmy lisp made her shudder, but she stood her ground. Her fingers itched to reach for one of her razor-sharp daggers.

“So . . . come, lassie. Sit on my lap and show me a good time, like the good little escort you are.”

“Stand down!”

Theron’s commandeering voice boomed.

Callan merely snickered, reaching for her waist to pull her towards him. Kora recoiled, time seemingly slowing down. She was distantly aware of Blake slowly moving, and Samuel raising his spyglass, as she reached behind for one of her sabre daggers.

She would cut his fingers off if she had to. They’d been ordered to escort Theron safely across Aldara—no one would care if his lackeys were injured—or killed—in the process. Callan’s gloved fingers were inches away from her body and she tensed, her fingers brushing her daggers.

An arrow shot through the air, stopping Callan short, and landing in the sand by his feet with a resounding thud.

Everyone froze. Theron and Ivar emerged beside Samuel, their weapons raised in a heartbeat. Kora looked to her right. And there was Aryn, chest heaving, his magnificent longbow aimed at Callan. The golden flecks in his almond-shaped eyes glowed with rage, and his grown-out hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

“You will not touch my captain,”

Aryn spoke each word slowly, with a voice that sounded ancient. Kora’s heart warmed at her protective crew.

“You missed,”

Callan sneered glancing down to the arrow in the sand.

“He never misses,”

Kora replied smugly.

Callan’s face paled at the warning shot. Aryn stood frozen in time, nocking another arrow, aimed for Callan’s head, no doubt.

Theron tentatively stepped forward, hands raised, his axes sheathed at his waist.

“Now . . . let’s all calm down. I apologise for my quartermaster. He won’t approach you again.”

Theron glared at Callan.

“You are dismissed, Callan. We’ll talk later.”

With a scowl, Callan stomped back to the tent he was sharing with Ivar, head down and muttering curses at Kora and her crew. Theron exhaled, and Ivar hovered silently next to him, his own dark recurve bow trained on Aryn.

“You can stop with the standoff.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling another headache coming on.

“You’re not going to kill each other.”

After a few moments of tense silence, both archers ever-so-slowly lowered their weapons, making sure they placed their arrows back in their quivers at the same time.

All in their consistent silence. Utterly baffling.

Surely, they would want to be friends; swapping little notes on their archery activities. How to best shoot, who had the best bow, and so on? The bigger the bow, the bigger they were endowed? Whatever lethally trained archers discussed.

“I must apologise.”

Theron placed a hand on his chest.

“He is a troubled . . . difficult man.”

“Why are they here?”

Kora placed her hands on his hips.

“We were only advised of one sentinel to escort, yet there are three of you.”

Weighing down poor Cadence.

“My guards follow me wherever I go. I do not have a say in the matter.”

“Guards?”

Blake frowned.

“You said he was your quartermaster.”

“Same thing.”

Theron’s voice grew quiet and distant.

“I am also a captain, Kora Cadell, and a royal sentinel. Callan and Ivar are my royally appointed guards, meaning they must be with me at all times—including when I sail afar.”

Weariness tinged his voice, fatigue edging the sculpted planes of his face.

“You know as well as I do that guests do not fare well on long voyages. I appointed them roles to keep them busy. So that they contribute on ships, and do not waste any of our time or resources.”

This was a male with no freedom. A male always watched, bound by the rules of his land. Kora met his gaze, and understanding channelled between them. She nodded in response, lost for words, and Theron bowed his thanks—captain to captain. Blake muttered some political nonsense as Theron retired to his own tent, Ivar silently in tow.

Even his steps were silent in the sand, barely sinking a centimetre. A walking predator.

“Aryn,”

she observed the flush-faced boy. His longbow was strung over his shoulder, its curved brown wood gleaming against the crackling fire. A looping pattern cascaded around the smooth shape.

“Thank you. That . . . that meant a lot. To me.”

Aryn’s quick eyes darted to Blake, who’d begun dousing the fire.

“Just doing my job, Captain.”

As Aryn turned, briskly heading for his own tent, his head bowed and shoulders tense, Kora frowned at an invading disappointment carving itself into her chest at his response. At the sudden desire for friendship that devoured her.