Prologue
Ikilled my first man when I was eleven.
It was my father, a mean drunk who beat me, my mother, and pretty much anyone who got on his bad side. It should be noted that he didn’t have a good one.
The night I ended his reign of terror, he’d returned home in a particularly foul mood. From my cubby in the rafters, I heard him bellowing. Complaining, as usual. According to him, the world conspired to bring him down, and he insisted that my mum abetted those working against him.
Not even remotely close to true. My mum, a quiet woman, worked hard and had little time for plotting—or her only child. She took her beatings with resignation because fighting back only served to anger my father further.
I refused to be a victim of his rages. I never meekly accepted the fists or kicks without at least trying to get away. The few times I managed to land a blow my father made me regret it—a puny boy no match for a grown man. Each bruise only steadied my resolve that I’d fight harder the next time.
That fateful night, I lay in my ragged blanket and listened to my father blustering and banging around. It didn’t take long before he started beating Mum. She didn’t utter a word in her defense, not even a whimper. despite the meaty thuds of his fists connecting.
I lay there, my fists clenched, anger building with each blow.
Why won’t she fight back? A part of me understood that she lacked the strength or will. Yet I didn’t understand why she accepted it. For some reason, the longer it went on, the more it bothered me.
I slipped out of my cubby and down the ladder, the noise of it covered by my father’s huffing as he strained to be a bully. As I stood behind my father—who always made me address him as sir—my mum opened her eyes for a brief second, and her gaze caught mine. The resignation there had me speaking out.
“Stop hitting her.”
My father didn’t hear me.
“I said stop it!” I yelled and clenched my fists as my father finally heard and turned to face me.
“What did you say to me?” His greasy hair hung in hanks, and he reeked, the result of not bathing and too much ale.
My chest puffed as I said, “Leave Mum alone.” I don’t know where the courage came from. I was a scrawny boy—a lack of steady food will do that. But I had a wiry strength built over years
of working the docks, trying to bring home scraps to help Mum and me survive.
“She deserves it.”
“She’s done nothing wrong. You’re just a bully.” I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth, and judging by my father’s expression, neither could he.
“Disrespectful bastard. Seems your mother isn’t the only one who needs a lesson.”
I dodged the first fist that swung my way and even retaliated, my balled hand hitting my dad’s soft stomach to no effect. The next cuff caught me on the ear, and my head snapped. My vision blurred, and I couldn’t hear for the ringing in my head.
Nor could I recover. The blows came steadily, and I lifted my arms to try and defend, to no avail. He kept hitting me, and my rage built.
Rose at the unfairness of it.
Boiled that he had the strength and size to hurt me.
If only I had a way to fight back. A weapon. Anything.
My gaze fell on the table. The wooden plates would be useless. The fork, though… Despite being too far, I reached for it, and my fingers suddenly gripped its handle. I thrust, and my father yelped.
“You bastard!”
I blinked in surprise as I saw the fork sticking from his chest. Father grunted as he pulled it free and flung it to rattle at the far end of the room. I saw my death in his angry gaze.
And in that moment, I wished I had something deadlier than a fork. As my father lunged for me, the knife my mother used for butchering meat found its way into my grasp. A fist swung, and I ducked under it, the wind of its passing ruffling my hair. I swiped, more out of desperation than actual skill, yet the edge of the blade connected with flesh.
My father’s flesh.
Nothing happened for a moment, and then a line of red appeared. Blood poured from the wound I’d caused. He finally stopped trying to hit me and uttered a shocked cry as his hands went to his sliced middle, trying to hold in his guts.
But there was no recovery from this. He fell to the floor, dead.
Mum came to her senses enough to start wailing. “What have you done?”
I’d killed a man. When the King’s men came to investigate, I went with them, although I did protest when they dragged my mum along, too.
“She had nothing to do with it!” I exclaimed. No one listened to my claim that I was responsible. We spent the night in a cell together, yet I might as well have been alone. Mum cowered, keeping far from me. It might have hurt, only I’d long become used to it. I’d never had the kind of warm family I’d seen others enjoy. Only rare tender touches or words.
The next day, the guards returned, and while my mum sobbed and had to be dragged to her meeting with the King, I went of my own will to face the man who passed all judgment on the isle.
My beating the day before had swollen one of my eyes shut, and my body ached something fierce. Mum looked even worse. While I wanted to stare at the throne room of my King, I couldn’t take my gaze from the man sitting atop his dais.
The guards halted us a few paces in front of the King. Mum threw herself at his feet. Impressive feet, I should add. I’d thought my father a big man, but the King loomed larger. He had a clean-shaven face and hair bound in braids. He wore a loose, open-necked shirt, leather pants, and despite the fact that he sat on a throne—built, they said, from the first ship he’d ever commandeered—he had a sheath strapped to his hip, and I saw the pommel of his sword. A weapon that had slain hundreds. Before our King ruled the islands of Sitnalta, he’d commanded the seas. The mighty pirate, Nyxx.
My father hated him. No surprise. He’d served only one voyage under the King’s banner before getting tossed. My father claimed it was because the King didn’t like strong men. But I’d heard differently: Father had gotten caught drinking at sea. Guess which I believed.
I didn’t expect any mercy as we stood in front of the man who held our fate in his hands. After all, I’d killed someone. Mum, face down on the floor, sobbed and apologized. I refused to bend because I didn’t regret what I’d done. I just wished I’d done it sooner.
The King leaned forward and eyed me with a piercing gaze. “What is your name, boy?”
“Rolle.” A name I’d always hated because I shared it with my sire.
“My guards tell me your father was murdered.”
I lifted my chin. “I did it.” I wouldn’t lie.
“You?” The gaze flicked up and down my frame.
I understood his disbelief. “Yes, me. I took a knife and gutted him.” I omitted the part where it had seemingly flown into my hand.
A gasp erupted at my claim—not from the King, though. A face peered from around the throne—a girl, judging by her features and the braids wreathed with ribbons.
The King offered no reply to my confession but instead directed his attention to Mum. “You, woman. Stand up.”
My blubbering mother only pressed harder against the floor.
“I said rise.” The ring of command couldn’t be ignored.
Mum rose on shaking legs, her face a blotched and bruised mess. Her clothes, already rags, were stained with blood.
The King eyed her. “Who beat you?”
“I fell.” She whispered her reply.
“I don’t like liars,” the monarch growled.
Mum broke into a rushed and garbled spew of words. “It was me husband. But it wasn’t his fault. I should have been a better wife.”
My lip curled as she took the blame for her beating. The King showed the same disdain. He turned to me.
“Those bruises you bear, did your father hit you, too?”
“Yes, and for no reason. Which is why I killed him.” Said with puffed-up boy pride.
“A man should never hurt his family. But—” The King held up his hand before I could smile at being justified. “You also can’t just murder with impunity. We have laws.” And the law said that disputes were to be handled in the Arena of Grievance. My father would have enjoyed killing me in front of an audience.
“Punish me then. I’m guilty.” My mum might not have the courage to stand for herself, but I would do what was right.
“Very well, then—”
“No, Papa.” The face behind the throne emerged, cutting off the King mid-sentence. “Don’t hurt him.”
The King’s expression softened. “He has committed a grave offense, my little squid.”
“You told me a parent’s first duty is to protect their children. But what of when they fail? What if that parent is the one causing harm?” She appeared around my age and yet so well-spoken. Also very beautiful. I couldn’t help but gape. Why would one such as she come to my defense?
The King didn’t rebuke her. “He should have told someone.”
I snorted. I couldn’t help myself.
The King swung his gaze my way. “You have something to say?”
“Everyone knew my father hurt us, but anyone who spoke up in my or Mum’s defense got a beating. My father was in the arena so many times it’s a wonder he ever came home,” I blurted out.
The King leaned back and eyed me then his daughter. “Still—”
He spoke, but I wasn’t listening. A glint drew my gaze away from the throne to an open window just as someone drew back the string of a bow.
I didn’t think. I lunged. Putting myself between the Princess and the arrow that came winging toward the throne.
It punched into my shoulder. I grunted at the impact but remained standing, using myself as a shield to protect her. The King barked orders, even as I wavered to remain on my feet. My knees buckled as pain and blood loss took my remaining strength. I readied myself to die happy, as the Princess sat with me, my head cradled in her lap.
I lived. And as a reward for my bravery, the King ensured that I received training so I would never be a victim again.
CHAPTER 1
The present
It had been a long, hard journey to find the sea, and at forty-seven years old, I wondered why I’d allowed myself to be convinced. Then I remembered how much the King of Ulkruuba had offered to pay me to bring a canteen filled with water and the shattered jewel of a fire Ifrit to the ocean, where I simply had to dump it.
If I’d known of my difficulty in traveling, though, I would have said no. First, I’d spent months on the road, away from my daughter, Ilyana, and my granddaughter. And it had been one crisis after another.
First, in crossing the desert, where dragons attacked me and the Weztrogians I traveled with. We managed to beat them off but lost two of our mounts, meaning we had to share. If you’d ever smelled a Weztrogian sweating, you would understand why that wasn’t an ideal situation.
Then my usual bribe failed at the border to the marshlands, and the Witch Queen detained us for questioning. She had some questions as to why their bogs had suddenly drained. Rather than explain a recent quest to free Ulkruuba from an Ifrit who had been creating monsters and looking for a proper body so that he might return to rule the world with fire, we’d told the Witch Queen that two of my party—Yaanik, a Weztrogian who’d come with me on my trip, and Palla, the woman he’d fallen in love with—had discovered an underground passage and freed the water dammed behind a rockfall. Luckily, the witches weren’t actually angry about it, given the dam had created the marshes in the first place.
The Witch Queen granted us passage to the border of Weztroga, where I ditched the friendly giants and Palla. I took the road west through the mountains and headed for the seashore on the far side of the continent—a route that had changed since I’d last used it. When did the stony reaches have mud pits that sucked at a man? And why had I not heard any warning or rumors of the giant gators inhabiting Sparkle Lake?
The most embarrassing moment came when a lonely forest witch, who wanted someone to cook for and talk with as she knitted, captured me and took me prisoner. However, that bit of my trip proved surprisingly relaxing. I didn’t want to remain her pet forever, though, and eventually managed to flee. By the time I reached the seaside town of Fraak, a place I’d not seen in three decades, I was ready to be rid of my task and get home to resume my role as a doting grandfather. ...
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