Page 37 of Daughter of the Dark Sea

They didn’t see her coming.

Like a phantom, Kora weaved through the mass of charging bodies, her mind emptied as she sliced through throat after throat, her daggers sharp and swift. She mowed down ten males before they realised there was a viper in the nest.

Each droplet of blood incensed the haze, a beast drinking on the mindless slaughter, fuelling her ire.

“That’s right, condemn them. Send them to Umbra.”

She nodded; unsure what voice occupied her thoughts. It sounded like her, but ancient. Bodies converged on Blake, and a growl ripped from her throat. She needed to save him, by any means.

Males and females diverted from attacking her crew, who defended Theron and Ivar, and speared towards her. The blood of her enemies dripped from Kora as she crouched into a defensive stance, raising her malachite sabre daggers. Come and fucking get me.

Several males sneered—their eyes catching her empire-branded weapons—with giant, thick cutlasses and broadswords gripped in their fists. The females hung back, warily eyeing her, lances shakily clasped to their chests towering above them. She urged them with her eyes to run. They didn’t need to see this.

Their faces were gaunt, their eyes haunted. They didn’t belong here. They didn’t deserve to die. What are you doing? Something squeaked, breaking through the bloodied barrier wrapped around her mind. Yet, the males thrived on the violence and extremities of the Silent Tundra. Kora smiled at the small circle of enemies trapping her, inching closer as she settled back into the symphony of death.

“We’ve been looking for ye,”

one spoke. Most of their teeth were missing.

“Isn’t this a nice welcoming party.”

Kora wiped the blood from her face and flicked it off her hands. A snarl rippled through the circle.

The cries of battle and the clashes of metal drowned out as the toothless male lunged, reaching to grab her by the neck. She pivoted, twisting away, her arms twirling like a dancer. A female screamed as his body collapsed to the ground, his neck and torso sliced so deeply his blood gushed and bubbled onto her shin-high boots. She grimaced down at her feet, shaking her leg and causing the blood to splatter across her fighting ring.

“Ye are dead!”

a towering, thick male growled.

A thick, jagged scar slashed across his left eye, his iris and pupil no longer visible, churning into a milky colour from poor healing. His stare narrowed onto her.

It unnerved Kora, looking into eyes—eye—that was so like Agatha’s. She instinctively rubbed the left side of her temple, her fingers tracing her own scar, before beckoning him to attack with a sinister smile.

With a charging yell, the male thrust his sword, meeting her blow for blow as he forced her to the edge of the makeshift ring. She gritted her teeth at the unexpected sharpness of a sword poking into her back, his fellow exiles snickering. Shit, they had her.

Kora dropped and spun, bringing her daggers up to block the blow from behind she expected, but the exiles merely laughed at her, their swords loose at their sides. With a frown, she rolled backwards as the eyeless male swung his cutlass sword down with a roaring bellow mere inches from slicing her.

Too close. Get it together!

“Stop!”

a high-pitched, wavering voice rang.

“She has to stay alive!”

Kora panted as she rushed to her feet, her boots struggling against the blood-mixed-with-sand terrain. The eyeless male approached. Beyond the fighting ring, her crew defended the sentinel and his guard against the barrage of exiles. There were too many. She’d have to perform a gods-damned miracle to reach them.

In a raging fit, the male swung his sword with brutality—and she evaded every strike, her daggers parrying until she sliced his hand, causing him to drop the sword with a pained hiss. She brought her knee up, winding him, and forcing him to his knees as she pummelled the hilt of a dagger into the base of his neck. As he collapsed to the ground, her daggers pressed to either side of his throat.

“What does she mean . . . keep me alive?”

Kora snarled in his ear.

“We’re under orders not to touch ye!” he spat.

She scanned the crowd circling her. This wasn’t a fighting ring—it was a diversion. They’d separated her from her crew, and she’d been too blind to see it. Gods damn it. The barrage against her crew teemed with bodies, all intent with the purpose to kill.

“From whom?”

Kora tightened the gap between her blades until she nicked the surface of his skin.

“We don’t know their names,”

a light voice spoke, and she glanced at a scrawny, too-thin female standing on the edge of the ring. Her cheeks were hollow, her scraggly hair tied up, with thin wispy strands framing her long face. A kindness radiated from the deep lines etched into her face, and the mask gripping Kora’s essence relaxed, sensing a calm presence.

“It was more than one person,”

Kora confirmed, and the stranger nodded, her head bobbing on her pole-like neck.

First, Captain James Cannon. Then the Skytors, and now the exiles were after her. Her mind spun with overwhelming possibilities. Why would they want her? She was no one but a lost girl.

“Yes! They said not to harm you. But we didn’t kn-know that it’d be like this.”

She gestured to the bodies surrounding them, the blood coating Kora like a second skin.

“That you’d be . . .”

Her brown eyes glanced away, unable to bear to look at Kora a moment longer.

Shame and horror flitted through her, and she tried to separate herself from the tangle of her emotions; the war between her two selves cresting. This was a trap. They were the enemy, they were exiles. They had come to kill them—kill, kill, kill.

“Kora!”

Blake’s voice pierced through her mind, and she spun. Piles of bodies surrounded her crew.

Another exile sneaked towards her, his lance raised, face twisted with violence. Blake ran, his face panicked, with Samuel, Aryn, and Ivar in tow. Where was Theron? Had they lost him? Worst yet, had the exiles killed him?

She kicked the eyeless male back to twist out of the attacker’s way. His lance sliced her arm, and she cried out in pain as she darted to the side to get away from him. Sand blew up in her face, and she choked—choking once again—and flashbacks of Callan surged. Her breathing turned ragged, her arm sluicing with pain. She had to get away.

Gripping her bleeding arm, Kora faced the lancer and the sneering, eyeless male. He could see the terror rising from deep within her, her mask falling away. Oh gods. How many people had she killed?

The remaining circle of exiles disbanded, charging towards Blake and the crew, and they clashed head on, weapons cutting the air. Metal clanging, voices yelling. The boars scarpered across the dunes, fleeing the chaos. Through it all, Blake’s gaze was trained on her, never leaving her face. His eyes wild with rage.

Kora stood with the eyeless male, his lancer counterpart, and the mysterious thin female. Almighty Thanos, forgive my actions. She was a murderer, like Jack had said.

“Tell me who gave you orders.”

She levelled the daggers in her palms.

“We’re not telling you shit,”

the lancer spat back.

Kora snagged the haunted gaze of the female.

“Tell me now!”

The female’s thin body trembled. Kora had one shot to guess, but her instincts roared with certainty.

“Was it the Skytors?”

They all faltered for a moment—just a moment, but it was enough to know.

“Don’t tell her anything,”

the eyeless male stepped forward.

“They said to bring ye in alive . . . but they never said in one piece.”

He flashed an ugly smile.

Kora transitioned into another fighting stance, her arm bleating with pain, and she winced. The curve of her daggers gleamed like the brilliant red sands of Scarlet Bay, and she exhaled, her muscles falling into the memory of her fighting techniques.

“If you won’t tell me . . . there’re other ways to make you talk.”

“She knows,”

the female pressed.

“Just tell her!”

“No, Mags,”

the lancer snapped.

“Kill her. She’s not important anymore.”

“Jason, if she knows the Skytors, then maybe she’s not what we think!”

Mags barked.

The eyeless male waved a hand.

“We don’t know what she is. And stop revealing your names!”

“She has a name, too,”

Kora interjected, twirling a dagger.

“We don’t care!”

Jason seethed.

“Let’s use her as leverage instead and—”

A throwing knife plunged into Jason’s neck and Mags screamed, her shaking hands flying to her mouth.

“What the—”

the eyeless male hissed as Jason sagged to the ground—Theron stood behind him, his silver armour flashing in the sun. Oh, thank the gods!

“I’d get back on the ground if I were you.”

Theron’s voice was so low and dark, a portentous feeling overcame her, as if she were in the presence of something—or someone great. The two exiles eyed Theron’s embellished stag symbol on his silver chest and collapsed to their knees.

“Are you alright?”

he asked as he approached, after unarming the eyeless male.

Kora nodded curtly, squishing the anxiety down. Too stunned to speak. Guilt shone in his shadowed eyes. She hadn’t brought herself to ask how he was faring after last night; the effect that banishing Callan had on him; whether he was worried about the repercussions from the king.

“We-we didn’t know,”

Mags stammered, her hands shaking as she clasped them together in a prayer.

“Please . . . we beg forgiveness.”

Kora lifted a brow at Theron. Wearing the uniform certainly had its perks. The eyeless male scoffed at his counterpart, but Mags’ eyes brimmed with tears as she repeatedly begged for mercy.

Blake, Ivar, and her crew shortly joined, panting as they sheathed their weapons. Blood, dirt, and sand coated every inch of their clothing and faces.

“They’ve all been taken care of,”

Blake murmured quietly to her and Theron, jerking his chin to the massacre. Theron inclined his head once in response.

“You’re hurt,”

Blake stated simply as he glimpsed Kora’s arm. He reached out to inspect the wound.

“I’ll be fine,”

she replied, edging away. The movement didn’t go unnoticed.

“Just a scratch.”

“A scratch my arse,”

he parroted her words, but she couldn’t smile. Not when she was drenched in blood. Not when she’d killed blindly on an epic scale for the first time since the trials. But the trials had been survival, a means to live.

This had been . . . murder. Bile crept up her throat, threatening to upheave her stomach.

With a tense exhale, Blake turned to their two captives, and she observed warily as he began his interrogation.

“What are you doing this close to the border?”

“We don’t know what ye mean,”

the male feigned ignorance.

Samuel grunted at that.

“Everyone knows where the grass begins is where the desert ends.”

The navigational master clenched his fists, his grey eyes boring into the eyeless exile.

“Fine,”

the exile snapped.

“We go where we please. We don’t abide ye petty rules.”

“The rules of the king will be obeyed,”

Theron’s whipping voice cracked.

“The territories are marked for unity. For prosperity of the land.”

The exiles’ branded foreheads glared back, and Mags placed a shaking hand on the eyeless male’s arm.

“Don’t anger them, Doran.”

“Doran,”

Theron repeated, and Doran glared at Mags with his one good, hazel eye. His thinning hair slicked across his shining dark head and he rubbed his crooked nose, wiping dirt across his squared cheeks.

“How’d you manage to track us?”

Blake pressed.

Doran sighed, lowering his head as Mags’ slender fingers tightened on his thick arm. Kora tracked the movement—the slight curl of her fingers, the intense stare of her brown eyes as she fixated on Doran’s scarred face.

“We . . . couldn’t track ye,”

he admitted slowly.

“We knew there was a convoy passing through, but whatever route ye took across the dunes . . . it was impossible to find.”

Kora and Blake glanced at each other, and she suppressed the small smirk threatening to bubble to the surface. Samuel’s lips curled as he caressed the rolled map parchment peeking from his knapsack.

“Then how did you find us this close to the border? Your kind never venture this close.”

Blake’s lips pulled back in disgust.

Doran’s jaw clenched as he worked hard to hold the truth in. After a moment of silence, Theron revealed a hatchet axe, levelling it with Doran’s head. He unwaveringly stared up the length of Theron’s arm, his eye pinning on the stag and four-pointed star on his chest, and his face filled with hatred as he lifted his head to meet Theron’s gaze.

Mags whimpered, her hands tightly curling around his arm, as Doran readied for an execution. She whispered erratically into his ear but Doran did not move, did not speak, did not even blink. Mags sobbed, begging Theron for mercy once again between wrenching, wet breaths.

“So be it.”

Theron’s cold words echoed around them as he raised his axe.

“It was Callan!”

Mags squeaked, and they all froze as she trembled, tears flowing down her cheeks. Pure shock bloomed on Theron’s face as he halted the axe mid-swing.

“He told us where your camp was . . . where you were heading . . . how to best intercept you.”

“No fucking way,”

Samuel seethed.

Mags’ head bobbed on her thin neck.

“He told us to challenge the border. That you’d least expect us then—”

Doran nudged her, ordering her to be quiet.

Something within Kora violently twisted and knotted at the mention of Callan, scratching at the walls to either escape or attack, she couldn’t tell. She tried to shut out the memories of the previous evening. But his blood he’d smeared over her, and the blood coating her now, became suffocating. She felt disgusting, she had to flee. To run until her lungs burned, to find the ocean, and wash away all the filth.

“How . . . did he find you?”

Kora choked on the words.

With the cold darkness of the nightfall in the desert, she assumed Callan would have frozen to death, or been attacked by wild animals, potentially even die of thirst in the scorching day if he survived the night. But instead, banishing Callan had led the exiles right to her.

Doran’s eye flashed at Kora, as if remembering she was there. That she was their prize. The Skytors’ prize.

“We found him crying in the desert like a babe. Apparently . . . someone played a little trick on him.”

Doran bared his teeth.

Her mind and heart raced. He knew. He knew what she was and would tell her secret. She’d end up an exile like them, or a prisoner of the convoy, dragged to her death. There would be no imprisonment, not for a mage masquerading with a royal sentinel, especially with the new decree.

“He got what he deserved,”

she snarled, stepping forward, finding her voice.

“Where. Is. He.”

Theron’s jaw worked with each word.

“He’s not here,”

Doran muttered.

“Said he couldn’t bear the fight.”

“Coward,”

Ivar’s cool voice floated from behind, and Kora nearly jumped to hear him speak.

“There’s no need to shout,”

Samuel whispered under his breath with a wry smile.

“He could be near,”

Blake commented.

“Watching to see if we die.”

“No,”

Theron shook his head.

“This is a retaliation to last night. He’s always been petty. He is banished, and he will be long gone by now, seeking a new life. It’s his style to cut his losses and run.”

“Why’d you attack us?”

Blake diverted the conversation.

“Are you after the sentinel?”

He glanced at Theron, who grew more agitated by the second, his hands fisted around the leather-and-silver wrapped handles of his hatchet axes. Even his eyes darkened with shadows wreathed around them.

Doran’s single eye widened, his body rigid.

“No. We’re not fools. We all know the continent has no control here.”

Theron’s tensity increased at the insult.

“There’s a bigger prize among ye.”

In that instant, Doran hurtled forward, and Kora crashed against Samuel as he gripped under her arms, dragging her away from the attack, her wound gushing blood onto his hands.

Blake and Theron lunged for Doran, their weapons drawn and cutting the air. Doran evaded their weapons with unnerving speed, his body a blur against the sand. With a growl she’d never heard before, Blake leapt, his gleaming golden cutlass sword thrusted before him.

In a blink of an eye, Mags leapt in front of Doran, crying for them to stop.

It all happened too quickly.

“No!”

Doran roared.

Blake’s sword sliced.

Mags’ gut split open; her bowels exposed, tumbling like ribbons. It was . . . she was . . .

“Mags!”

Doran caught her limp body as she collapsed to the ground.

“Mags! No, no, no.”

He began to weep.

Blake paled as Mags bled onto Doran. Her thin, ripped dress sprawled around them, and Doran’s hands shook, hovering over her body as her lifeless eyes stared at the clear sky.

“My Mags . . .”

he sobbed, bowing his head, pressing his scarred face against her thin strands of hair. He placed a kiss on her branded forehead and Kora’s stomach soured.

“Ye killed my Magdalena.”

“As an exile . . .”

Chills skittered down her spine at how frozen and detached Theron’s voice had become. She had no doubt that thoughts of Callan fuelled his ire.

“Her death is warranted.”

“Warranted?”

Doran rumbled.

“Ye all murderers! Look at ye!”

Kora refused to meet the eyes of her fellow cabals. To lift and witness the bodies scattered around them. They were the ones covered in blood. Their weapons—and hands—dirty.

“You attacked us unprovoked. We defended ourselves,”

Blake retorted. Not an ounce of remorse. Should she be concerned? She felt positively sick, and she was sure that, if she moved too fast, she’d vomit over Mags’ body.

“I heard about ye,”

Doran’s voice dropped so low, so faint, as he glared at Blake, who stilled as Doran continued.

“I know who ye are.”

“Aye, everyone knows the champion of the Darkoning Trials,”

Samuel summarised.

“It’s hardly priceless knowledge.”

Doran’s smile was so sickening as his single-eyed gaze shifted to Kora, and across the remaining standing bodies of the convoy.

“There are many secrets among ye. What would the empire pay to know them all?”

He cocked his head, and her heart leapt into her throat, threatening to cut off her air supply. Or maybe it had dropped, her body ready to expel anything and everything. Either way, she was going to combust.

“Enough!”

Blake snapped.

“We don’t need to listen to this, Theron.”

Theron’s jaw twitched as he stared at Doran. He surveyed their surroundings, his dark eyes soaking in the litter of bodies in the scant desert. His dark skin glistened with sweat in the sunlight, and she felt small in his all-seeing gaze. Finally, he hung his axes back at his hips.

“Cuff him. He’s going to Deadwater Prison.”

Doran sucked in a breath.

“I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged,”

Blake replied darkly.

They hauled Doran to his feet and he kicked out, resisting Samuel and Blake as Aryn approached with a pair of iron cuffs.

“No, stop. Please!”

He caught Kora’s stiff gaze.

“Please, let me bury her. Let me bury Mags. She doesn’t belong out here.”

“Take him,”

Theron replied, as he stomped back to the horses by the border, Ivar glued to his side. The archer’s black recurve bow hugged his spine, and his empty quiver bashed against his hip as he prowled.

Blake and Samuel dragged Doran across the sand as he cried out to Mags’ limp, lifeless body, and Kora’s gut churned as she peered at the thin, hollow shell of the female. Her cheeks were still wet with tears. Kora knelt, brushing her fingers over her eyes, and placed Mags’ bony-thin hands over the gaping, bleeding wound of her stomach, obscuring her organs.

“We can bury her if you wish,”

Aryn spoke quietly.

“It’s not the way,”

she replied with equal quietness.

“We’ll be seen as exile sympathisers.”

A brief gust of wind circled them, ruffling Aryn’s hair and he shuddered.

“Maybe there should be a new way.”

She turned to him. His golden-flecked hazel eyes resembled living gold as they burned against the simple desert. His face hardened, his jawline unmistakeably sharp from how hard he clenched his jaw. Even his hand tensely gripped the bowstring across his lean chest, and she placed a hand on his arm in comfort.

The tundra wind gusted around them, and she squinted as the sand lifted with the blast, circling, twining around their bodies like a cyclone, causing him to step closer. This near, a lingering scent of cypress and amber brushed against her senses. It was so familiar, and her mind sparked. Aryn’s almond-shaped eyes searched her face, waiting . . . watching. The thin, dual-lined tattoo on his cheek filled her vision, and she gently touched her own face in confusion.

You’re not going to follow me around all day, are you?

I wouldn’t be a very good skildaj if I didn’t.

Kora’s hands rushed to his face and Aryn flinched at the contact. She remembered . . . he was . . . they were . . .

The memory faded, pouring through her fingers like grains of sand, and tendrils snapped in her mind, burning the sound of his voice away. Cold darkness spread through her, dousing her reflexes, and for a moment, his name toyed on the edge of her memory . . .

This male’s eyes were stunning, and they traced every line of her face. He was a pretty male. Young, but pretty. A longbow arched around his back. Oh, an archer. She could do with a skilled archer on her ship to whip her archery squadron into shape. Perhaps Samuel could take him under his wing?

“Who . . . I . . . you . . .”

she fumbled for the words.

“Are you . . .”

She frowned.

Wait.

The probing darkness hissed as she conjured a white thread, anchoring her essence. As it retreated, her mind clearing, she gasped—

Aryn.

She had forgotten him, again. Why was she grasping his face? She reared back, her cheeks heating. How embarrassing. She couldn’t go around clutching her crew’s faces. She was a captain for gods’ sake.

He stared at her in astoundment.

“Do you—”

Aryn’s eyes flared in fright and he dragged her towards him, wrapping an arm around her as they collided. Retrieving a dagger from her back, he pivoted, blocking her as the sand blast settled, revealing Doran charging and screaming, Blake’s cutlass sword in his chained hands as he attacked.

“Get away from her!”

Doran shouted.

Aryn met Doran blow for blow, and Kora stumbled. Samuel yelled, his enormous form hurtling towards them, leaving Blake crumpled on the ground, his nose streaming with blood. Theron and Ivar were already by the horses, mounting them to race back to the commotion.

“Kora, run!”

Aryn’s voice strained as he fought Doran. The exile was so agile, so swift and fast that she watched dazedly. He was faster than Aryn. An impressive yet frightening feat.

“Run.”

She faltered as Doran forced Aryn to his knees, his slender frame weakening against the bulk of the other male. Her heart clenched.

“Aryn!”

Kora threw her second dagger, aiming at Doran’s heaving chest. Before it hit, Aryn caught it by the hilt, using the momentum to propel against Doran’s weight. Why wasn’t he killing him? Why was he continuing the fight? Aryn expertly ducked and parried, and somehow, she innately knew what movement he would do next.

Duck. Parry. Swipe.

“I know what ye are!”

Doran seethed as he tried to pivot around Aryn towards her, and her blood ran cold.

“Run!”

Aryn yelled once again, forcing Doran to crumple as he became a fury of strikes.

“Run.”

Kora’s mind whirled as she bolted.

“Run.”

Her mental ice block crumbled.

“Run.”

One word screamed in her mind. A smooth, deep voice, pouring over her like silk, wrapping around her limbs, strengthening her fortitude.

“RUN!”

Towards Aryn.

Samuel mimicked her, and they converged on the fighting duo. Samuel’s sword gleamed in the sun, and she barrelled into Aryn with the full force of her weight, knocking him into the sand as Samuel drove his sword into Doran’s back, its end tearing through his stomach.

With a bubbled, wet gasp, Doran collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, the wound gushing and gaping. With a final breath, he fell, landing beside Mags, their bodies a bloodied, intertwined mess.